SUCKERED IN ROME ...
A cautionary tale for tourists
If we ever go back to Rome we’ll be hoping to meet Pierre Cardin again.
Well, not quite Pierre himself, but his Sales Manager from Milan . Well, not quite him either, but the man who purported to be that august personage and took us for a right pair of eejits.
You will, I’m sure, have read many articles or tips or tweets on the many ingenious ways in which people on holiday can be fooled by assorted conmen and conwomen. It’s when one’s guard is down that even the most alert among us can be caught out and relieved of our worldly goods or part thereof.
You will, I’m sure, have read many articles or tips or tweets on the many ingenious ways in which people on holiday can be fooled by assorted conmen and conwomen. It’s when one’s guard is down that even the most alert among us can be caught out and relieved of our worldly goods or part thereof.
Which brings me to our brief encounter with “Pierre ’s man in Rome ”. The whole business took perhaps all of two minutes, and in hindsight it was brilliantly done – while we were partly done. My wife and I were strolling on a bright, warm December afternoon across one of the Tiber ’s many bridges when a car came around the corner and drew up beside us, causing other cars to brake, blare their horns and swerve past. A slightly distracted well-dressed man with rimless glasses was beckoning at us from the driver’s side of the car. He wound down the passenger-side window and waved a street map at us.
“Excuse me”, he said in perfect English, “Can you tell me if I am on the right bridge to bring me to theVatican ?”
We looked at the map and with all the experience of having spent two days in the city assured him he was indeed headed that way. He apologetically explained that he had just driven down fromMilan , where he was Pierre Cardin’s Sales Manager. Then he interrupted himself to suddenly ask if we were English. No, Irish, we proudly declared.
He nearly dropped the map in excitement at this. “Irish?”, he echoed, “My wife is fromBelfast ! In fact I am going there for Christmas with her family!”
We were murmuring some exclamations about it being a small world when he interrupted, asking me abruptly: “What height are you?” While I was still trying to formulate an answer (and the cars continued to swerve by) he reached into the back of the car and produced a gold-coloured Pierre Cardin bag which he said contained a shirt just my size. He thrust it into my hands and gave my wife another similar bag which he said contained a top just right for her. Mere sales samples, he said, but a small token of his gratitude for our help.
We were still demurring about such unwonted benevolence when he took out his wallet and showed us some credit cards and such-like. “Now maybe you can help me in return”, saidPierre (as we have come to call him). “I am nearly running out of petrol", he sighed, "and the stations here will not accept my bank cards because they apply only in Milan .”
“Excuse me”, he said in perfect English, “Can you tell me if I am on the right bridge to bring me to the
We looked at the map and with all the experience of having spent two days in the city assured him he was indeed headed that way. He apologetically explained that he had just driven down from
He nearly dropped the map in excitement at this. “Irish?”, he echoed, “My wife is from
We were murmuring some exclamations about it being a small world when he interrupted, asking me abruptly: “What height are you?” While I was still trying to formulate an answer (and the cars continued to swerve by) he reached into the back of the car and produced a gold-coloured Pierre Cardin bag which he said contained a shirt just my size. He thrust it into my hands and gave my wife another similar bag which he said contained a top just right for her. Mere sales samples, he said, but a small token of his gratitude for our help.
We were still demurring about such unwonted benevolence when he took out his wallet and showed us some credit cards and such-like. “Now maybe you can help me in return”, said
This was deplorable. I found myself reaching for my wallet. There was a €50 note sticking out slightly, but I tendered him a tenner to get by on. As I did so it was sinking in that there was something quite odd about the whole business.
At that same moment my wife began to stuff our lovely golden plastic bags back through the car window and brusquely to inform Pierre we really wanted none of his samples.
This made him quite cross. “You’re upsetting me now”, he snapped, then nabbed the tenner from my retreating fingers, revved up the car and shot off across the bridge. We doubted if he was really heading for the Vatican to show Cardin to the cardinals. As the car receded, we noted for the first time that it was really a small-calibre Fiat, a bit of a banger at that, and hardly the kind of car a high representative of the real Pierre would be seen in, dead or alive.
We were left with mixed feelings. Foremost was one of embarrassment at having been taken in, followed closely by relief that at least we had donated only a €10 note to the conman’s coffers. I was relieved I still had the wallet.
We were left with mixed feelings. Foremost was one of embarrassment at having been taken in, followed closely by relief that at least we had donated only a €10 note to the conman’s coffers. I was relieved I still had the wallet.
But we must have stuck out like The Only Tourists In Town that Week in December ... Two days later, as we ambled along a tree-lined footpath wondering how on earth to cross the road to visit the Palatine hill, we heard the toot of a nearby car horn. Shading our eyes against the sun and peering across a line of parked cars, we saw that beyond them a car had stopped and the driver was beckoning us towards him. We looked at him. He looked at us. And
We never saw him again that week, but we’ll be ready for him next time we visit
I want to ask him if his decent
ENDS
© Éanna Brophy (Published in Sunday Times Irish Edition August 2011)
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