In 1998, when traveling through Spain, we were robbed. Turned out to be the best thing that happened the whole time we were there.
But, please. Let me explain.
The days before our plundering occurred were both idyllic and nightmarish.
Idyllic, in that we had spent time sightseeing around the country, and then found the perfect campground on the Spanish Riviera, right on the ocean, with a beautiful beach, palm trees, and even a cabana that served drinks and food! Absolute paradise.
Nightmarish, in that we had partaken of the incredible homemade sangria a little too liberally, and then committed the horrific offense the next day of falling asleep in the shade of the palm trees. Horrific, in that in the span of our somewhat lengthy nap time, while neither the palm trees nor ourselves moved in the slightest, the sun, to our great misfortune, did move, thus thrusting us into the mercilessness of its hot summer rays. We were both quite badly burned, twice over: once, sangria; secondly, sunshine.
Pair that with driving all day the next day and into the night trying to find a place to stay, only to finally find a rather decent campground behind fences and gate, where they apparently lock you in for the night, and leave you until morning, and you will perhaps understand why we simply set up the tent and fell fast asleep until morning.
The following morning I was shaken awake by Travel Buddy, insisting we had been hit. As we were not only parked, but in a tent it took me sometime to understand that we had not been hit by another vehicle, but in fact by thieves.
Thieves who slit the tent open in three places: twice by each of our heads, and once at our feet. Thieves who after having thus retrieved our car key, proceeded to open the hatchback and crawl through the car, removing whatever seemed interesting at the time.
Robbed in Spain, part II continues in the next post.