---- CONTENTS ---- GALLERY (nowt in it yet!) MAILBOX (waitin' wi' bated breath!) LINKS CULTURE (a little bit extra for the curious!) |
The World According to Jaggy - Sept 22, 2009 The Case of the Stolen Bicycle. Well, there I was sitting with the feet up and laptop on my lap, trying to compose some serious motoring drivel. I was seated in the foyer of the Diplomat Hotel in Barcelona with nary a care in the world. I had just finished breakfast, with proper coffee, and was waiting for the coach to take me to the Spanish press launch of a brand new van. Glamour, eh? Unbeknownst to me, Barcelona is currently the bag-snatching capital of the Mediterranean. I had placed my bag beside my leather armchair and taken out my laptop. Then when the rest of my colleagues arrived to join me, I reached down to my bag to put my laptop away. There was nothing but an empty space where my bag had been. My first thought was that some of my press colleagues were mucking about, but earnest faces all round. Then I accosted the porter to see if he had picked it up by mistake. No luck there, so I approached the Reception desk. With guests queuing up to check out the two Spanish lassies were less than interested in my predicament, so I made a wee bit of a fuss. Eventually the Reception Manager appeared, but when the girls told him I had already checked out he threw his hands in the air and shook his head, saying something to the effect that I was not a guest and therefore not his problem. Now I know where Manuel learned his trade before Basil Fawlty snapped him up. Red rag to a bull? I was in the right country. Well, I raised a right stooshie, but was getting nowhere fast. I think he got the message when his jacket lapels got inexplicably attached to my knuckles as I pointed out the security camera in the ceiling. But he said he couldn’t access the camera because neither the Hotel Manager or the Security officer were in the building. Neither would he telephone the Police. By this time I had run out of Spanish words and was resorting to some of a rather more celtic flavour ably assisted by a young PR girl called Ambra. Now I should point out that Ambra was actually Italian and although she learned Spanish at Uni, we were actually in Catalunya where the Catalan dialect is to Spanish what Glaswegian is to English. In other words we were struggling. Fortunately she knew where the Police station was, so off we trotted to report the theft. Now, it would be funny if it wasn’t so serious, but the four different Polis I encountered were just as bemused with my accent as I was with their local twang. It was like stirring treacle with an angry rhinoceros. Anyway, one of the Keystone Catalunyan cops sat me down at a desk to list and describe the stolen items, with Ambra providing moral support and chatting away like a Spanish budgie, only she was Italian, as I said. I started with a description of my bag. It was a black flight bag with two wheels and an extending handle. At least that’s what I thought I said. Despite my earnest attempts to correct what the officer wrote down it ended up being a “bicicleta plegable de color negra”. Yup, you’ve read that right, it was a black folding bicycle. Now what I was doing at a two day press conference in Barcelona with a folding bicycle in my luggage I have no idea, maybe it makes sense in Barcelona. The whole incident from hotel to police station confirmed one fast growing suspicion. Because I was a tourist in their country, it was of little concern to them. If it had been a local who had been robbed, it might have been different. But I was learning rather quickly that bag-snatching and thefts were rife in Barcelona and the ‘illegals’ were getting the blame. I was there for over an hour before being taken to a taxi with thick rubber floor mats and shiny seats. Unfortunately, it was being driven by one of the original residents of the Rock of Gibralter i.e. in need of a body shave and living on a diet of oranges and bananas. Naturally it was a Seat, but it was being driven like a two-pedal motor by a one-legged driver. No messing, he was either full on the gas or full on the brakes. He thought the pedals were switches. When eventually we stopped I did actually check to see if he had two legs, but maybe the left one was just for show or for balance when he was out of the car. He certainly didn’t use it when he was driving. He also had a crucifix on his dashboard, but Jesus’ hands weren’t outstretched, they were over his eyes. The 20 minute trip took 40 minutes, but it left me wondering, how do you fit ABS to a horn? If it works for brakes then it might just work on the alternative for Spanish brakes, the Spanish horn. Whatever, we got to the Flower Market where the vehicle launch was taking place and I rejoined my colleagues in a thoroughly depressed and chastened state. When I eventually got home to Edinburgh airport that night, I landed with £1.40 in my pocket. I didn’t even have the cash to buy a burger in Heathrow. Anyway, the final problem was my car was in the Long Stay - and my ignition keys were in my bag with my car park ticket. So, it was a taxi home and I didn’t get the car back until 3 days later. And that’s the reason there is no report on last weekend’s Lindisfarne Rally. I had been working on my notes on the flights out to Barcelona and would have got it finished on the way back, but my rally notebook and all my notes were all in the bag. So if anyone phones you from Barcelona to ask how the rally went, take a note of their number and tell them you’ll get back to them – then give the number to me! * * * * * |