I Become a Criminal

When I was five years old, my mother taught me a valuable lesson about theft. We were in a grocery store and my brothers and I pilfered cookies from one of the bulk containers. Being unsophisticated felons, we immediately started bragging of our success when we got in the car. My mother dragged us back in the store, made us apologize to the manager, and paid for the cookies. I think the money either came out of our allowances (if we had them) or had to be worked off by pulling weeds in the yard. 

The incident has stuck with me and except for the occasional dip into Mom’s purse (sorry Mom), I never stole again. This is, until last week.

Here’s what happened.

I’ve been working long hours recently because some of my coworkers left for the UK for the holidays. For instance, yesterday I started my first class at 8 AM and didn’t get home until almost 10 at night. My day consisted of an advanced class at a global accounting firm, two classes of beginning adults, an overpriced babysitting job involving a six year-old and a set of four year-old twins, English playtime at the home of a five year-old boy, two intermediate teenage classes, and two intermediate adult classes. Needless to say, I was pretty exhausted. I suppose I could use that and low blood sugar as excuses for what happened at lunch, but really, it was sheer stupidity on my part. 

There are two things I really enjoy eating here in Tenerife: batidos and arepas. Batido literally means “batter” and is the Spanish term for smoothie. They are delicious. On their best day, Jamba Juice could only dream of making something this good. Arepas are a Venezuelan food that’s somewhere between a sandwich and bliss. The bread, made of fried maize flour, is filled with a variety of different offerings: chicken and avocados, braised pork with tomato sauce, ham and cheese, etc. Since I only had an hour to eat, I decided to go to a nearby cafe that sold both. 

As previously mentioned, it takes time to get your food at Spanish restaurants, so I took out my Kindle to pass the time. (By the way, I’m discovering that my Kindle was aptly named, as it’s become a fire hazard. The power chord shed its plastic coating, leaving only a rope of exposed wires. I’ve wrapped the whole shebang with electrical tape but, still, it worries me). The food came. I ate and read, enjoying a rare moment to myself. A half hour later, I asked for the bill, which came to four Euros and change. I checked my wallet. Two lonely gold and silver Euro coins stared back. What was I going to do?

One thing was certain: I couldn’t talk my way out of it. Just ordering the food took all the Spanish skills I had. Convincing someone not to call the cops and let me pay for the food tomorrow? Totally out of my league. I couldn’t call Ruyman - I had no idea whether he had the means to get to me in less than a few hours. I couldn’t wait there all day. And what if they wanted me to wash dishes or something? I had a class in fifteen minutes. 

I grabbed the two Euros, plunked down my money, and ran. Okay, I walked. I’ve seen enough movies to know that if you don’t want to get noticed, you try to blend in. Since my clothes and hair color aren’t typical Spanish, I even took the precaution of ducking into a nearby shop about the time I figured the waiter had counted my money. Of course, it was a custom-made lingerie shop which just made things worse. After the saleswoman chased me around the empty shop with a measuring tape and a sports bra missing the boobs, I decided to take my chances on the street.

My criminal act ate at me the rest of the day. I became hyperaware of sirens and police officers. It was a little like being dropped into a Dostoyevsky novel. The next day I returned to the scene of the crime and left the missing two Euros on the counter. Even though the food is really good, I don’t think I can go back to the restaurant. Anything meal I get will come with a side-order of shame.