“Do you speak English?” The man was dark with his hair close cut. He held two waxed cartons side by side. “What is the difference between them?”
His girl friend stayed closer than I am comfortable with, but they were East Europeans and I thought maybe their comfort zone was different from mine.
“I speak English, but not Icelandic.”
We laughed. I moved on to buy some fruit and noticed they left the store immediately.
Walking back to the bus, I reached for my camera in my right hip jacket pocket. It wasn’t there. I searched my backpack. Nothing. My left hip jacket pocket. Nothing. I assumed I has been pick pocketed.
Our guide was upset. “It almost never happens here.”
I assured her I knew that the Icelandic crime statistics were some of the lowest in the world.
The other people on the tour were lovely, asking if I were all right, encouraging me not to let it ruin my trip. It wouldn’t.
A camera is a thing and I figured this was Odin telling me to stop being lazy and learn the better Cannon camera that I traded for editing a novel.
I arrived home three days later, threw my jacket on the bed. As I was emptying pockets, I realised there was a breast pocket which I never use. Unzipping it revealed the camera.
Whoops…
When the jacket was on the seat of the bus, that pocket must have been closest, and assuming it was a side pocket I put the camera in it.
Dumb, dumb, dumb and apologies to the non-pick pockets
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