The Road to Who Knows Where

So I broke my duck. For the first time I can remember, I have been robbed. And it happened on exactly the night I knew it would, so I had left my camera at home and given away my money. Let me explain:

Sometimes when I waken I think I am under the copper mountain, sharing the acrid earthy air with soldiers sheltering from the fight. I don't know if they are relics from some world war, guerrilla fighters in a south American mountain cave or home-made desert men who have learned to live war as a means of survival. My instinct is to kick out and fight. Within seconds I realise it is my flat in my own personal fight that is my every morning in existence, and I get up and get ready for work. I don't open the shutters, just the window, enough to let the clammy air in but not to dispel the dark.

After work I went to the dark red cave that is the sugar club with Nina. I had drawings of sleepy old men in nightcaps and women floating in the stars that I wanted to show her. Sometimes when you show a picture your true feeling towards it is revealed. I found out I liked two of the drawings and despised the rest. Sobeit. We moved on to and Irish bar to find the Lithuanian who had bought Nina drinks last time she was broke, and to repay him in kind. Ray was there, and in the company of a young film noir french lady who had that way about her like many french women that said she knew she was great but that she was still awkward. Ray was obviously making cow's eyes, so we decided it might be a better way to repay his kindness by leaving the two of them alone and heading off. Making our excuses, we headed west, into the Raval. After a pause to untangle some Australians, we made our way to the Chilean bar off San Pau.

Tonight my green couch was already taken. I knew something was up, but I figured it would be different cos for the first time I was there without Julie. We sat down the back and started on some strawberries and wine and soon enough the place was full. The musician told us a touching (yet drunken) story of his love for the Mapuche of Chile, while a Chileno and Argentinean man bored us with tales of woe. Nina spoke and I listened. Despite my reputation as a chatterbox, I just can't small-talk. There were all kinds of people, singers from Andalusia, punks from Italy, and the night was a full one. For the first time it seemed to be all musicians as we took it in turns to perform songs. By four am it was still going strong, but we decided to leave. We took the road north and I thought maybe I should turn back and go south, the safe way. But we stuck with north. I stopped to give Nina all my money - I was sure I owed her it anyway. "No!"she said."Now you're paying for everything!" Yes but I'll probably get robbed. Anyway, next time you can buy me a drink. She took the money reluctantly.

At the top of the road she turned left, I took the right. The ground was wet with the underground water that they use to clean the streets at night. A BCNeta guy said something to me as I passed, as usual, the men here can be real dickheads sometimes. I didn't answer, like most women who are walking on their own. I heard him speak to someone behind me and then I notice a guy in a white shirt walking about 20 metres behind me. I knew he was waiting for his friend and they would rob me. And I was on the one street on which they would succeed. Fuck. I turned right again, and I heard the tattoo of rubber shoes falling rapidly which meant they were coming. I stopped, and as he reached across my right shoulder I threw my elbow into his stomach. He reacted by grabbing for my throat and I ducked and punched him but he got me by the throat and threw me against a container, pinning me there. Just over six feet tall, this Moroccan was as smooth-shaved as a baby, and I saw the whites of his eyes. He was scared, even though he had me now. His friend in the white shirt was cool as cucumber though, and nodded again at my bag. Blueshirt went for it and I took my chance and bit into his arm and then his hand, as quick as I could. But not too hard, because I didn't want to draw blood, just to leave a mark. I didn't have the killer instinct. Interesting, I mused, while I tried to figure out what to do next. He doesn't want to kill me, he just wants my bag. But the grip on my throat was pretty tight and I realised that even if he didn't want to kill me, he might just do it by accident. I couldn't breathe. I thought about it and let go. They took the bag and ran.

I was so angry. Angry at myself for being caught. Angry for not thinking faster and reacting better. I can't run, but I should have screamed. Not being the type, I naturally didn't think of that til way later. It would have scared them and perhaps brought help. Angry that I should get robbed when I own so little. They would just bin the bag and my notebook and all my notes for songs and ideas for animations and drawings....Angry for not having the common sense to ask them to take the bag but leave my keys and simcard. Raging. So raging, in fact, that the first thing I did was to follow them. In the next street along there was a woman on the first floor of an apartment shouting "they went that way, that way!" The game was up. I knew they were in her apartment and there was nothing I could do. I made my way to the police station and she glared at me silently as I went the opposite direction of her orders.

At the police station I did the usual blocking cards and making a report. The green-eyed guard looked at me in horror as I was wearing a black halterneck and had lovely matching black bruises like cuffs and a collar on my neck, wrists and upper arms. I also was having a sugar crisis, but luckily rather than thinking I was a junkie (as I am certain the other guards did as I stood there shaking and trying not to vomit) he sent out a rookie for some sugar. Then he handed me some packets of....lowfat sugar. I laughed so hard. Still lowfat sugar is still sugar and I stuck it in my mouth and swallowed. Can you understand how disgusting that feels? Sugar is disgusting like that, especially low fat, especially when you feel like vomiting.

After going to the hospital for a tetanus shot (I had small cuts and lesions on my arms) they insisted I make a statement and look at photos. They were sure they knew who had done it as normally robberies in the Raval involve bagsnatching and are never violent. I tried to explain that it was my own stupid fault as I started the fight, but they were having none of it. I made it home 6 hours later when my flatmate was already awake.

I had always wondered if I would be the type to fight back and I guess I know now. I often thought if I would react well under pressure and knew that although I wanted the answer to be yes, that because I am extremely passive that the answer would probably be no. But I am a fighter, just like my dad taught me to be, and although inexperienced and a bit stupid, I was aware of the situation I was in before I was actually attacked, so I passed my own test as it were. Try and explain that to your mother though. As a rule, I try and omit details rather than lie with my mam, but she is just too clever. She knows what questions to ask to get the story. "Next time promise me you'll just let go" she pleads. I know, I know. What if they had knives? They didn't. What if they had? I don't tell her I disarmed 2 people with knives before. How do I tell her that even I don't know what I am doing? "Mam, as soon as I realised I was fighting, I stopped. I let go." She doesn't buy it. Why would she? i wouldn't either, but it's the truth.

Maybe I should learn to fight and make use of my instincts. Yeah, another step on my way to who knows where...
(ps I had a photo but blogger won't let me upload it as usual)