July 27, 2011:  After exploring the delightful Palau Gṻell, Antonio Gaudí's first big project, I decided to take a roundabout way back to our hotel, thus avoiding the hordes on Las Ramblas, the central pedestrian walkway in the heart of Barcelona.

My route was far more peaceful as I meandered down narrow streets lined with neighborhood shops.  As I walked, I came upon a block with numbers of young women taking the summer airs.  As I drew closer, I observed that many were wearing fewer articles of clothing than strictly dictated by the weather.  In addition, they were standing at awkward angles, leaning against building walls or, seemingly welcomingly, on stoops.

Intermingling with these friendly looking young lasses were some not-nearly-so-cordial, muscle-bound men.  A lightbulb went off in my head, admittedly a little late, but, my goodness, it was only 11:00 am. I would have U-turned had it not been for the arrival of the gendarmerie, cruising slowly down the lane. I followed at a discreet distance and was able to see, inter alia, contractual arrangements being heatedly negotiated (not by the police, I hasten to add).

The next block, while devoid of the fresh-air worshippers of the prior one, contained a pocket park with benches, some sketchy types engaged in hushed conversations, and the overwhelming smell of what, at least in the United States, is a banned substance.  The effect was the same as the wafting of a new perfume on entering, say, Bergdorf Goodman.  Quite intense and heady.

None of this directly affected me as a visitor, but what did was the constant presence of pickpockets in the tourist areas of the city.  On a late afternoon stroll our first day, we were approaching our hotel, which was directly off Las Ramblas, I in the lead, when a kindly Australian gentleman popped out of a stylish adjoining restaurant to report that he had observed two men trying to remove articles from my husband's pockets.  He checked and found everything in order, but what was a bit worrisome was that he had been totally unaware of the attempt.

Now forewarned, we were more careful with our valuables.  My husband took to wearing a travel wallet on a string that he tucked into his shirt.  However, whenever he needed to fish out money for a bottle of water or a newspaper, he practically had to undress to access it.

This wasn't going to work.  I loaded his important stuff into my small backpack, figuring that I tended to be far more cognizant of our surroundings than he was.  That is, until, on our third night, down by the waterfront.  We kept stopping and starting to scan an unintelligible map in an effort to find a special paella restaurant.  At one point I was bumped slightly by a young woman, who, along with her male escort, appeared to be as lost as we were.

When I looked up in surprise at the physical contact, she gave me a sweet "excuse me."  OK.  Then a few blocks later, while we stopped at a red light, I noticed she was right behind me again.  OK.  I checked my backpack and found it partially unzipped.  Then as I accelerated to see if I could lose my new "friends," I found them right behind me yet again, with my husband trailing far behind.  Not OK.  At that point, I made a sharp left turn, rotated to face them, and glared.  That was enough to discourage them permanently, and they disappeared into the crowd.

Two times in three days was way too much.  It took some of the fun out of our exploring.  The combination of Spaniards' natural inclination to bump as they walked, in a way that might summon the police in New York, coupled with large numbers of criminally minded youths, made it difficult to discriminate between the clumsy and the unlawful.  However, as we became savvier, we turned our perambulations into a Barcelonan version of Where's Waldo?  Sad to say, there were a lot of Waldos out there.

After our return to Bronxville, I found myself continually perplexed by how I, a constant traveler, with a stay-away-from-me, Wendi-Deng/Tiger-Woman demeanor, had almost fallen victim to wallet-lifting.  I Googled "Barcelona and pickpocket" and found to my amazement 75 pages of references. Most relevant was that, in 2009, Trip Advisor, one of the best-known travel sites on the web, had named Barcelona the number one pickpocket locale in the world, followed by Rome, Prague, Madrid, Paris, Florence, Buenos Aires, Amsterdam, Athens, and Hanoi.

Reading further, I discovered hair-raising tales of Barcelona encounters on one site, from "the flower scam" to "the pigeon poop scam" to "the fake policemen scam."  Visitors described purse snatches, multi-person subway squeezes, ankle-grabbing on escalator, and more.

One enterprising victim set up a Facebook page for people to write to, narrating their misfortunes.  A local TV station, TeleCinco, filmed criminals in the act.  And a courageous woman patrols the Barcelona subways blowing a whistle whenever she sees a thief about to pounce.

By the end of my research, I was in perspiration, happy to have emerged unscathed, but saddened that such a lovely city is known worldwide for its petty thievery.

Pictured here:  A busy street in Barcelona.

Photo by Adrienne Smith