I WAS STANDING on the dirt road at about 9pm one night in Puerto Escondido, Mexico. It was May of 1992, and my friend’s “small bag,” the one with all the good stuff in it — passport, camera (analog, this was ages ago) — had been stolen. We were standing beside a pay phone, dialing endless digits to get an international line, when a dog came up and stole the bread we’d bought as a snack for the overnight journey we had planned, and which we never took because of the theft.
Hypersensitive to feeling victimized, I started after the dog, as though I would overtake him, take the bread back and eat it myself.
The theft rerouted us (my friend had to get a new passport). It would have cost her a good chunk of change if she hadn’t had travel insurance.