Sangria and Sin

Just before Auntie Paula left Rome we got her good and drunk. Always a lightweight, we plied her with Sangria until she was eating the wine-soaked fruit out of the bottom of the pitchers. We were at a Paella place, eating magnificent food and drinking entirely too much, but within moderation. The night was raucous and lovely until I excused myself to go to the bathroom and ran straight into the gypsy boys that had tried to pickpocket me on the bridge (see earlier entry) lounging in the back room of the restaurant and watching T.V.

I ducked quickly into the loo and stood there in amazement, thinking it through. Sure! Their family probably came over from Spain to start a restaurant. The boys don’t legally have to be in school, and the family restaurant is less than 200 meters from where they work the corner. If they get into trouble, they can just duck inside and hide. They probably serve mainly tourists in the restaurant and they can work the purses and wallets over while people overindulge.

While Paco, the father, regaled our table with amazing Flamenco guitar, those kids were probably “making tips” from all the customers. I walked right back out of the loo, caught the little one’s eye, and stared right at him. He froze like a deer about to be creamed by a Mack and then languidly looked away. I made a point of catching the other boys’ gazes, too, just to let them know I was on to them, and then sent Tom to do the same thing. The laughter that had been ringing out from the back room stopped soon after that. I wonder what they will do next time we see them as we cross the bridge corner that they frequent.