that time I witnessed a crime in florence

We’d ambled through Florence’s epic Mercato Centrale, pointing and sampling our way through aisles of cheeses, black truffle oils, meats, biscotti and dried fruits, when my Spidey Senses started tingling. As we waited for our lunch at a stall where about $5 got you a huge take-out dish of handmade pasta, I realized a crime was about to take place.

A small group of men milled around another family waiting for their pasta. There were at least four guys, maybe five, casing these people and — it was as plain to me as if they’d been holding signs advertising their intention — they were going to rob at least one of them. Early in my career, as a crime reporter, I developed a strong stomach as I covered countless robberies, assaults, murders and more in cities from Boston to San Francisco. But watching a crime take place, almost in slow motion, made my insides churn.

The men began to walk in increasingly erratic patterns around the family, an Asian couple and their two teen boys, pushing up next to them even though there was no great crowd that would necessitate such closeness. I was dumbstruck that no one else, including the family, could see what was happening — or, if they did, that no one was reacting. One guy clearly was the leader. He paced around, giving visual cues to the others and scanning the crowd, presumably for police or other sources of trouble. At one point I quietly told Matthew what was going on, and when I looked over again, the leader was staring at me. His eyes were wild. Drugs, I figured. He’d seen my reaction, recognized my awareness. And now he was walking towards me. In that moment, my body froze and my mind quickly scanned my options.

I could use my NYC-born “if you see something, say something” balls and get loud. I could calmly threaten to call the polizia. I could look down at my shoes and play dumb. None of these felt right. When he reached me — aggressive but not overtly confrontational — I stared into his eyes, put my hands up (universal symbol for “back off”) and muttered something to the effect of “leave us alone,” gesturing to my family. He looked back at me. Then he walked away and his men moved in.

They zeroed in on the dad. I thought about screaming or walking over to strike up a conversation with him. They’re just pickpockets, I reasoned. Wouldn’t they just move on to the next victim instead of attacking a foreigner in a public place? But then I thought about my children standing a few feet away. And the unpredictability of people, particularly criminals, especially ones who were likely on drugs. And the many irrational, terrible things that happened to good people whose stories I had told in newspapers and magazines over the years. So I stayed quiet, felt helpless and reflexively did something that now strikes me as odd — I snapped this photo:

The 3 men on the right — none of them the wild-eyed leader of the group — forming a human wall around the victim, who’s with his family watching a cook make pasta dishes through a window. Less than 10 seconds after I took this photo, it was over. (NOTE: If any of the men I’ve identified as pickpockets in this photo would like to lodge a complaint against me for publicly suggesting you’ve engaged in illegal activity, please leave a message in the comments section with the best place to find you and I’ll be right over.)

Then they were gone. For a second I thought maybe my hypervigilance had foiled their plot — they’d figured it wasn’t worth it after being spotted, and aborted their mission. I went over to the father and advised him to be careful, that I had watched a group of thieves targeting him. Maybe it was partly a language barrier, but he seemed dismissive as he nodded politely and turned away. Then I showed him my photo. Upon seeing himself from that unfamiliar vantage point just a minute earlier, his hand instinctively patted his fanny pack. His face fell. The zipper was wide open and the bag was completely empty.

With the help of some other concerned shoppers, the man — Billy from Hong Kong — called police. I sent him the photo, still feeling terrible that I hadn’t done more. More than an hour later, Billy texted asking me to come back to the market. Lulu joined me; for a very inquisitive 8-year-old, this drama was more exciting than the London Eye, the Eiffel Tower and all the carousels in Western Europe combined.

The police who came spoke English. They asked me what I’d witnessed beyond my photograph, they took notes. Oddly, one of them asked me, “Are the men who did this still in the market?” It was now about two hours after the crime. I told them which direction the men had gone but added that they would know better than I about the typical habits of pickpockets after a successful score. The whole conversation took less than five minutes. I offered my contact information; they politely declined. I worried that if they caught the guys, they wouldn’t be able to contact me to make a positive ID. But that was naive; I’m guessing that pickpocketing — while a big nuisance to foreigners in cities like Florence, which have warnings posted all over the place — is not anywhere near the top of the cops’ priority list. It may even be an unspoken part of some intricate socio-economic ecosystem.

Billy’s wife, who had been quiet until now, told me in broken English that this was their last day in Florence, and that the thieves had taken $1,000 in cash. Oof. I felt bad for them and therefore refrained from shaking her and asking why on God’s green earth they would carry that kind of cash anywhere, let alone in a fanny pack.

As it turned out, after all that excitement, Lulu admitted she was a little scared. She worried that the bad men might know I talked to the police and target us. I fantasized briefly about a movie in which this was the opening scene and the rest of the film was us on the run from a roving band of robbers after I broke up Europe’s biggest pickpocketing and drug ring. But no, I told her, it’s just an unfortunate part of life that people steal from others sometimes. We helped as much as we could. And we were safe.

These pickpockets ruined the day for Billy and his family, but they weren’t going to do the same for us. After the police concluded their exhaustive investigation, we left the market and succumbed to some of Florence’s many charms (below). When we came back again a few days later on another Tuscan day trip, as much as we’d loved the crazy energy of the Mercato Centrale, ‘boring’ was on our menu for the day. We chose a restaurant for lunch.

The scene of the crime: this pasta stall (where, incidentally, we had some of the best gnocchi — with olive oil and parmesan — of our lives).

When Lulu went back to buy a third portion of salami, the men at this meat counter were charmed and gave her a plate of it for free.

At the Palazzo Strozzi, we found an interactive art installation that was perfect for a quick (and colorful) rest.

The kids were a-mazed at the sprawling Boboli Gardens.

Napoleon’s bathroom at the Palazzo Pitti, where three Italian dynasties lived in splendor starting in the 16th century. Pro tip for parents: any history lesson that includes poop usually gets kids’ attention.

Big door, little girl.

Max rocking on and (still) having such a good time in Florence’s Piazza della Repubblica.