The word I wish I never had to learn in Spanish

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Robbed on our way to the world's most famous pick pocket festival

Antigua during Semana Santa is known for thieves and pick pockets. One of the locals told me that the number of "tourists" from El Salvador and other parts of the country that congregate here in the week prior to the festivities is getting more and more alarming. "They aren't here for the parades or the parties and anyone who lives here can tell exactly who they are," she told me. "Antigua is so small, everyone knows one another. It makes me nervous to see all these shifty types everywhere."

This was no news to us. We've heard all there is to hear about separating your valuables, never letting your bag go, keeping your eye on the zippers, especially in crowded places like markets and museums. But when we got onto the bus to get to Antigua that morning we were taken for a loop for just a split second and, like that, Chris' bag was robbed.

When we got on the bus it was already crowded. There was barely anywhere to squeeze ourselves into. On every bus there are two "officials" the driver and the ticket taker. The ticket guy kind takes your cash, tells you when to get off, makes sure everyone moves back, gets a seat and generally facilitates the movements in the bus so the driver can focus on just that. As soon as we got on this bus the ticket guy was in our face telling us where to sit, moving with big gestures, telling us how long it would be till we left and generally just being way more animated than any other ticket guy I've ever seen. As he was telling us to sit down he reached for Chris' bag, which was in the way cause we were so tightly packed and told him to put it up top. I don't know if it was out of sheer exhaustion from the overnight trip or what, but we let him. I just figured he's leave us alone in two seconds and we'd take it down. Out of the corner of his eye Chris said he saw the guy push the bag further backwards and in the next second it was gone and the emergency exit door in the back of the bus was closing.

Immediately Chris jumped up screaming bloody murder and tore as fast as he could through the packed bus out the back door after the guy. I followed yelling at the driver to stop as the bus had started to pull out. Refusing to leave the bus and all our stuff that was strapped to the roof I scanned the area and saw the guy jumping into a cab to the right. All I remember is his hideous pink shirt. I hollered at Chris who took off after the cab and proceeded to grab on to the open window frame, telling the cabbie to stop. Obviously in on the action, the cabbie sped up leaving Chris moving faster than he could run on his own. He hit the pavement like a ton of bricks scraping the hell out of his elbow and shoulder. All in a matter of seconds.

There was nothing we could do. His passport, Ipod, a bunch of credit cards and some cash were just a couple of the things we lost. I think the worst was the camera with all our photos still stored on it. Credit cards and passport are replaceable, but the photos we'll never get back.

We rode the hour to Antigua in silence, thinking about what had to be done when we got there. We found a bathroom where I tried to patch up his wounds as best I could. They were huge scrapes and really needed a good cleaning. All we had were alcohol wipes, so Chris bit down on something hard and I administered the pain of disinfection. It was nasty! Credit card companies, banks and the embassy were called on the spot. Then I left Chris in a cafe to nurse his wounds while I traipsed around the city looking for a good school that would put us up in a homestay for the next week.

I realized real quick that most of these schools are not open on Sunday. I think I went to the first five options on my list with not a single smidgen of luck. I started to hit the second rate schools and look into finding a cheap room for one night so we could possibly continue our search tomorrow. Room rates everywhere I looked were ridiculous. I tried to keep my hopes up but was getting more and more disheartened. There was one last place I hadn't tried on the other end of town. It was one of the few that I had written but had gotten no response called Escuela Sevilla. It was in an old colonial building with a fountain in the courtyard, lots of plants and a couple of guys playing ping pong in the back. Best of all, it was open.

One of the teachers, Gustavo, introduced himself telling me that the schools director wasn't there but should be back within the hour. I rushed back to Chris, told him our options, which were essentially nil, and we made our way back to Sevilla. Juan Carlos, the director, set us up with a family who were, luckily able to take us on the spot. The house was about four blocks from the school and we had a cute little double room complete with our own private bathroom. We were introduced to the family with a flurry of names and greetings and collapsed onto the bed. What a friggin' day!

"Steal" in Spanish, by the way, is "robar".

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