In Search of Meaning… Redux 

Part I: A Bad Start to a Summer Cruise

A friend said I was victimized. I don’t see it that way.

The outbound flight that was to take us directly to Athens to begin our three-week European vacation was delayed by six hours, which meant we were routed through Amsterdam and Paris and arrived numb and tired, too late for the scheduled departure of our cruise. Our travel companions had already left. We would catch up with them at the next port a day later.

Okay. Fine. No problem.

We checked into the nice little boutique hotel we had been registered to stay at the night before. They had a room. And they were very welcoming. In fact, their welcome was so warm and inviting that I didn’t notice that one of my two bags, a Bottega-Veneta Intrecciato, which was sleeved onto the extended handle of my Tumi carry-on, was deftly stolen as it stood, with our combined luggage, just beside and behind us.

Nobody noticed it. Not I. Not K. Not the hotel manager or the desk clerk. In fact, when I turned around and announced, in shock, that my bag was gone, they all agreed that I must have left it in the taxi.

“No. I’m certain it was there, on top of my carry-on,” I said, feeling increasingly alarmed and frustrated at being doubted. “It must have been stolen!”

They again assured me that I was mistaken. And since my track record of being right about remembered events is getting worse with each passing year, I had a flickering hope that perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it was still safely in the taxi. As it happened, the taxi driver had given me his card when he dropped us off. I called. He took a look. No, it wasn’t there, he said. He also said that he remembered seeing me put the one bag on top of the other.

Meanwhile, the hotel manager, who, to her credit, was greatly disturbed by the thought of her guest being robbed inside her reception, went back to the office and reviewed the security camera footage.

Unhappily for me, I was right this time. It showed us walking in and setting down our luggage. Then a man walking in at a quick but unhurried pace, his head tilted down, taking the bag, and walking out while we were chatting happily with the greeting committee. He was very calm. Very efficient. He was in and out in less than 15 seconds.

It was, as I suggested, a rather expensive bag. And it was one of my favorites. Soft, lightweight leather. Just the right size for my business and personal effects. With zippered and buckled pockets.

Inside was a Goyard cigar case, a box of Padron Aniversario Churchill cigars, my Apple Air laptop, a backup laptop (in case something happened to the first one), a Ralph Lauren Dopp kit, a special case I had made to hold my supplements, two pairs of custom-made eyeglasses, several designer bracelets, and a paper envelope containing a substantial amount in euros.

The worst of it was the loss of the laptops. The lion’s share of my life’s work happens on a keyboard. Being without one, even for a day, is difficult. It’s nearly impossible to do any serious work on a cellphone, hunting and pecking out sentences with an index finger. I would try, but until I got a replacement laptop, which I was told would take at least a week to be delivered, I would be falling behind on my work with each passing day. Stressful.

I went to the tourist police, as recommended, and filled out a report. It was a dreary office, sparsely furnished. Fluorescent lights that flickered and buzzed. The young man that took my information was attentive and sympathetic. He worked on a manual typewriter. The report was several pages long.

While he was typing, it occurred to me to check my iPhone’s “Find My” application. Sure enough, there was a location identified for one of my laptops.

“I know where they are!” I told the officer. I showed him my phone.

He looked at his wristwatch. “But they were taken an hour ago,” he said, sighing.

“And?”

“That’s a bad neighborhood. They aren’t there anymore. The man that took your bag, he’s a pro. The computers have been deactivated by now. They’re probably in a pawn shop in some other part of the city. The bag, the cigar case, and the rest of it, too. Each in a different location. That’s how they do it.”

“And the cash?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Oh, that’s in his pocket. But who knows where he is?”

I went back to the hotel, out of hope and empty-handed, and spent the next several hours chastising myself for letting our luggage out of my sight and especially for putting my laptop, and its backup, in the same bag.

K reminded me that everything I lost could be replaced.

“Except my self-respect,” I said.

“That will come back, too,” she assured me.

I used my phone to check my email. And there, in the inbox, was a message from one of my partners. A message I was hoping I wouldn’t be getting. In response to a crumbling global economy and the resulting collapse of the stock market, he and my other partners had decided to reduce the compensation we were taking from our largest business. Did I want to do the same?

I couldn’t say no. Starting almost immediately, and until things got better, that very significant stream of income would be reduced to a trickle.

Strike one: Bag and contents stolen.
Strike two: Loss of my largest source of income.

I was a 6 on my 1-10 mood scale after the theft. Now I was down to a 5. Maybe a bit lower. I opened my carry-on to fetch my antidepressants. They weren’t there. I had left them in the other bag, the one that was stolen.

The thought of spending the next two weeks on a sailboat trying to be on vacation seemed like an impossibility. I wanted to book the next flight back to Florida. But that would mean disappointing K and our friends. It was not an option. I had to get my mind straight. So long as things didn’t get worse, I would find a way.

But things got worse.

More to come…