I hadn't been to Valencia for over a year and a half when I was requested to make an appearance for training this week. I looked forward to the trip for months, and arrived on Sunday night to be ready for training early Monday morning. I booked a favorite hotel, my training material was up to date, and I was all set for a week in my favorite city.
So it's only naturally befitting that the ironic karma of the world would make this the worst trip to Valencia I have ever had.
* * *
On Monday the weather was rainy and unnaturally cold. I gave my training with warm gloves on. Everyone in the office was teasing me for bringing the Paris weather with me.It happens that an American colleague is working in Valencia for a few months, so I made plans to go for dinner with Matt that night. I don't know him very well, but we both figured it was better than eating alone in a foreign city.
Matt picked me up at nine that night and we immediately launched into swapping travel disaster stories as we drove to the old part of Valencia. We were just having a laugh about the Paris airports when we stopped at a red light before turning onto a bridge. Suddenly Matt groaned and pointed to a guy standing on the sidewalk - he was making hand motions that our tire was flat.
Matt completed the turn, we crossed the bridge, and pulled into a small petrol station on the other side. We both jumped out of the car, closed the doors, and went to investigate. The tire was completely flat. Matt pulled out the jack, I tugged at the spare tire, and we started musing over the lugnuts. I had left my purse on the floor of the car, and I went back to check on it. Purse ok. I was uncomfortable leaving it behind, but I couldn't help with the tire with a purse on my shoulder and with all of our movements in and out of the car I didn't want to ask Matt to lock the doors. We were in a well-lit, open area, no one was nearby, the purse was on the passenger side, I was next to the passenger door, and I thought it was safe.
Suddenly, a little hatchback came driving backward in our direction. I looked over my shoulder and realized that the driver couldn't see us crouched on the ground. I nudged Matt to stand up with me to make sure we didn't get hit, and of course, my attention was drawn away from our car.
When it occurred to me that my concentration had been broken, I went back to check on my bag. This time, it was gone. I hollered out to Matt, and spun around to see the little hatchback sitting innocently in traffic at a stop light.
I marched over to the car, flung open the doors, and started digging through it. The driver didn't speak English and I don't speak Spanish, but he seemed to understand my problem. Well of course he understood my problem - he was an accomplice. At the time I didn't realize this, though - I just associated the car with my purse being gone. I beckoned Matt over and he searched the other side of the car, and we found nothing. The driver and his girlfriend stood there while we rummaged around to find absolutely no proof. In hindsight I asked myself - if he had nothing to do with the theft, if he was just an innocent guy driving by, would he have let a pair of crazed Americans tear through his car? I don't think so. I should have written down the his license plate number.
Instead, I assumed that the bag had been taken by a passing opportunist and the driver was innocent. I apologized for stopping him in traffic and walked away.
A sympathetic girl at the gas station walked me to the closest police station and translated me through the poice report. The police, by the way, barely lifted an eyebrow. I filed the report in English by phone while they stepped outside for a cigarette.
After changing the tire Matt reappeared, and handed me his cell phone to make the necessary calls. I don't have our apartment phone number memorized, so I had to do something I really wanted to avoid - I had to worry my mother. Even worse, I had to worry David's mother as well.
I knew David's mom had the apartment number, but I didn't have her number memorized either (this is what speed dial is for, ok?), so I had to call my mom to get Sue's number, then call Sue. And how exactly does one say quickly, "Hey mom, I've been robbed, but I'm ok, and can I have Dave's mom's number please?"
Eventually I got through to David, who had to stop in the middle of shaving to call the bank and cancel my credit card. I called the hotel to cancel my room key just in case, and then I had nothing else to do but mourn.
My ipod, my camera (not the SLR but the pocket camera and a loss nonetheless), keys, my PASSPORT and carte de sejour - my mouth dried out at the mere thought of the adminstration that lay ahead of me. Luckily I was carrying very little cash - only 20 euros, but also 40 UK pounds, and a lot of little personal things that mean nothing to a thief, but the world to me: the purse I'd sought for months, handwritten notes from David and Katie, ticket stubs from the Acropolis, address cards for my favorite shops and restaurants in Europe, even the chocolate smudge on my wallet left from a trip to Germany. If all they really wanted was the cash and the phone, can I just have the rest of my stuff back please?
Back in the hotel the front desk staff was sympathetic and kind. Apparently this whole orchestrated scheme - from the tire puncture (Matt later found the knife wound to the tire sidewall), to the "helpful" guy on the corner pointing out the flat, to the hatchback - has been on the rise in Valencia lately. That didn't exactly make me feel better, but at least I knew that it wasn't just a passerby - it was a complicated process I'd fallen victim to.
In the office the next day my colleagues all shared their own theft stories with me. Normally I hate it when people tell me "If it makes you feel better..." with their own sad stories - because why would hearing about my friend's misfortune make me feel better? - but in this case I felt almost relieved to learn that this happens to everyone in Spain, and it wasn't just my fault for being careless.
Nevertheless, I went through the whole range of emotions that come with loss. Poor David has had to listen to my tearful, angry rants over the phone every night this week. All I want to do is go home and be protected by him again.
I tell myself that it could have been worse, and I have been somewhat lucky given the circumstances. I had decided to leave the GPS and rental car keys in the hotel, so at least those were spared. I had scanned copies of my residence permit and passport on my work computer, which - along with the police report - will get me on a plane back to Paris. If the airline didn't have this leniacy, I would have had to make a four hour drive to the closest US consulate in Madrid. My boss happened to arrive in Valencia on Tuesday afternoon, so he was able to pay for my hotel and meals for the week. He even gave me a little extra spending cash which at first I refused, but finally accepted to replace some small comforts like chapstick and mints.
Monday will be spent at the US embassy (my first visit!) and the French prefecture to get the process started for my|paperwork. I'll also need a temporary passport for our trips to Rome and London in the coming weeks.
In the end, Valencia has finally broken my heart. My Spanish colleagues begged me to not let this ruin my impression of the city, but it will be hard to look at it the same way again.
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