REMEMBER THAT TIME WHEN . . .

I Can't Believe That Happened. . .

1994. Camden Town, outside London. Sunny afternoon, just the sort of day you’d expect American tourists (that would be us) to stroll through quirky shops and maybe buy a tacky souvenir or two. Instead, we got an impromptu audition for Cops: The London Tourist Edition.

Steve and I had taken the Underground from London to Camden, him clutching his Fodor’s guidebook, the universal neon sign flashing “TOURISTS HERE!” If the Nikes and his new, expensive Canon camera weren’t enough of a giveaway, the open guidebook sealed the deal. We might as well have been wearing shirts that said, Please Rob Us, We’re American.

I noticed three older boys lurked near us on the train. The kind of teenage pack with nothing better to do than menace strangers and practice looking tough. I thought they kept glancing at us, eyeing us, the whole time we were on the train. They kept their distance, but I noticed they were behind us as we left the underground and as we walked around the streets. My radar was pinging. Stupid boys, I’m a boy mom! You can’t scare me!

We were looking for the Jewish Museum, which, apparently, was either well-hidden or a figment of Fodor’s imagination. Every passerby and shopkeeper we asked swore they’d never heard of it.

At one point, Steve decided to use one of those iconic red telephone booths, you know, the kind Americans photograph themselves in to prove they’ve been to London. He thought maybe the operator could tell us where the museum was. Quaint idea, right? I think phone operators had gone extinct by then but bless him for trying.

So, there’s Steve, halfway in the booth, door wide open, flipping through his guidebook like the Boy Scout he is, and suddenly, our three hyenas sprang into action.

The largest, an oversized beanbag chair in human form, stepped right into the booth behind Steve, as though he was there to provide “assistance.” Meanwhile, the gangly one made a beeline for me and grabbed at my purse.

Now, let’s pause. This wasn’t just any purse. It was a Prada. My first. My only. And though the contents were slim (a couple of pounds, a lipstick, maybe a tissue pack), the bag itself was worth the battle. Mug me for my money, fine. But lay a hand on my Prada, I think not!

So I did what any self-respecting woman with good accessories would do: I anchored my core, spun like a furious ballerina, and flung that kid straight onto the pavement in a tangle of limbs and adolescent disbelief. I stared at him, equally shocked, mostly that I’d just body‑checked a teenager over a handbag!

Adrenaline roaring, I dashed to the phone booth, grabbed the back belt loop of the beanbag chair, and yanked with all my body weight. He stumbled back a couple of feet, gravity’s a bitch, and slunk away toward his friends.

Meanwhile, Steve bolted out of the booth and joined me in screaming for help. Loudly. Repeatedly. With gusto.

Which brings me to the highlight of this tale: not a single soul came to help. Not one. Camden residents, if you’re reading this, your commitment to minding your own business is truly Olympic.

We screamed all the way up the street until, by some miracle, a cab appeared. Steve practically threw himself onto its hood to stop it. Steve opened the back door and we literally dove in.

“Where to?” asked the cabbie.

“I don’t care,” Steve panted, “anywhere. Just get us the f*ck out of here.”

We ended up in a pub, location forgotten, alternating between hysterical laughter and stunned silence. Months later, someone said to me, “You should have screamed FIRE! Everyone wants to see a fire!”.

The irony, of course, is that had they succeeded, the boys would’ve made off with… a pound or two, maybe a packet of tissues, and a half-melted lipstick. My passport was safe at the hotel. My credit cards were locked up. My purse was practically empty. But the bag itself? Non-negotiable.

Because yes, at the end of the day, you can lose your dignity, your voice from screaming, and your faith in British bystanders… but a Prada purse? Over my dead body.