World Travel Guide Online

The Metro Mugging
Paris, France

We arrived in Paris late Tuesday afternoon on our way to the home Sandy and I had rented in St. Remy de Provence. We were breaking up the long trip by spending a few days in one of our favorite places on the planet. For me, Paris is like a beautiful woman, luring me into its streets to feel its energy and experience its sensuousness. I follow her along the left bank of the Seine, stop at some of the numerous kiosks to check out the old magazines, rare and collectible books, paintings of Paris city scenes, and end up at the Ile de la Cité and Notre Dame. On the way, I pass the Pont Neuf and other bridges spanning the Seine, connecting the Left and Right Banks.

Later, at an outdoor café, sitting among the Parisians, I have an espresso or an aperitif, people-watching all the while. Then I take a stroll through the Marais, admiring the beautiful, stylish women shopping in the fancy boutiques, watching the orthodox Jews shopping in kosher markets, and, if I get a little weary, I’ll find a bench at the little park in the Place des Voges. What a perfect place for contemplating just how wonderful life can be. If I’m hungry, I’ll cross the street to Ma Bourgogne and have a croque monsieur.

Only if my destination is too far or the weather is bad, would I ever take the Metro. But be careful and watch your valuables. You might get mugged. I did. Twice!

Sandy and I grabbed a cab at the airport and went directly to the hôtel Duc de Simon, one of our favorite, small hotels on the Left Bank. The rooms are decorated exquisitely, but are small. But, then, so are we. Sandy stands a petite five feet one inch and I am only a few inches taller. We both also have small frames. No one would ever fear running into us on a dark night!

After checking into the hotel, we had dinner at a small, neighborhood restaurant and then went to bed. The next morning, even though we were a bit jet-lagged, we headed out for croissants and café au lait at the Brasserie located on the corner of the Rue du Bac, Blvd. Raspail and Blvd. St. Germain. Seated outside at a table for two the size of a large postage stamp, I pulled out our map of Paris. We were going to the Museum Jacquemart-André on the Blvd. Haussmann. Our Francophile friend Bill back in Chicago told us it was an architectural wonder with an excellent small collection of Rembrandts and Van Dycks, including a Rembrandt that would “knock our socks off.”

“Sandy,” I said, let’s take the Metro instead of a taxi to the museum. It will be a lot quicker than trying to fight the Paris traffic in a taxi.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea, Mike? We’ve been warned about pickpockets on the Metro. I would feel safer in a taxi.”

“I appreciate your concerns, but we’ll be careful. Nothing is going to happen to us. We can take a taxi at home. I want to be with the people here.”
“OK, she said, “but let’s stick close together and not take any chances.”

I was delighted that Sandy had agreed. I spotted the Museum on my map, but couldn’t figure out how to get there. The font on the Metro insert on our map was way too small for my sixty-six year-old eyes. But, no problem! The Rue du Bac Metro station was directly across the street, and I knew there would be large maps on the wall near the ticket booth. I paid the waiter and we crossed the street and entered the Metro station. Almost immediately, I spotted the Billets (the ticket office) and, on the wall across from it was the easy-to-read map. The directions were clear. We would start on the Green Line, go to the Concorde station, change to the Yellow Line to the Champs Elysées station and then take the Blue Line to our destination, the Miromesnil station. From there it was a short walk to the museum.

We started our descent to reach the Green Line platform. The Rue du Bac Metro station is grungy, warm and very damp; the water from years of rain and snow seems embedded in its walls. I could smell the urine that has been leaked there over the years and the mildew mixed with the odor of the dampened armpits of the travelers running to catch their trains.

When we reached the Green Line platform, we were greeted by a guitar player strumming for Euros and, a young, emaciated-looking woman sitting on the cement floor with a sign – “J’ai faim. S’il vous-plait, aidez-moi,” – “I am hungry. Please help me.” I dropped a few centimes into the basket she had next to her, and we joined the crowd waiting for the train.

After just a few minutes, the train arrived and we boarded a very crowded car. Sandy found a seat next to a young French woman, deeply engrossed in a book. I had to stand, holding on to a floor to ceiling pole. The trains travel very fast and do not slow down for curves. I felt a little claustrophobic, but the people watching was great.

There were three stops before we reached our first transfer point at the Champs Elysées station. At the first stop, two Dickensian-looking teen-age girls boarded the train. They wore shabby dresses and smelled as if they each had a permanent allergy to bathing. One of them approached me and pointed to my wrist. I assumed she wanted to know the time. Since I had just looked at my watch, I said to her “Il est dix heures et demi” – it’s 10:30.

“Non,” she said and again pointed to my wrist. She seemed to be insisting that I show her my watch. The woman sitting next to Sandy looked up. “Attention, attention,” she yelled at me, pointing to the girls and vigorously shaking her head in an emphatic no! Her message was clear. Ignore the girl who was trying to look at my watch. Then, in very, understandable English, the woman said to Sandy: “Tell your husband not to show the girl his watch. She is trying to divert his attention so her partner can steal his wallet. This happens often on the Metro. You must pay no attention to them and make no eye contact.”

I didn’t need a second warning. I moved away from the girl and kept my hand on my wallet pocket. The train came to the next stop and the two girls got off, but first the one who was trying to get me to look at my watch took a ratty, scarf from around her neck and snapped it in the face of the woman sitting next to Sandy. The woman stood up and punched the girl in the shoulder as she and her partner jumped off the train.

The rest of the ride was uneventful. We had no problems changing trains and arrived at the Miromesnil station, billfold intact. As we walked to the Museum, we congratulated ourselves on our good luck. Nothing bad had happened. I hadn’t been diverted to look at my watch. My pocket wasn’t picked. I didn’t lose anything. And, anyway, how could I have lost anything? How could anyone pick my pocket? It was buttoned. We agreed we would continue to travel by Metro, realizing we had watch out for pickpockets. We were confident that as long as we remained alert, we were safe.

We visited the Museum Jacquemart-André and, just as Bill had said, the building is an architectural wonder and all of the Rembrandts and Van Dycks did, in fact, knock our socks off.

Confident that we now knew how to protect ourselves, we continued to travel by Metro. The next day, Thursday, was uneventful. All went well. We had no further problems and were convinced the attempted pickpocket experience would not repeat itself.

Friday was our last day in Paris. We planned a walking tour of Bohemia, the area around Blvd. du Montparnasse and the Latin Quarter, where Gertrude Stein, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound and other American intellectuals hung out in Paris in the 1920’s and 30’s. The walk starts at the Port Royal Metro station.

After more croissants and café au lait, but this time at Les Deux Margots, the famous brasserie on the corner of Blvd. St. Germain and Rue Bonaparte, we descended into the St. Germain de Prés Metro station to find our way to the Port Royal station. The map seemed clear – take the Red Line to the St. Michel station and then transfer to the Blue Line, which would deliver us to the Port Royal station. The first leg went fine. But when we got off at the St. Michel station, we became confused. St. Michel is a very large station, connecting to several different lines with extensive tunnels through which we had to walk to reach our connection to the Blue Line. But somehow we boarded a Yellow Line train instead of a Blue line and headed toward the Gare d’Austerlitz instead of Port Royal.

As soon we pulled into the Gare d’Austerlitz station, I realized we were going in the wrong direction. Sandy and I got off the train and looked for the Yellow Line platform where we could board a train that would take us back to the St. Michel station. I didn’t think that would be too difficult and found what I thought was the right platform. There was a train sitting in the station, its doors open. We boarded and Sandy went to look for seats. But when I tried to follow her, I couldn’t move. Someone had their arms around the lower half of my right leg and would not let go. Someone was a man, maybe 25-30 years old, with dark hair. It was difficult to be sure of his height since he was sitting on the floor of the train with both of his arms wrapped around my leg. But it was clear that he was lot taller than my five feet six inches.

“Let go you son-of-a-bitch. Let go of my fucking leg,” I screamed at him.

He responded by tightening his grip. I tried to free myself. Nothing worked. I simply wasn’t strong enough to break out of his grasp. I felt trapped. Then, all of a sudden, after what seemed like an eternity but probably wasn’t more than a couple of minutes, he released me. Before I could fully appreciate that I was free, I saw my assailant run out of the train, which had not closed its doors since we boarded it. My heart was pumping like a revved up engine. I instinctively felt for my wallet. It was gone. My pocket had been picked! I didn’t lose any money because my money was in my front pocket. But my driver’s license and all of my credit cards were in the wallet. All I could think of was that without my driver’s license and the credit card I had used to secure a rental car, I would not be able to pick up the car at the TGV station in Avignon. And without that car, how were we going to get to our rental house in St. Remy de Provence?

I stood, temporarily frozen in place when I saw my attacker walking slowly out of the station. He was with another man about his same age and height. I now realized that, just as the other day on the way to the Museum Jacquemart-Andrés, pickpocketers worked in pairs on the Metro. While my leg was being held to divert my attention, his partner cleverly slid his hand into my back, buttoned pocket, unbuttoned it and removed my wallet without my having any sensation that his hand was in my pants.

I had to go after them and try to recover it. But where was Sandy? I had lost track of her when I was accosted. I shouted, “Sandy, get off the train; follow me; hurry up!”

I jumped over the step from the train down to the platform and ran after my attacker who continued to walk slowly, almost casually, out of the station with his partner. I had no problem catching up. I came up behind him, leaped on his back and wrapped my arms around his neck in a full nelson. I was reacting instinctively and out of a rush of adrenalin. I felt invaded and I needed to get revenge. If I had stopped to think how much larger and stronger he was, I wouldn’t have had the courage to do it. But now I wasn’t going to let go of the asshole until I had my wallet back in my hands.

“Give it back to me you son-of a-bitch, you fucker. Give me back my wallet.”

Much to my surprise, he suddenly reached into his front pocket and pulled out a small, brown leather case – my wallet! Just as suddenly he dropped it on to the train platform and kicked it as hard as he could with me on his back and my arms around his neck. Like watching a movie in slow motion, I saw my wallet slowly slide across the platform to its edge and fall down to the tracks below. About the same time, a train came into the station.

“Shit,” I thought. Now “I’ll never be able to get it back. Even if the train didn’t destroy it, how can I get it? Those tracks, they’ve got to be electrified”

I let go of my attacker. He and his partner ran off. While I was trying to regain my composure and figure out what to do next, an older man with a gray beard came up to me. “Appellez les gendarmes. Call the police.” I looked at him, confused. Where were the police and what good would they do me now? My assailant and his partner had long-since disappeared into the bowels of the station.

Suddenly I wondered what had happened to Sandy? Did she get off the train when I yelled at her? Did she see what had just happened? I looked around and there she was, right behind me. I exhaled. I was so relieved to see her. She was breathing hard and staring at me in utter disbelief of what she had just witnessed. She came up to me and put her arms around my neck.

“Mike, ” she said, hugging me, “Are you OK? I can’t believe what I just saw. Weren’t you afraid? What if that guy had a gun or a knife?”

“I’m fine, just a little shaken up. I just never thought of anything other than getting back my wallet. Now it’s been destroyed. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

As we were talking the train left the station. I went over to the edge of the platform and looked down on to the track. There was my wallet, lying next to, but not on, the track. Unbelievable! But how was I going to retrieve it? Then a man, about 35-40, bearded, wearing a hat, stepped down from the platform into the track area, and picked up my wallet. I was afraid he was going to run with it. But I was wrong. He came over and handed it to me. It was totally intact. My driver’s license. My credit cards. Nothing was missing. How lucky can you get!

“Merci beaucoup. Thank you very much,” I said to him effusively.

“You are very welcome,” he responded with a British accent. “You must be very careful when you are traveling on the Metro. Never carry anything in your back pocket and,” turning to Sandy, “make sure that if you are carrying a purse, it is secured against your body.” It was the second time we had received that message. Would we ever learn?

But what a relief to be able to communicate with someone in English and especially someone who seemed genuinely concerned. I felt totally disoriented and was not thinking too clearly.

“Where do you want to go,” the Brit asked.

“We’re trying to get back to the St. Michel Metro station. Can you help us?”

“Yes, of course.”

He guided Sandy and me to the Yellow Line platform where we caught a train that returned us to the St. Michel station and there we found the right connection to the Port Royal Metro station to begin our walk through Bohemia. We were both very frazzled. We spent most of the time talking rather than looking.

Sandy clutched my arm tightly. “Mike, I cannot believe what just happened. I didn’t know I was married to Clint Eastwood! I have never seen you do anything like that in my life. It was really out of character and crazy. Those guys could have killed you. They were each a half a foot taller than you and what if they had had knives or a gun?” Her voice was soft and caring, but she also sounded a little bit angry and frightened.

“I realize that now,” I said, ” but I wasn’t thinking. I was just so pissed off that they robbed me that I couldn’t stop myself. I’m sorry if I scared you, but crazy as it sounds I couldn’t help it. Next time I’ll try to be more careful”

“Well, I hope there is no next time, but if there is please think twice before you do anything as crazy again. It’s not worth jeopardizing your life over some credit cards or a driver’s license.”

The next day we left for Provence and what turned out to be two wonderful weeks touring and eating. At the end of the trip we headed back to Paris for two more days before we could catch our connection back home. Sandy refused to get back on the Metro, but I decided to tough it out. Nothing happened to me, but it was still a bad decision. I was very uncomfortable, constantly looking over my shoulder, fearing I would be accosted yet again.

I still believe the Metro is the best way to travel if you can’t walk. Would I get back on today? I hope so. I’d hate to think the muggers won.