Was on the Paris metro at night, fully kitted out, clearly a backpacker. Guy gets on: snap-on purple track suit, tennis shoes, one of those little cloth backpacks with shoestring straps. Looks me up and down, smirks, moves off to the right. Snooty Parisians, eh?

This wasn't that. In the reflections as we moved down the tunnels I could see he'd worked his way through the crowd and was now standing behind me, still smiling. Was I being paranoid? I was suddenly very conscious of all the shit to grab on my pack.

I panicked. Not sure what goddamn sense it made, but I got off a stop early. Maybe I didn't want the possible mugger following me to the hostel, maybe I just didn't like being hunted. There were also a lot of people leaving.

The buzzing crowd took a minute to exit: while they were I got my bearings and looked around for the other. No purple track suits, I was paranoid. The station had two exits: one on this side of the road, the other down a long tunnel on that side of the road. See where I was headed?

As I was wandering down a bleached fluorescent corridor on a whim, a gut feeling and another whim had me pull a crazy Ivan: there he was - Purple Track Suit - still smiling, forty feet away with his hand in his pocket, following me. Had he hidden behind one of the kiosks? Despite myself I smiled too. We were alone.

I was armed, always kept a knife. My hand went to it, I matched his speed on a parallel course and started visualizing some very troubling, violent shit: if we're gonna do this, let's fucking do it. I wasn't going to be the American refrain to that nice Russian chick who got mugged back in Marseille - in broad daylight - a few days before.

As we passed each other we never broke eye contact, never stopped smirking, but I was focused on that hand. Maybe he figured he was made and went in search of an easier score, maybe an innocent cardio enthusiast almost got cut by a batshit wild-eyed American looking to be locked up abroad, but he went about his business and I sprinted up some steps on this side of the road, got off the street as soon as I could.

Never going to forget that feeling in the tunnel though. Sitting here, typing this out in the dark, it echoes in my bones. I think that bag was for my passport and wallet and easily stashed, and the track suit was cheap and disposable and concealed an outfit that couldn't be more different.