Cinderella’s Bag

First night out in Nice after 3 months living in the south of France. Like Cinderella, I was alone catching the last train back home to Cannes before midnight. Adorned with large ostentatious impractical earrings, a beautiful floor length dress, flip flops, and my favourite purse that accompanied me on all my travels.
As I watched a play by play in slow motion of the perpetrator black, 6 foot tall leaning over my body to acquire my most precious possession, my life flashed before my eyes and a shattering cry escaped my lips. I bound forward off the train, my feet carrying me like the wind behind him. The adrenaline pumping through my veins, the cries for sympathy leaving my lips and the determination of my will, he had no chance to escape me.
I knew that without that bag I would be left stranded, no home to go to, no money to get there, no one to call for help and no identity to prove who I was. That bag contained my life and I needed to get it back no matter what!

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