Sticky fingers caught in the honey-jar ... or something to that matter.

a Crisp july breeze blows through the green park in Palermo. It is cold, but not Canadian cold, resembling more of a Vancouver mid-October feel. Small ADD parrot-like birds flitter from palm tree to pine tree. bundled clumps of families move from the zoo to the park, and back to the zoo sipping mate, eating some sort of hot candied nut, and consuming steaming hot cups of tea

A tour bus disguised as a train dings a bell as it turns onto Avenida del Libertador. It chugs slowly looking for costumers. For some reason, a person is riding on the top of the train dressed in tight revealing Spider Man costume. He (yes, it is a man), has a blue scarf on, thus fully protecting him from the wind and cold. As the train slows down, music begins to pump. This unfortunately signals Spider Man that he must begin frantically gyrating his hips and dancing with his arms in the air. 

After spending a rousing afternoon playing ultimate frisbee, I am on my way home. I descend into the Subte station. Being a weekend and during winter vacation, the green line was rather busy.

Some brief chit-chat in Spanglish with my Ecuadorian friend as we patiently wait for the train. The platform fills up with jostling families. A young girl walks alone, crying, trying to find her mom. A security guard rushes over to assist. 

A long, warm wind blows on my face, thus signaling the approaching train. It slows and stops. Already completely  full. 

Some further shoving brings forth a reminder of the famous Chief Wiggum quote: "Alright, people, listen up! The harder you push, the faster we will all get outta here!".

I flow towards the open doors. Not necessarily in control of my direction or speed. Bundled bodies collide into bumping and unintentional grinding, reminiscent of a club dance floor right before close. I am wearing tan, quick dry pants which I purchased from MEC a couple years prior. Possibly due to a manufacturing defect or drunken design flaw the rear pocket consists of two pockets. The top pocket is rather small and could accommodate a credit card, while the second pocket slips in behind it almost down to the knee. Although, I am unsure as to the purpose of this pocket, for leaving anything in there long term is rather uncomfortable, the flaw works well for hiding valuable goods.

The defense gives me piece of mind. Buenos Aires public transportation is rampant with pick pockets. A pack of young, short adults in football jerseys push me slightly from behind. I feel one hand slide into the back top, small pocket. It quickly retracts. Alas, nothing, but a short dip in. He was greedy though and he knew he would find something eventually. I felt a move for the second pocket. My hands were already down protecting my knees. A woman, who I suddenly understand is involved, reaches to grab on to a railing for support, while doing so, she forces her arm between mine thus pushing my arm upwards. I quickly retract my arm awkwardly in the crowd and return it to feel another hand near my empty front pocket. I smile awkwardly at the young man and my gaze turns towards his two friends and the now known female accomplice. We were within inches of each others faces. He looks away while his cohorts look around sheepishly. While completely uneventful, I began to think about how certainly humourous the situation would have been if the pickpocket found himself moving farther and farther down my rear pants pocket until he was elbow-deep. At this point, while creepily giggling and trying not to laugh I was no longer looking at them, but through them in a daze, as I imagined such a silly situation.

The train stops at the next stop and the three of them depart, thus furthering the knowledge that only pickpocketers ride one stop at a time. It will happen eventually, but for the time being, I will be protected by my pants, my long monkey arms, and possibly from the watchful eye of a certain leotard wearing super hero, who on cold days, wears scarves and gyrates to stay warm.