Two weeks ago tomorrow, on the 28^th of March, I flew from Chicago to Portugal via Madrid for a week-long vacation with my mom. I hauled my MacBook across the Atlantic Ocean, assuming that the five plane and enumerable train rides would allow me ample time to write. At the very least I could wake up and write in our picturesque Airbnb in Porto or our boutique hotel in London. I never opened my laptop – not on a plane, a train, or in a hotel. I read several books, I walked at least five miles a day through gorgeous cityscapes, and I collected moments and stories.

On Sunday, I worked out with my trainer for the first time in more than two weeks and between sprints on the treadmill, I told him my best story from my vacation. Eyes wide, mouth agape, he said, “That’s a life story!” Indeed it is. Of all the grace-filled moments, all the talking to strangers, and all the surprises of our trip – this is the story that will prompt us, years from now, to look at each other and say, “remember when?” And we’ll remember. Here it is, in full:

It’s our final day in Porto and we are walking along the Douro River. It’s chilly but mostly sunny, and we walk slowly, having already logged a fairly full day. That morning, we had intended to take the train to Guimaraes, a historically rich town about an hour train ride north of Porto, but we arrived at the São Bento Station to discover the conductors on strike. We were told that, while a train might depart for our destination, there was no guarantee when or even if one would return. We played it safe and stayed in Porto where we visited the Lello Livraria, a bookstore famously frequented by J.K. Rowling, ate a francesihna sandwich at Café Santiago, and ogled the ornate Baroque gold filigree in the Church of São Francisco.

It’s now 4pm, and we have a decision to make. Wine, or gelato? We settle on gelato. I order pistachio and my mom chooses raspberry sorbet. We find a bench and watch the water and the passersby as we spoon tiny morsels of deliciousness into our mouths, scraping the bottom of the neon plastic cups with minuscule spoons. Momentarily sated, we continue toward the massive Dom Luís Bridge and my mom looks at me. “Should we walk to Gaia?” We had just been to Gaia the day before. It is just across the river and boasts massive port wine lodges and dreamy riverfront restaurants offering every imaginable cuisine and variety of wine. “Let’s do it,” I answer, already imagining a lazy dinner capped by one or two glasses of white wine as we watch the densely packed multi-colored buildings of Porto fade from vibrant to pastel in the dusk before beginning to twinkle in the twilight.

The Dom Luís bridge has two levels. An upper level that accommodates rumbling Metra trains, and a lower level where cars travel back and forth from Gaia to Porto. While both levels have sidewalks for pedestrians, the lower level feels more precarious – the sidewalks are narrow and the automobile traffic incessant and dense. The Metra trains on the upper level are lumbering but infrequent, and foot traffic spills easily onto the tracks until a blaring horn signals a train’s arrival. On Sunday, we had walked the upper level to reach Gaia and returned to Porto on the lower.

Tonight we’ve been walking the riverbank which leads to the lower part of the bridge, and we step up and slide easily into the foot traffic on the east side. Pedestrians walk on both sides of the bridge, but the east side is far more crowded, as it offers the best views of the port wine lodges and the vast expanse of the Douro. Tourists stop to take photos, others push hurriedly pass, and the wind whips – brisk and vigorous – around everyone. “Let’s cross to the other side,” my mom says, in an attempt to avoid the thickest foot traffic and reach Gaia safely and quickly. We watch for a break in the stream of cars and dash across. Safely on the west side of the bridge, I walk a few feet in front of my mom – arms crossed, head bent down, glancing furtively up to eye the gaps and avoid the slow movers and picture takers. I dodge around an older man obliviously taking up the entire sidewalk as he spreads a map in front of him. The path opens up. I speed up, knowing my mom is right behind me, and we are now more than halfway to Gaia. More than halfway to my dinner and my wine.

Then, from farther back than I thought she was, I hear my mom. Yelling. “Kathleen! Kathleen! That girl stole my wallet!” I turn around, momentarily stunned. “What?!” I yell. I jog toward her, reaching for her red Calvin Kline purse to look inside “Are you sure?” I ask, incredulous. “Yes!! Her!!” She points to a tall slim woman dressed entirely in black, walking swiftly and confidently toward the Porto side of the bridge. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t run, but she doesn’t slow. I start to jog, again. For a few yards, my mom keeps pace, but then shouts “She’s getting away!” I start to sprint. Like hundred meter dash at a grade school track and field day sprint. Butt-kicking sprint. The path is mostly clear, but a few people dodge out of my way. I think that if this were a movie, other people would be running too. Some attractive gentlemanly Portuguese man would say in perfect English “Who stole your mom’s wallet? Her?” and then he and other good Samaritans would join in the chase. That’s not happening. As I run, I wonder vaguely what I will do when I catch her. Because I’m going to catch her.

I reach the end of the bridge just as the pickpocket does, and I grab her by the elbow, whip her around and gasp around my jagged breaths “Hey!! You stole my mom’s wallet.” Huge brown eyes wide, mouth frozen in an “O” she murmurs something unintelligible, a crease forming between her brows, eyes clouding in mock confusion. She holds up her hands and pulls the small leather backpack off her back. She makes sounds that sounds that mimic denial. My mom reaches us, and she is on fire – spitting nails at the girl who continues to shake her head and act confused.

I catch my breath and gradually become aware of a commotion to my left. I turn to see a man in jeans and a sweatshirt screaming in Portuguese as he draws a gun and holds it on a struggling man he has just wrestled to the ground. Startled, I say “Mom, back up, that guy has a gun,” failing to realize he is a police officer until my mom points out his badge. It dawns on both us that this is a pickpocket takedown, and another police officer materializes to apprehend our pickpocket and shove her down beside her accomplices.

My mom is furious, we are both buzzing, almost no one speaks English, and there is now a massive crowd hyped up on adrenaline, testosterone, and the thrilling spectacle of guns drawn and criminals handcuffed and flung to their bellies on the concrete. One police officer, who we later learn is a detective named Paredes, speaks English. He ascertains that we have been robbed and goes in search of the wallet. It is no longer on the pickpockets or in their bags, but he disappears to search the banks of the river into which they likely flung it. By some miracle, the wallet did not make it into the Douro but landed on its rocky edges, and Paredes returns triumphant. But we can’t have the wallet. We have to go with the officers, but not before we watch as the gang of four pickpockets (two women and two men) get loaded into a police van under the guard of at least half a dozen fully armed and uniformed officers. An older man taps me on the shoulder. “Excuse me, do you know what happened?” I’m not just a spectator but an integral player in this bizarre tableau, and I answer him just as Parades resurfaces and barks “You. Come.”

We climb into an unmarked car with a lonely blue strobe flickering on the front dash. Paredes and his partner Joao drive us several miles to a police station and, as they speed through narrow streets, they ask us how long we will be in Porto. “Just tonight,” we explain. We are catching a plane to London at 8 am tomorrow morning. They are concerned and talk rapidly to one another in Portuguese. Paredes apologizes but says it will be one to two hours before we can get our wallet back. They have to file a report. That’s fine, my mom says. It won’t be one to two hours, I whisper under my breath.

Upon our arrival at the station, the detectives are met with high fives all around. My mom and I are escorted to a small detectives’ office with two tidy desks and a view of a cobblestone entrance to the station. Paredes tells us to have a seat and disappears but leaves the door open. We watch the perpetrators get walked by and my mom glares and then waves at the girl who stole her wallet. We hear lots of angry interrogation, but don’t understand a word. The clock ticks. After 3 ½ hours, I ask if we can get some coffee. We are starving, and haven’t eaten since noon. Paredes tells us it will be just a little bit longer. They have recovered another wallet, and the reports are not ready. He walks us to the dodgiest coffee shop I’ve ever seen, and we eat custard pies and drink surprisingly delicious cappuccino.

We return to the police station and discover that the detectives have taken over our previous post in their office so we sit on the stairs and we wait. Nearly five hours after the crime took place, we hike up the stairs and offer an ultimatum. We need to go. We have a plane to catch early in the morning. Joao ushers us back into the office, and a detective we haven’t seen before addresses us in impeccable English, explaining that he’s come in off his holiday to type our report and translate it into Portuguese. We check over every detail, sign and initial the report, the strikingly handsome detective says he will drive us home, and we sigh in relief.

For the second time that day, we find ourselves in the back of an unmarked police car – or at least I’m in the back; my mom sits up front with the detective. We direct him to our apartment, and as he pulls up across the street, he warns us “Be careful. There are many drugs on that street.” We’ve already ascertained this, but never felt unsafe, so we say, “Oh, we figured that out. Thank you for the warning.” I’m certain he thinks we are two crazy American women, and maybe we are, but he tells us he will remain parked until we are safely inside. My mom waves to him just before she steps inside, and we wait a few moments until he pulls away and then we head back out into the night. Two crazy American women, wallet in tow, in search of dinner and wine.

I didn’t get my view of the setting sun on the Douro, but after five hours and the heroic efforts of some very patient policemen, I did get my dinner and a gigantic glass of white wine. So hold onto your wallets, keep your eyes open for pickpockets, and remember that there are many, many good people in the world. Remember, you either have a good time or you have a good story. Sometimes, you have both.

Until next time…