Robbed in Prague

A mix of Woody Allen movies, coffee and adrenalin moves through my body.
I'm in Prague, outside a Police Station, while Ineke and Stephen are inside, discussing yet another parking ticket.
A white paper with the station's address was trapped under the windshield this morning.
The green knapsack with most of my clothes that Chewby gave me before leaving Montreal, Ineke's backpack, her bag of Dutch licorice candy, her flashlight and our video camera are all missing from the car. We think the Police must've taken our things so we would have incentive to pay the parking ticket, since the doors were locked when we found the car.

Prague is a funny place. You can get lost walking around the block, and it's hit and miss whether the locals will help you or just grumble.
We went to see the Kafka museum yesterday, and anyone who has spent time in Prague can understand the inspiration behind Kafka's bizarre characters and situations. The streets are clean, the buildings are decoratied and beautiful, but there's something stubborn about the atmosphere, like a bitter relative unwilling to forgive their own brother for something they can't even remember.
The weather has been just as illogical. There was warmth, sun, hail, snow and rain in one day.

As I was writing this, Stephen just told me that our belongings were not taken by the police, but were stolen.
fuck.
fuck.
fuck!