2014-10 Paris

I may have started a trend, stunning in a country where the most innocuous of inclinations can take decades to percolate. While slogging in North America, it is my custom to mumble a “good morning” or “good day” to passing fellow joggers. That does not fly in a country where every indication of friendliness, no matter how benign, is met with deep suspicion.

And so I have taken to showing a “thumbs up” to passing runners, in truth a single thumb, as I don’t want to get ahead of myself and make the locals crazy. Today I actually had one return the upward thumb. Well, on second thought it may have been a different digit.

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King Juan Carlos of Spain has abdicated his throne. It’s about time. That man almost got me killed! It was long ago in a land far away, Barcelona, Spain, to be exact. I was managing a U. S. government exhibit and had an office above the exhibit floor with large glass windows so one could peer onto the activity below. My event was several weeks hence and I was working catch-up on a Saturday afternoon, while another event was in progress on the floor below.

I was attracted to some commotion on the floor and pressed against the window for a better look, when all at once a gaggle of nasty looking no-necks were pointing at me excitedly. It appears the newly crowned King Juan Carlos was visiting the exhibit surrounded by security (the misnamed Nationalists had made bodily threats.)

As I saw the good King being hustled off the floor I simultaneously heard the thunder of heavy boots on the stairs and my office door crashing open. All I could think was to shout “Americano,” but in Spain that is a cocktail, so I meekly turned to the wall, hands above my head. Spanish security forces are not renowned for their multi-linguistic skills, and it took a call to the American Consulate to square things away. The only question raised by the junior Embassy staffer on call was “what in the hell were you doing working on a Saturday.”

A nice segue into the story of how I came to spend a night in a Spanish Canary Islands jail for "camping on a beach that might flood." But a story for another time. Be sure to remind me.

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Encountered a pick-pocket the other day, rather he encountered me. Emerging from the Bonne Nouvelle (translation: Good News!!!) Metro, I felt a slight tug on the light jacket I had tied around my waist. Turning around, a 20-something thuggish looking sort was already backing away. I threw several of my favorite Anglo expletives, and in response he banged fists together indicating he was ready to take me on.

These things tick me off mightily. Here was an able-bodied young man (his body appearing abler than mine), and without some instructive result, he will be pursuing this line of work indefinitely. Lessons not taught nor learned invite bad behavior.

And so I descended several steps back down toward him (and yes, I hear all the females in my audience yelling ”idiot,” and they’re likely right), when 2 clochards (street people) up above joined the party. I assumed they were simply there to provide color commentary and not active participation, but in a rare moment of lucidity I hurled a few additional morsels of choice invective and turned away.

Interesting that I was wearing the very same jacket over a decade ago when a successful pick-pocketing took place as I was watching a carnival parade in New Orleans. Perhaps not so interesting for one who wears the same clothes for decades.

Maybe the French pick-pocket union should offer training scholarships in the Big Easy.

Several blocks away enjoying a beer to calm down, I had visions of finding a missile of some sort to even the playing field and returning to find the miscreant who was surely still in the area plying his evil trade. But the beer was so cold and tasty, the weather so warm, the view so inviting…

bientot