Moments that Define

Why does it always seem that on home stretch of...well, anything, accidents happen? You're almost done with whatever it is you are doing, everything has gone fine, you're almost done, when WHAM!, something goes wrong. You all know what I'm talking about. It's a common occurrence.

With only 2 weeks and 2 days remaining, I am now on the home stretch of my Latvian experience and ready to leave. Don't get me wrong, it's been great. And even despite the many times I've gotten on a wrong bus and ended up at the end of the line, completely lost; or gotten off on the wrong train stop in an unmarked area without signs or any indication of where I was at, my Latvian days have passed without any major incident. Until now.

I was walking home late Friday night. I was about 2 blocks away from my apartment building when I heard someone shouting something in Russian from behind. I paid no attention and continued my walk home.

When the shouting persisted, getting closer and closer, I crossed over to the other side of the street in an attempt to avoid any possible confrontation. It was when the shouter followed me across the street that I knew it was I who was the target of his repeated rantings.

It was in Russian and I had no idea what this guy was saying. Naturally, I kept ignoring him and picked up the pace. He followed suit, eventually catching up. He began physically trying to get me to stop. With each time I brushed or shrugged him off, he got increasingly physical.

This Russian, in his late 20s, was about my height. But he was far stockier than I. The thought of getting physical with him crossed my mind but I opted to remain passively ignorant of his attempts to bring me to a halt. He was undoubtedly drunk enough as to impair his judgment but still sober enough to capably inflict a considerable amount of damage if push came to shove. The last thing I wanted was to aggravate the drunken brute.

I was half a block away from my building. I only needed to get to the door, punch in the door code, and get inside. I broke into a full sprint. I reached the door and began punching in the 4 digit code: 7 - 8 - 9 - Suddenly, before punching in fourth and last digit, I was grabbed by my shirt and hurled backwards into the street. When I turned around I felt a heavy fist land square on my nose.

He punched me! What the?! I couldn't believe it! He just clocked me in the face! I had never been hit in the face! I didn't know what to do without further aggravating him so I was left to grapple with him in hopes of keeping his arms down and unable to strike again.

The struggled continued and a second blow landed on the side of my head. During it all I heard the sound of a few people running towards us. Two men, who were originally with my assailant before we ran off, and even larger than him, came right at us full speed. Before I knew it, I had been grabbed by the throat by one of them and was being held against the side of the building.

I have never before felt true fear, the fear that accompanies a situation in which uncertainty in the face of a potentially dangerous and life-threatening circumstance is the biggest factor. In this instance I had no CLUE what was happening or what would happen. Do they want money? Do they want to kidnap me? Are they just looking for a way to vent their drunken anger? I really had no idea. At that moment, whatever the reason, I completely and entirely expected to be beaten very, VERY badly.

I cannot express in words how nerve racking those few seconds were as I was pinned, by my throat, to the side of a building.

To my complete and utter astonishment, the guy holding me began punching numbers on the door code panel. The lock clicked. With a thick, stern Russian accent I heard, "Here you go. Have good night."

WHAT?!?

I immediately extended my hand and the most heartfelt thank-you that has ever left my lips was given.

The door shut. I was completely out of breath. The night watchmen - a man of around 70 years - just stood there wide-eyed. He had seen the entire ordeal. Right before I was thrown backwards into the street and decked in the face, I had slammed my fist loudly on the door a couple times hoping to get help from this watchman. He had run over to the door, but the door never opened.

I stood there with the watchman just staring at me, with my hands on my knees, catching my breath, and trying to figure out what had just happened. Shouts from the street continued as my assailant was now fighting with his two friends. With a bloody nose and a ripped shirt I quietly walked up the stairs to my room. I was emotionally and mentally shaken up more than I had ever been in my life.

The next day, as I went out and about getting a few things done, I felt completely indifferent to the world around me. My usual optimism was gone. I didn't look at anyone. I didn't attempt to smile or acknowledge anyone as I passed them. I had this eerie feeling - completely devoid of trust - towards anyone and everyone around me.

We've all heard the American Indian adage that goes something to the tune of "Never judge a man before walking a hundred miles in his moccasins." I never could understand why people in Riga (and big metropolitan areas in general) were so cold and impersonable.

Now I know.