John Mingles with the Locals

Part of what is making this trip so great is the fact that everyone here with whom I’ve had the chance to mingle has been wildly different. In the exchange, there’s literally people from all over the world. For example, the language course I’m taking right now has 12 people in it; of those 12, only one other is a native English speaker, and she’s from England. Of the rest, there are two Czechs, one Swede, two Turks, one Hungarian, one Brazilian, two Japanese, and one French. I realize that “French” isn’t a proper noun, but, being that she’s female, I figured Frenchman would be a misnomer and Frenchwoman is just too much to say. Sue me. Anyway, I’ve been doing my best to surround myself with those who are unlike me, which is fairly easy to do here. The pursuit of this is where my latest story begins.
A few nights ago, I’m sitting in my room trying to figure out what my next move is for the evening. Thinking that it might not be the greatest idea to call one of the Americans here to hang out, being that I’ll just speak English all night, I call a Danish girl I met the night before to see what she was doing. This turned out to be a pretty good move; she and another Dane were going to a party being thrown by a friend of a friend, and she invited me to come along. ‘Excellent,’ I think. Seriously, what’s better for practicing my language skills than taking a leap of faith and going to a party where I only know two people? And the answer to this question is, “A lot of things are better for practicing your language skills than going to a party where you don’t know anyone and everyone speaks a language that is not your mothertongue.” But that’s a different story.
So I’ve just been invited to go to a party with two girls, who, I must say, are absolutely ravishing; needless to say, I’m feeling pretty good about myself at the moment. Whilst getting ready to go out, I’m singing in the shower, dancing while I brush my teeth, and generally bouncing around my room as I pull on clean clothes. I’m in a mood. Just before leaving, I pull a beer out of my fridge, pop the cap, and then I’m on my way. Trust me, this is a significant part of the story. Note: It is completely legal in Germany to walk around whilst drinking alcohol; they do it here all the time, any time of day. It’s like Coke to them.
The plan is to meet these girls at a subway station that’s actually the next stop down from me. So I’m whistling my way to the subway (known as the U-Bahn in these parts), feeling pretty good as I sip on my beer. Which, by the way, is amazing here. Even cheap beers here make ours taste like raw sewage. Anyway, I ride the subway to the next stop and get off. As I’m riding up the escalator, I notice that there’s a group of ruffian-looking kids just hanging out at the top of the escalator. We’re talking about 8 to 10 Turkish guys, all probably between the ages of 16 and 20. Which, at this point, isn’t really concerning me; it’s a subway station at 9:30 pm- of course there’s some people around. Problem was, as I later realized, these kids are the ONLY people around. So I get to the top of the escalator and start to walk toward the stairs, which are about 35 yards away. I take about four steps before one of the kids turns to me and demands a cigarette, which I don’t have. This kid looks ridiculous, I must first say. He's Turkish, but he's got his hair slicked back and he's wearing a leather jacket over a t-shirt tucked into tight jeans. He's like a 21st century, European extra from West Side Story. And things are about to get very West Side Story. When I tell him I have no cigarettes, a funny look comes across his face, which, in retrospect, I sort of understand. To him, this is like when a homeless person asks for money from a passer-by, and the passer-by claims to have none. His thinking, if he is the homeless person, is, of course, “What kind of normal person leaves their home with absolutely no money whatsoever?”. This is normal thinking for this situation because we’re in Europe. Where everyone smokes. So everyone must carry cigarettes. However, the homeless are rarely proactive in the pursuit of that for which they beg. And my refusal to give him cigarettes (which I honestly don’t have) by no means warrants his next actions.
Upon hearing that I have no cigarettes, he obviously hears my accent and knows that I’m not German. He also probably thought that I was lying to him, but whatever, I wouldn’t have given him a cigarette anyway. He begins walking directly into my path. When I try to sidestep him, he grabs my shoulder and shoves me backward. Two of his toadies flank me so that I cannot go anywhere; meanwhile, his nine other friends mingle around the background.
“Give me a cigarette,” he says.
“I don’t have any; I don’t smoke,” I respond, my level of nervousness rising swiftly. I didn’t have any; what was I going to do, roll him one with the tobacco I don’t have? Plus, I’m white, I have red hair, and I weigh 150 pounds. This could get ugly.
“Who are you?” he asks, not at all hinting any aggression.
“I don’t know,” I respond, “who is anyone?” Great, John, confront your mugger with an existential conundrum. Like friggin' Rene Descartes wants your cigarettes and possibly your wallet, too. That’s working. I look down and notice I have a beer bottle, but swiftly realize that I certainly don’t have the balls to break it when I’m this sober. Nor could I probably actually stab someone if they were to call my bluff. But good thinking, Swayze.
“What are you doing here? Where are you from?” he demands.
Now I’m faced with a decision I’m in no state to make. Tell him I’m an American college student? One of those adjectives would probably arouse aggression from this prick; the other might indicate being soft. Well, big guy, only one thing to do, right?
“I’m a student; I’m from the States,” I confess. This kid’s going down with the ship, probably without much of a fight.
“Good. You can leave,” he says, just before stepping forward to embrace me in the tensest hug I’ve ever received. ‘There goes my wallet,’ I think, ‘Bye-bye credit card, ta-ta proof of international insurance, have a nice life, debit card.’ He then takes a step backward and turns his shoulders perpendicular to me to give me a place to walk. Crabbe and Goyle on my sides step back, too; I quick-step it for the stairs, but I’m still walking at this point. Halfway up the tunnel to the stairs, I hear a new, different voice behind yell, “HEY, CIGARETTE!” This is when John shamelessly runs away. Small victories: I avoided peeing my pants and my wallet was not stolen. And the girls were waiting for me at the top of the stairs, which definitely made me look cool when I came running up them.
Honestly, I really can't explain the dude's actions. My neighbor, who is German, claims that this sort of thing is fairly common; the intent is to provoke the accosted person into action so that the accosters then have an artificial reason to mug that person. Oh-so-fortunate was I that I was, probably for the bajillionth time in my life, not ready to fight 10 people at once. Otherwise I might have had a problem.
Two weeks and I’ve already come close to being mugged for not having a cigarette. Go-go-gadget, survival abroad, right?