When your purse is stolen, you never expect to see it again. Mine was taken from my hotel room inMexico.
Someone entered our room while we slept! As the emotional blast of that realization faded, a second blast hit. My stuff: wallet, prescription sunglasses, and my life line to the world, my PDA, would be sorely missed.
We searched the property and found that the sunglasses had been discarded near the wall. We found the purse too, down the street, but no signs of wallet or PDA. Off to the police station to report the theft. Then to a phone to cancel credit and bank cards. Luckily my husband had left his wallet in the pocket of his shorts and it was not found by the thieves.
A day later, I receive a text message from my daughter. “Call Norman. 222 5555.” I don’t know anyone named Norman, but I call anyway.
“I have your wallet,” he says. “You can come for it anytime.”
My wallet! “However did you come to have it?” I ask when we meet at his house.
“My neighbors are vendors on the beach. They found it when they were picking up a load of coconuts in front of the hotel next to yours. One of the men tossed it in his truck thinking his wife might like it. When he got home he found your cards in it and thought it might be important so he passed it on to me.”
“But… but…” I say. “How did you find me?”
“I told him to check the Internet,” says his wife.
“I used your driver’s license and checked Canada 411.”
“I don’t see how that worked. Our number is unlisted.”
“I found the same address one street over and called them.” And that’s all he can tell me.
My daughter fills in the rest. Those neighbors, whom we really didn’t know, called our next door neighbors in Edmonton. They in turn called my sister and her husband. They called our daughter in Tepic and she called us.
Wallet safe in my hand, minus the cash, of course, I ask to see the vendors. I thank them, offer a reward, and go back to our room to call Visa. Hopefully they can reinstate my cards for the long drive home.
The young man I talk to at the bank security is enthralled. “That’s the best “happy ending” story, I’ve ever heard on this end of the phone,” he says. I grin as I picture him passing the story on to colleagues.