¡Ladrones!

Robbers! 
Or, more accurately, carteristas. Pickpockets.
This story is about a week overdue, but it is worth telling. Last Friday, I began my first real weekend in Barcelona; the previous had been in Italy and the one before that doesn't count because I was moving in. A.k.a,  I was far too busy getting lost and catching up on sleep to do anything really exciting. But by the third week, I was ready to actually do some of the things people come to this city for. One of them is the Magic Fountain of Montjuic. 
Here is a picture of it before the catastrophe:

Pretty, right? Kind of like the water shows at Disney World, with music and the colors changing and everything over the top. The best view is from two bridges overlooking the spectacle at Plaza Espanya,which is where we were. 

        So I took this picture, changed my camera to movie mode, turned around to yell at my friend Amber for talking while I was recording, and then a few seconds later my other friend, Kelsey, tells us all to check our bags, because someone just asked her if she was missing anything.
       When people come up to you voicing that question, it is often a pickpocket trick to get you to open your bag and either drop something or be distracted. I looked down and my purse (which, by the way, was across my shoulder and in front of me laying against my stomach) was open, clasp undone and wallet missing. I started to panic and my next decision was probably not the wisest one I have ever made. I asked Kelsey who she thought the pickpocket was and she pointed to a man in a red shirt talking to some other people.

Now, let us pause for a moment and consider my options:
1. Accept that I was out 30 euro and needed to cancel a couple of cards.
2. Call the police.
3. Storm up to the supposed robber to get my wallet back.

Naturally, I went with the insane choice. I approached the man and told him someone took my wallet. What I was expecting him to do, I'm really not sure. Hand it back to me? Apologize? Break out a knife and stab me?  Really, the possibilities of the way that moment could have gone are endless. But the way the road turned was not at all the route I expected.

The man in the red shirt stopped what he was doing and motioned for me to follow him. He must have seen the fear on my face because he flashed a badge and said, "Policia! I'm police!"

My American upbringing has taught me that anyone who flashes a badge is a liar. So there I was, being led into a criminal's brilliant (and so far, quite successful) trap.  I followed him down the bridge a bit and saw a line of dirty, grungy, quite irritated people against the wall. Words were exchanged and suddenly a loud slap broke the air as one of them received a blow on the cheek. That's not how police do it in America, was all I could think. Someone took a massive leap down and into the street, escaping or chasing, I still don't know.

I do know, that within a few seconds my wallet was back in my hands and the man in the red shirt was asking for ID and if I could come with him. This was the point where I probably should have realized he was real policia; I had my wallet back, so logically there was nothing to lure me into a bigger, scarier trap.

But I wasn't actually thinking in terms of logic. I followed him for a reason that will probably terrify my parents; I trusted him. As soon as we were out of the chaos of the bridge, I felt safe walking next to my friend in the red shirt. He had kind eyes and I knew he would take care of us. My friends were behind me, asking if I thought this was legit, and I shrugged, unsure of how to explain that I knew he was police and we were going to be fine. He realized we were hesitating and stopped to talk to me. He told that I could come with him to the station and fill out a report, in which case the Romanian robbers would go to jail, or I was free to go.

You get one guess what I did.

There I am, first time in foreign police station filling out my very own foreign police papers! They were all in Catalan, which I was desperately trying to translate, so my friend got me some copies in English. He and another undercover cop were seriously two of the nicest people I have yet to meet in Europe. They did all the work, explaining each part and even writing my name and information down for me. I have copies of all of it, which the policeman (my hero!) handed to me with a grin, "Here-souvenirs from Barcelona!" 

Oddly enough, my favorite moment of the entire night was when we were walking out and Kelsey asked them for recommendations for a good restaurant nearby. We were all quite hungry after the commotion. As they thought about it, I specified a bit-"¡No hay ladrones! Where there aren't any robbers!" They all laughed and I was so pleased with myself because I had a used a vocabulary word I wrote on a flashcard in high school. Señor Provost would be thrilled. 

After my clever little joke, the police sent us to restaurant they said was cheap and very safe, police always go there. 

(Our friends spoke the truth! The place was filled with police- in the yellow jackets sitting at the bar!)

And so, as I said, going up to the man in the red shirt to demand my wallet back ended up bringing me down a road I did not expect to take. Tenía mucha suerte. I was very lucky.