The time I think I almost got mugged

Here is the story of the time I think I almost got mugged.

The year? Some time in the mid 2000s. The city? Buenos Aires, Argentina. That’s right: down old South America way. After a particularly close call with Johnny Law during a big score, I had to find a place to lay low for a while. Or, wait, that’s not it at all. Oh yeah, I was in college and I decided to study abroad for a semester.

I had been in the country for over a month at that point. I can’t really recall the exact date – time and booze wreak havoc on a memory. But the event itself lingers in my memory to this day, like a forgotten box of baking soda in the back of your fridge.

I had been out at a bar, drinking, as was my custom at the time. When the evening finally drew to a close, the subway had already shut its doors for the night. On my budget at the time, a taxi ride would have been far more expensive than the convenience would warrant, so I decided to walk back. This decision was made at somewhere around two in the morning, and the walk would take me well over an hour. In hindsight, this was not as stupid of a decision as it might seem, and I will explain why.

Buenos Aires, unlike most American cities of similar size, was surprisingly safe. Stories of crime were remarkable not for their brutality, but for their rarity. Picture a small town near where you live. Would you feel comfortable walking the streets of that town at two in the morning? That is how I felt about walking through Buenos Aires. Sure there was the chance something bad could happen, but I felt that the odds were overwhelmingly in my favor. This feeling, the chance to save $10 on a taxi ride, and the couple liters of beer in my system all ensured the decision was barely a decision at all. I would walk.

Most of my trip was down a fairly large artery of the city. The street is called Cabildo Avenue, and I was walking from the Colegiales neighborhood to the Belgrano neighborhood. Here is a picture I took on that street on a different night.

The Incident

So I’m headed home, walking with the deliberate yet slightly heavy steps of someone who has had just the right amount to drink. The streets were virtually empty, with a cab or a car passing two or three times a minute. The farther I got from the area with with the night life I had enjoyed, the emptier the sidewalk became until I couldn’t see a single other person on the street. Several minutes later, I see two men walking towards me on my side of the road. My mind activates, and the pilot of my Fight or Flight plane jumps out of bed, pulls on his boots, and looks out the window to assess the situation.

I am conversant in the language, but really don’t speak it that well. I have a prepaid cell phone in one pocket. In my other pocket are my keys and perhaps a dozen pesos worth of coins. I have a hundred peso bill in my shoe – the result of a piece of advice our agency gave us shortly after arrival. I briefly contemplate heading down a side street, but think no, that would open you up to more danger if they follow you. I consider crossing the street to the other side. No, that makes you look like you’re scared. Best just to carry on like this is no big deal. I’m sure it isn’t. It’s only the middle of the night on an empty street in a huge city. Just be cool man, be cool.

As the pair draw near, I can see that they are both young, probably around my age. One of them is carrying a bag in his hand. It was one of those fancier retail bags, the kind with rigid sides and a cloth or twine handle. Odd time to come back from a shopping trip. The two are not particularly well dressed, but they are also not outside what would be considered normal. As the distance narrows between us, I make eye contact and smile politely.

The duo now splits. The one I made eye contact with takes a half step into my path, blocking it, and stops. Meanwhile the other continues on a few paces and stops just behind me at the edge of my peripheral vision. The pilot of the Fight or Flight has bolted out the door and is sprinting towards the plane. As soon as my path is blocked, I stop too, leaving a comfortable distance between myself and the lead guy. There is still nothing wrong. They don’t look aggressive. You don’t see any weapons. Yes it is weird that the second guy is almost behind you, but maybe he didn’t realize his friend wanted to stop and chat. Let’s just see what he wants. In my heavily accented Spanish, I strike up a conversation.

“Hey!” I start off cheerfully, like I am almost happy to see them. “Beautiful night, no?”

“Yes, beautiful. How are you my friend?” the one facing me replies.

One or two more pleasantries are exchanged. My pilot is at the ladder to the plane but has stopped to watch the show unfold. Then the man asks me:

“Do you have any money?”

Now, this is a very strange thing to ask someone you have only just met, particularly so in the middle of the night. I am sure if I had the benefit of hearing the question asked back in the USA in my native tongue I could have inferred all sorts of extra details from his tone, where he placed his emphasis, and even cultural body language unique to the place you call home. Unfortunately, I have none of those clues. All I can go on is the simple question.

The pilot has placed one foot on the ladder, but he’s puzzled. The man behind me has done nothing at all up to this point. I glance back and he smiles. It is not threatening, but it is not a smile that eases the tension either. I wish I could read more into the situation, but the combination of the very late hour, the booze, and mostly the language barrier clouds any hope of insight into their motivations. The pilot pops the canopy and slowly climbs into the cockpit.

I look back at my conversational partner and make my decision. Let’s just continue the with the “best friends” angle. You are off to a good start, and this is still not a crisis. The pilot rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone to play Snake (this was the 2000s, remember?).

I try to adopt the tone of voice you would use if your best friend asked you to borrow a couple bucks so he could grab you both a drink. “Sure, no problem buddy!” I reply, not having missed a beat in the conversation while all this was going on in my head. I made a big show of reaching deep into my front pocket, fishing around for everything in there, and pulling out a wad of keys, coins, and a small bill or two. I extend my fist and open my hand, palm upwards. “Here you go, friend!” I say with a friendly face as I pluck my keys out of the jumble of currency with my other hand.

The leader takes the money with a smile. To this day I cannot tell if it was a smile of victory, gratefulness, or malice. But regardless, he thanks me and we shake hands and do that weird bro-hug thing. You know, the one where you grip each others hand while your opposite shoulders touch and you slap each other on the back. Some things have no language barrier I suppose.

The two then continue down the street behind me. My pilot, thoroughly disgusted with me at this point, wanders back to bed. I head home without further incident. During the rest of my walk, I reflect on the exchange. My first emotion is relief that it is over and that everything went well. My next emotion is pride that I didn’t give up the good stuff: my cell phone or the hundo by my foot. But then I start to wonder just how close I had come to something tragic happening…

I suddenly have a mini panic attack a few blocks from home. What if they have been following me all the way home!? Much more familiar with my surroundings at this point, I quickly duck down a side street and sprint to the next block. I stop at the corner, turn around, and wait. Nothing. Stupid, no one is following you. You’ve been walking for 30 minutes, and now you just made an idiot out of yourself. I take a few more twists and turns and slip into my building quickly, just to be safe. My pilot puts in his two weeks notice, citing complaints for multiple sleep disruptions. I am finally home.

Hindsight

I don’t know what those two were thinking that night. Maybe I could have said, “no, sorry” and been on my way without a problem. Or maybe there was a knife in that bag, and they were out to get anything they could however they could. I will never know. This happened over a decade ago, but it still sticks in my memory as a cautionary tale. You are free to judge me, and the lessons you can learn from me are yours to figure out.

However, I do want to say this… My accent was strong, and they absolutely knew I was at least a foreigner, and likely from the USA. Perhaps they were testing me. Perhaps they were robbing me. Perhaps they were just simply being nice guys trying to be friendly to a fellow wanderer of the night. Either way, I am proud of how I treated them outwardly. I betrayed no suspicion, disgust, or air of superiority. I treated them like friends, and regardless of what their true intentions were, I am proud of that. I hope that in their mind, even if I am a sucker or an easy mark, I was a good ambassador for my country, and a good guest in theirs.