I am at Bronte beach staring at an angry ocean. It’s the world’s biggest washing machine, white water churning. Out of the corner of my eye I see a hand hovering near my backpack. “Hey!” The hand belongs to a young woman who grabs a floating plastic bag. “Sorry – this is mine.” She hurries off. And so does my memory – racing back nearly twenty years. I am at the look out below Sacre Coeur, taking in Paris’s magnificence. I’m sitting on the raised railing, my black bag next to me. Despite being in the city for a couple of days, it is the first time I’ve escaped my hosts and am at last able to indulge my guilty pleasure of just being a tourist. Now I’m surrounded by hundreds of them. I take a deep breath and do my best to register the white and terracotta mosaic maze spread beneath me. I feel self conscious about my bag taking up valuable viewing space so place it on the ground behind me. I drift off, looking at a view that’s changed little over centuries. Without reason I suddenly turn to my left. I see someone walking quickly with a bag that looks like mine. I look at the ground. Gone. I leap off the railing and sprint, trying desperately to remember the French word for thief. Just as I’m closing in, my back pack is dropped. A terrified North African woman turns towards me, change spilling from her purse. Without thinking, I pick up my bag, then bend down to fetch the money for her. It’s a surreal scene – and it gets even more bizarre. I’m about to offer the thief her money when two tourists grab her and start dragging her away. It’s only when they cuff her that I realise that they’re probably not tourists. One cop is short with blonde hair and a moustache. The other is taller and better looking. The moustached shorty looks me over. He decides I’m not a local and demands in English: “Papers.” Of course this is the first day during six weeks of traveling that I’m not wearing my ‘life line’ pouch around my neck. “Sorry – I don’t have my passport on me.” Not good enough. “Papers, Monsieur.” I dig out my wallet. The first thing I find is the fake international student ID I got in Thailand in order to get discounts. He sees this and grabs it, just as I find some legitimate ID – my driver’s licence. “No – here – take this one.” He shakes his head. “Non. This will do.” Panic pulses through me. Oh no! What if he does a check and discovers it’s a fake? I imagine sharing a cell with the thief, wondering if fraud attracts a harsher punishment in France than bag snatching. I’m thrust back into reality by the impoverished woman’s big sad eyes. “Sorry.” I’m not sure how to respond so I just shrug. The cop, however, is having none of it. “Sorry? Too late for sorry.” We are taken to a mobile police van set up as a little office. It’s quite the show for the tourists and I hear cameras clicking. I feel awful, like I’m suffocating under a huge weight. I look up at Sacre Coeur cathedral and see white avenging angels bearing down on me. Inside the van is a police woman who speaks English. I ask if I could just not press charges and am flatly told “No.” Fair enough. After all, this is a country where you are guilty until proven innocent. I notice a dark skinned man being questioned, beads of sweat rolling down his face. I’m told he is a ‘bad man’ – the woman’s lookout who actually gets most of what she steals. But he’s playing the innocent. “Je suis pas un voleur!” Oh yeah – that’s the word for thief. Mr. Mo explains to me that I’ll be taken to the real police station to give a statement but not to worry because it’ll be “very expensive.” Say what? The police woman interjects – “Non – c’est pas expensive. Fast – quick.” Mo shakes his head. “Non non – expensive!” I take some money out of my wallet, trying to illustrate the concept of expensive. Realising I risk this gesture being interpreted as a bribe, I quickly put my money away as he grudgingly accepts that maybe his English isn’t as good as he thinks. I am put into a police car and whisked away to the station. While Mo explains the situation to a bored looking cop, I ask his handsome partner if he speaks English. “Oui – a little.” I then tell him that, with his Rip Curl shirt and surfboard pendant, he looks more Aussie than me. He beams and holds up his pendant. “Oui – I’m a surfer!” Finally, the bored detective gestures for me to sit opposite him. His English is about as limited as my French but between the two of us, my version of the story is ever so slowly tapped into a computer two fingers at a time (proving that cops the world over have very limited typing skills). At one stage we hear a woman (surely my bag snatcher) lose the plot – yelling, screaming and throwing things. I feel nauseous. But finally, I’m done. I tell Mo that I need to get back where I was for a “rendez-vous”. He tries to oblige by organizing a patrol car but fails. He then volunteers to take me back via the Metro. Feeling the ordeal is nearly behind me and that I won’t be busted for Student ID fraud, I relax a little. As we board a train, Mo explains that he’s actually a Metro cop and shows me his gun. As if to prove the point, he starts hassling a guy he claims is a serial pick pocket. The guy swears he’s clean and Mo lets him go. As we zip beneath Paris, I confess that I feel stupid for being so careless about my bag. “Non non – you are in Paris enjoying the beautiful view of beautiful Paris and you relax. Not your fault.” We leave the train and he escorts me back into familiar territory. I thank him for his help. “No problem. Enjoy your stay in beautiful Paris.” He then disappears, on the hunt for bag snatchers and pick pockets. I need a drink.