Those who have read this blog before will no doubt start to see a pattern: I tend to connect points by their straightest lines, and traveling reveals that my method of analysis is not universal. And that I think it should be.

I am in Malaga, Spain. where the weather is good, the limestone awesome, and time, irrelevant.

Yesterday Greg got his bag (including camera, emergency passport and iPod charger) stolen off a park bench. Today we’ve come back into the city as a threesome — Bender is here too — in order to recreate the events and hope that the same scumbags take the bait. The bag will be lightly tied to my arm with string, and Greg and Ben will be close, but out of sight in positions that triangulate the bastard.

So while Greg went to get his second emergency passport this morning, I went to the airport to see if I could change my ticket. I bought a subway ticket and descended to the platform. No train, so I sat on a bench to wait. A train pulled into the Malaga Renfe station, so I got up and pushed the “Abrir” button to open the door. Nothing. Press again. Nothing.

By that time, several more people had come down to the platform and, although Spanish, looked on with equal confusion.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some movement. I looked toward the front of the train to see the driver half-in, half-out and waving both hands in the universal gesture of “This shit ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Equally confused, 40 people’s brows knit.

And then the fucker stepped off the train and lit up. Smoke break.

Smoking deserves an exuberant slap at the best of times, but at that moment on the platform, I fantasized about forced amputation of digits.

Soon enough, the next train came going in our direction. But because the Smoker was having a break and parked on our side of the subway, the other train changed lanes and continued on through…

[There was a lot more to this story, but I saved it as a draft in February and never got back to it...]

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