Kronenbourg Light Fight

It's important to know how you'd react to getting hit in the face. Until it actually happens, it's impossible to accurately predict your response. Would you hit back? Yell? Run away? What if they were bigger than you were? Smaller? What if you were in a completely unfamiliar environment and didn't even speak the same language as the person who hit you? Until yesterday, I could only have imagined what would happen if I was walking down the street and a complete stranger decided to punch me in the face. Fortunately, I no longer have to imagine.

I was walking on a relatively busy sidewalk in the 12th arrondissement yesterday afternoon laughing with Erika about how we had just clacked our heads together when I brushed shoulders with a man walking the opposite direction. I heard something hit the ground immediately after and realized that in bumping into me, the man had dropped a "Tall Boy" can of Kronenbourg Light. I watched the can fiz itself into an amber puddle and I quickly picked it up and, not knowing what else to do, tried to hand it to the man from whose grip it was loosened. He was a derelict looking fellow, with only two multicolored teeth showing from either corner of his bottom gum. He carried on his back two bookbags, which I doubt were filled with books, and a duffel bag. In his mouth was the lit butt of a brown cigarette which, as he stared with growing anger, removed from his chapped lips and flicked at my shoe. I told him I was sorry, though it wasn't any action of mine alone that caused him to drop his beer, which I was beginning to realize might be the most important item to him out of all those he carried. He began to snarl angry French sentences at me, from which I gathered he expected me to give him two Euros for the booze he could no longer drink. I told him I wasn't going to give him money, though I couldn't explain that it was just as much his fault as it was mine. Even if I had two Euros in my pocket, I doubt I would have given it to him. Just then, I felt the butt of his palm collide with the side of my head, just next to my right eye. I couldn't believe it. My immediate reaction was to simply say "Don't hit me!". Before I could spit that out, he turned around and removed all his things from his back and set them down. He came back in my direction, ready swing. Erika stepped in between us, understanding the necessity of keeping us from fighting, and my heart raced. It was surreal. I hadn't done anything to this man. He dropped his beer after running into me, and all of the sudden I was his mortal enemy. Within seconds, several passersby had stepped in between the man and I while he continued to reach for me. Erika said "let's go, let's just go", and I walked backwards as I watched the ridiculous man yell at the citizens who were keeping us apart until he wasn't in sight anymore.

At first, I was so aghast at how irrational it was for someone to become so irate over something so trivial. What an asshole this man was, hitting someone in the face who was being as polite as possible about what had happened. After a few minutes, I began to pity him. What a sad life it must be to care so much about 16 ounces of beer that you'd start a fight with someone over it spilling on the street. It took awhile for my heart to stop racing. I'd never been hit like that before, not out of anger and certainly not by a stranger. I'm thankful for the people who helped keep us from fighting, nothing good would have come from that. Now I just look like the innocent tourist who got hit by the crazy person and kept his peaceful disposition.

I've always claimed to be a pacifist, and now I have real life experience to prove it. Not that I hope it recurrs, but I am glad it happened. It's a very unique feeling, and it lasted a while.

The rest of the day was spent looking for street markets that we never found. We did, however, run into a Handicap International festival in protest of cluster bombs. We signed the petition, ate some cake and went on our way. Although we never found any markets, we did run into some interesting performers outside the Georges Pompidou Modern Art Museum. A portraiture artist shouted at me as we passed by: "I like his funny hair! Free!" First I get hit in the face, now I'm getting made fun of. Haha. All in a day's traveling, I suppose.