Three nights ago, I was walking through the Old Quarter with Colin, jazzed from two cups of iced Vietnamese coffee with condensed milk. I must have noticed a body too close behind me, because I looked over my shoulder to see a twenty-something man with his hand slipped under the open flap of my carelessly slung shoulder bag.
“What the hell?” I turned, knocking his hand away. “What are you doing?” I shouted–shrieked–in his face. “That is NOT ok!” Am I his babysitter, really?
He had calmly matched my gaze during the encounter, then crossed the street before even Colin had the chance to process what had happened.
The lousy thief would have just been disappointed had he managed to get a peek in my bag: guide book, journal, water bottle, and chapstick–valuable to me but essentially worthless. Nope, all the good stuff is safely stored in front in my monster-shaped fanny pack.