So we are in Barcelona, and my wife Barb and I walked to the Museum of Contemporary Art. Well, it was Tuesday, and it was not open that day.
The Plaza around the place was almost deserted except for a couple of teenage punks riding bicycles. One of them swooped near us and Barb gasped. I thought they had run over her foot. But no, they had grabbed her purse, a macramé thing that she had properly hung around her neck and shoulder. It didn't contain that much money, but it had our digital camera and all the pictures we had taken of Toledo, Cordoba, Granada, etc. The kid broke the strap and was riding away. When I realized what was happening, forty years melted away and once again I was an outside linebacker. Like Mercury, wings sprouted from my heels to match the wing tips on my shoes. I started gaining on the bandito.
I knew I couldn't keep that up indefinitely, so I launched into my best flying tackle. I hit the kid and knocked him off his bike. I landed on the bike and slid across the sand. He popped up and I popped up and I was screaming at him that if he wanted his bike back he had to give up the purse. (Of course, this was in English, as I was not calm enough to represent my position in Spanish.) He finally hurled it back at me and came at me menacingly with something in his hand. I knew it wasn't a gun, but it could have been a knife (actually, I think it was, curiously enough, his cigarette lighter). Well, we glared at each other for a few seconds and then I threw his bike back at him. I looked down to see that I was covered in dirt and blood from both elbows and knees. There were a few worthless men at an outdoor bar who observed this, and I limped to them. They provided a few appropriate "tsk-tsks" and then some women (as always) came to my aid and we got gauze and disinfectant and tape etc.
DRESS PANTS: $40
WHITE SHIRT: $25
OPPORTUNITY TO LOOK LIKE A HERO IN FRONT OF YOUR WIFE: PRICELESS