Los ladrones

Barcelona.  It's brimming with art and with life.  We've already been fed an array of delights--spiced chicken with cooked fruit, paella, Jamón ibérico, pulpo, custard with cinnamon--and treated to a magnificent flamenco show that touched on every emotion.  I wanted so desperately to give an unqualified glowing report about this place.   But then one of our group members got his pocket picked on the Rambla.  Luckily, only his phone was lost, but that's quite enough to throw a wrench in anyone's holiday, especially in a time when our mobile devices have become almost like external organs.  Perhaps it was a fluke, I thought.  He was a little careless, after all, carrying it in the open pocket of a jacket draped over his arm.  Then, as we arrived at the hotel, another victim, this time a tearful woman with luggage still in tow, was overheard just outside our door, reporting her stolen passport to the policía.  So that's two thefts, of which I've directly observed the effects in my immediate vicinity, within a three hour period.  I'm now a little afraid to go outside with my stuff.

No one can say I'm not careful.  There's never anything particularly valuable in my purse, and I've spent most of my days on this trip either wearing pocketed shirts (ninja scrubs, as my sister calls them) covered with a coat or with my hands in my pockets directly clutching my wallet and phone at all times. These thieves, though, seem to be so slick that I don't know how to reliably thwart them.

It would be a waste to be in Barcelona without enjoying what I can of its goodness, but if I lost either my phone or passport right now, it could become a life-ruining caliber of disaster.  I'm not sure whether I have enough pockets for this.