The Real Thing

So I now know that I'm a Marseillaise. It took over a year and a half (and a 2-hour wait at the gendarmerie to file a "declaration de vol") but I have finally been inducted into the Hall of Marseillaise, or, those women who have in one way or another been the victim of a crime. My story: last Saturday at the beach my phone was stolen. Malou and I had been at the beach but 5 minutes when a group of 10-12 year olds, no joke, suddenly surrounded us laughing, jostling one another, kicking up sand. We thought they were being annoying, silly kids; typical Marseille youth who have no regard for others. And although that was proved true, they weren't just horsing around. It was part of the game. While Malou and I were distracted by their antics, one of the kids faked a fall and threw himself on Malou. It was then that she realized, as she saw him reach for her bag, what was going on. I was slow on the uptake, appalled at the unruly kid who was sprawled out on my friend's lap and who then deservedly received a few slaps and a push. So while I'm tsk-tsking, the others have snagged my bag and run off. I realize it about 10 seconds too late. Malou takes off for a girl because onlookers have started shouting, "la fille! la fille!" I stand shocked, then run toward the rest of the group who stand idle as though they had nothing to do with it. This, too, was part of the show. Being such a large group it was hard to say who did what, who had what, and who was where. They dissolved into smaller parties in order to create more confusion, to evade being caught. What happened next was unbelievable. As I shouted at the boys, in both French and English, one of them raised his fist as if to hit me. I blocked his arm, astounded, and pushed him back. It was no use. They were just distracting me again and I knew I'd get nowhere with them. So I ran after Malou, who had disappeared, and waited. I tried calling my phone but it was turned off. Long story short, I managed to recover my bag but not my phone. Malou caught the girl who was empty-handed, perhaps having passed off the phone to someone else. We return to our towels (amazingly still there) and talk and moan and laugh about what happened. The most amazing thing was that people around us did nothing. They witnessed, stared, and gawked but didn't move an inch. An Italian sitting with friends nearby came over to apologize for not having helped, explaining that he hadn't been sure what was going on. I shrugged my shoulders, only becoming annoyed when he then asked us to join him and his friends for dinner. A little later I was hit by a soccer ball. Then told by a Lyonnais, again and again, "Laila, je t'aime. Je t'aime, Laila. Tu es mariee? C'est pas grave." It was an adventurous afternoon and, yet again, another typical day in Marseille.