In the Postcard Shop

"Non, non, non, Madame! Please, non!"

Startled, I looked up from my purse where I had been fumbling for the euros to pay for my postcards and stamps. What did I do? Did I inadvertently offend? Had I committed some heinous American faux pas? I stared into the swarthy face of the man behind the counter of the hole-in-the-wall souvenir shop on the corner of rue St. Andre des Arts.

Seeing my dismay, his black eyes softened as he stepped up to me. Gently, he chided me..."Madame, you must always have your money ready, your purse organized. If you are searching for euros, you are distracted and a perfect target for the pickpockets."

Before I could move, he deftly took my tiny shoulder purse and lifted it from around my neck. "Let me show you the best way." I stood there, dumbfounded as he helped me out of my fleece jacket, zipped the purse and replaced it around my neck. "Now, Madame, put on your jacket and zip it up. Your purse is now safe against your body and out of sight. Wear it this way. Always prepare for your purchases and have your money ready."

I could only stutter, trying to think of something to say, as he continued, "You think thieves and pickpockets look like shifty-eyed Frenchmen, and that you'll recognize them. Actually they are innocent appearing teenage boys wearing jeans and American tee shirts!" he proclaimed.

I finally found my voice..."Merci, Monsieur." I know I still sounded puzzled.

"You see, Madame, I make my living from the tourists. If tourists are pickpocketed and have a bad experience in Paris, they tell their friends and no one comes to Paris anymore. That's bad for my business. So, I try to help this not to happen," he smiled and shrugged that quintessential French shrug that seems to say 'makes perfect sense to me.'

Merci, Monsieur! Merci beaucoup!