The Umbrella Thief

[Photo by Craig Whitehead for Unsplash]

During my years of traveling around the world, I’ve had some very strange experiences: an unexpected voodoo ceremony on a remote Mexican beach; being abandoned in a half-built spa on a wild coast while my arms were wrapped against me like a mummy; interviewing witches in Wales; escaping out a retreat window in Thailand; hiding under a car in Tel Aviv... the list goes on, but one of my most bizarre experiences involved a fellow journalist in Spain who turned out to be an umbrella thief.

I’d been sent to Spain to cover the opening of several new hotels, and was traveling for the first two days in the company of three other journalists before we went our separate ways. Each of us represented a different publication, and had never met prior to this trip.

Thanks to a late train, I was the last to arrive at our hotel in Madrid, where the others were preparing to depart for a hosted dinner at an historic restaurant. It was pouring gatas and perras, and everyone had their umbrella at the ready. As we stepped out into the deluge and I opened mine, one of the other journalists — we’ll call him “N” for short, and because that’s also the first letter in the word “nuts” — remarked on my umbrella.

It was a work of art, actually. It had been gifted to me in 2012 when I’d attended the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations in London. Many of the Royal Warrant holders (those businesses and purveyors which had earned the privilege of displaying the Royal Coat of Arms on their wares) were in attendance. Among them were several whose handcrafted umbrellas had earned this coveted distinction. During the course of my week there, I was gifted with a travel umbrella, which I treasured: Not only because it commemorated a wonderful experience, but because that umbrella was apparently indestructible. Years later, it still opened and closed smoothly. It kept me dry. The wooden handle was shaped to perfectly fit my hand. It had a beautiful contrast stitching that made it seem special. And it carried the mark of a Royal Warrant holder.

On the wet Spanish sidewalk, “N” fell into step beside me. I can still hear his grating voice.

“That’s a very nice bumbershoot,” he said.

When I turned a blank gaze toward him, he elaborated.

“Your umbrella. Very nice.”

I thanked him, and thought nothing more of the moment. I was hungry and chilly, and anxious to sit down to dinner and shake off the stress of the travel day. As we walked, I briefly told him the story of having acquired it in London, and how much I valued it.

When we arrived at the restaurant, the others were being led to a table. “N” and I paused in the foyer, depositing our wet umbrellas in the stand. After a lovely dinner of paella, small custards and excellent wine, we made our way to the door. I’d been deep in a conversation with one of the journalists from New York, and “N” was already ahead of us, stepping out into the night. I was the last to reach into the umbrella stand, and was surprised that my umbrella wasn’t there. I looked around in vain, but there was no sign of it. Annoyed, and feeling a ridiculous sense of loss, I pulled my scarf out of my coat pocket and covered my hair. Outside, I joined the others, who were huddled in a small group, waiting for a taxi.

To my surprise, there was “N,” holding my umbrella aloft over his head.

“You’ve mistakenly taken my umbrella,” I said, feeling relieved. He looked at me blankly, then shook his head.

“I’m afraid you’ve made the mistake,” he said. “This is my umbrella.”

As I stared at him in disbelief, he turned to the others and began to regale them with the tale of having acquired this particular umbrella while in London for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. Not only had this horrid man stolen my umbrella, he was stealing my story.

Like me, you’ve probably also run into the occasional unstable individual. Conventional wisdom says to back away slowly, to stay calm, to not engage. While an umbrella is not a matter of life and death (unless you happen to be a working member of The Avengers), there is the small matter of not letting people get away with bad behavior. And, in my case, the not so small matter of my absolute unwillingness to give in to bullies.

“You’re repeating the story I just told you on the way here, and you have stolen my umbrella,” I said.

“N” looked convincingly wounded.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. His voice turned gentle. “You seem to be suffering from some delusion. Is there something I can do to help?”

I was dumbfounded. Astonished. Absolutely, completely and thoroughly bowled over. The other journalists were looking at me with a mixture of sympathy and confusion. They turned away, embarrassed by the exchange and the rising anger in my voice as I confronted “N.”

“You’re insane,” I said. “Mad as effing birds. You’ve taken my property, and I would like it back.”

I held out my hand. He turned away, gripping my umbrella. The taxi came, and I declined to ride in the same vehicle; stomping back to the hotel through the rain, practicing those yogic breathing techniques that are said to bring calm, and which utterly failed to help at all.

The next two days were brutally uncomfortable. Short of filing a report with the Guardia, or pushing “N” under a bus (which seemed a little extreme, even for a mystery-thriller writer), I couldn’t think of a single thing to do or say. I sometimes wonder if he still has my umbrella, and what other odd things he’s taken from other people and claimed as his own.

Perhaps there is a milder term than “psychopath” to describe “N,” but it may be the most fitting. Weeks after the trip, I consoled myself with a strongly worded letter to his publisher, which received no response. It’s likely the letter simply never reached its intended recipient — it would come as no surprise to learn that “N” is also an accomplished mail thief.