Visiting Barcelona at the tail end of my trip means that I've had time to hear many stories about the muggers and their various methods. Brits and Americans and Australians in France and Norway and Germany have warned me that you can't walk more than a few metres without someone trying to take your things by pretending to hit on you, or play soccer with you, or by just coming up and sticking their hand in your pocket. I'd managed to avoid these incidents until last night.
My Canadian friend Denis was celebrating his birthday. We were sitting on the beach with an earphone each, staring at my ipod screen and trying to remember which soundtrack 'Just Like Honey' is on apart from Lost in Translation. When Denis asked me for a pen I turned to see what can only be described as a cheeky fellow sitting nearby, quietly going through my bag. I sprang up in a flurry of orange coat and lunged towards him with a shrill 'Motherf-cker!' As the silhouette fled he tossed my journal, the only thing he'd managed to get hold of, comically into the air.
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