The tale of the disappearance of the first travel notebook

It happened one night.

That's the short version. The longer version is as follows:

I had arrived in Prague that night on the train from Berlin. I was staying at the cheap and exotic sounding "Golden Sickle" hostel, selected largely on the basis of its cool name, which carried for me associations of spy-thrillers, and intrigue and mystery. No doubt for locals it was a reminder of food shortages and fear and authoritarianism, but I am after all just a stupid tourist.

The accommodation seemed decent and clean enough. It was still early in the evening, with all the scummy young tourists that occupy places like this still out in town, no doubt getting drunk and leading a colourful life. I was tired, dirty and alone, so I contented myself with a refreshing shower, change of clothes, and an early retirement to bed.

The only other person staying in my dorm room that night was a short little bald German man called Mike, rather nice chap really, who had been exploring Prague on his own for a couple of weeks. We looked at his map and discussed places to see and visit. He recommended some churches, and told me he had been visiting a former concentration camp that day. He had been staying at the hostel for a while now, and warned me about the noisy groups staying in the rooms on each side of ours - they tended to be out till late, make lots of noise when they came back, and then carry on the party in the dorm. It disturbed poor Mike and aggravated him no end, but I was not too concerned - I tend to sleep through anything.

I chucked my backpack on the floor and went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, Mike was just heading out for breakfast. I asked him the time but he wasn't sure - he couldn't find his cell phone. I dozed off again for a few minutes and then finally got up. I wanted to go brush my teeth, except that my backpack wasn't where I had left it. I searched for it, but it just seemed to have disappeared. I went downstairs to the lounge and told the hostel staff that my bag was gone. "Not our responsibility" was their helpful response. Mike was very excited, because now he thought his phone had been stolen, and he wondered if we should report this to the police. He asked me if I had lost anything important; I told him "my notebook", which had all my writings. He was horrified to hear this, and I remember being surprised that anybody would understand. It turned out he thought I meant a laptop.

Anyway, there was nothing to be done, and going to the police wouldn't bring anything back, and I didn't particularly care anyway, I was still coming to terms with a far greater loss which made this one seem inconsequential, so I just shrugged my shoulders, and went off to explore Prague in the same clothes I had been sleeping in.

I spent the day doing the usual tourist things, but once the sun had set, the overly commercial nature of the evening entertainments on offer to tourists did not appeal, so I decided to head back to the hostel to brush my teeth and read a book.

Instead of my room, I went first to the reception and asked the pretty lady there if I could purchase a tooth brush. She said, aren't you the one whose bag got stolen? You had better go up, the police are here and they may want to ask you some questions.

Bemused, I did as instructed. I couldn't see why the police should be so interested in such a petty theft, and since I hadn't even made a complaint, was Mike kicking up such a fuss just over a cellphone? The room was full of dramatic tension and an assorted cast of characters. There was Mike, there were a bunch of unsmiling large men, and also excited young French travellers who were staying at the hostel. I didn't know any of them, and they were busy whispering amongst themselves, so I asked Mike what was going on. I had heard the police were here, and they were asking questions?

Mike nodded gloomily. "Yes, I have problem." he said. Weird foreigners, I remember thinking, getting so agitated over the loss of a cellphone.

All of a sudden, one of the large men produced a pair of handcuffs and put them on Mike's wrists. The police were arresting Mike! "I have problem," he repeated. I was suddenly feeling rather disoriented.

The big men led him away. Mike looked like he would start crying. The French guys came up to me and started chattering away. Had I been staying in the same dorm-room as Mike? Had I seen him steal anything? Did he do anything suspicious? Had anything of mine been stolen? A police inspector came over to interrupt. "You all need to come to the police station. You also." the last bit addressed to me.

We were led downstairs where a police car was waiting to take us to the police station, where we ended up having to stay that night. That though, is another story. As for the notebook, I of course never saw it again.