Today, our doorbell rang, and when I answered the door, I was greeted by a policeman holding a photograph of a fugitive. "Do you know this man?" he asked. "He's wanted by the police and gave this house as his address." I studied the picture but, not surprisingly, did not recognize the fugitive. "Sorry for disturbing you," the policeman said.
This incident would be unremarkable except for one thing: this is the second time that I've been confronted by policemen seeking a fugitive who'd given my apartment as his address. Long-time blog readers will remember that I was in Barcelona the first time this happened and had to give a lengthy statement to the Spanish police about who I was, who I rented the apartment from, who'd lived in the apartment before me, what I was doing in Spain--all in Spanish. I consider that the highlight of my brief Spanish-language endeavors.
And now, here in Sacramento--a world away in more ways than one--a fugitive has once again randomly selected our home as his fake place of residence. Is it me, or is something strange going on here? Could it be that I myself am the fugitive, a master of disguise, eluding the police in multiple countries for a medley of crimes I've committed and forgotten? Or--and a chill just went up my spine--could my husband be the fugitive? Who have I married??