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ePaper created 2016-03-27, 04:02:35 | version 1.33.0
HQ TRADE MAGAZINE APRIL 2016 56 T he moment I stepped off the bus, I knew something was off. It was 6AM and still dark out as the long, coach bus finally stopped moving. We had arrived at Estació del Nord bus station after 16 odd hours direct from Paris. I wiped my eyes, stretched and shuffled off the bus behind the others. That’s when I saw the young Korean boy panicking, swiveling his head left and right and dropping his duffel bag. He jumped in to a half sprint to the left side of the bus, then jerked his head back and sprinted to the right, then called out to the driver. I saw a group of shadows running in all directions, fanning out, sneakers skidding against the round. Then another young man started running towards one of the spectres, sprinting all out as he dropped his bag behind him, yelling in a language I couldn’t quite make out. Some shit was going down and I’d only just arrived. “Senor!” I called out to the bus driver, a swarthy, squat man with a permanent scowl and black, think mustache. The minimal Spanish I had learned in a daze on the overnight bus seemed to fall from my head. How do you say what the fuck is going on in Spanish? “Je ne parlez espanol” he said, turning back to the side of the bus where he was tossing off luggage, casually eyeing the two unfortunate fellows scrambling for what seemed like stolen bags. “Quickly, quickly” he said, motioning to everyone to grab there bags, “watch for thieves”. There were maybe ten of us, each one grabbing their luggage and making off in a hurry. At this point both the poor Korean and the sprinting tourist were nowhere to be found. Everyone quickly grabbed their bags or luggage, donned their backpacks and got out of there in a hurry. Within minutes the side panel had closed again, the bus driver sucked back a cigarette and the bus moved on. I’m guessing the con is to wait at the station for the gringos to unload, then dash for the undercarriage as soon as the driver opens it and make off with what you can. Fortunately I carried my bag with me on the bus. Realizing that I was a pretty obvious mark with my laptop bag clutched to my chest, camera strapped to my belt and my cell phone bulging from my front pocket, I quickly took my camera from my belt strap and shoved it in to my backpack along with my cell phone, constantly scanning for movement in the shadows. I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket with the address to the hostel. Looking around for a local and not finding a single person, I slung my backpack on, wrapped my laptop strap around my wrist and set off in to the night. I didn’t realize at the time, but that would actually be one of the tamest robberies I would come to experience in the bustling, beautiful and tremulous streets of Barcelona. Stay tuned for part II, where a late-night club crawl turns in to a psychedelic journey replete with missing cell phones, debaucherous escapades, strange substances and a street walker shakedown! v “With her enchanting songs, her rare beauty, and clever tricks, this wild 'wanderess' ensnared my soul like a gypsy-thief, and led me foolish and blind to where you find me now. The first time I saw her, fires were alight. It was a spicy night in Barcelona. The air was fragrant and free.” -Roman Payne “In Barcelona, violent crime is very, very low. But, my friend, there are 300 different ways to rob you” -Daniel the hostel manager HQ feature