I don’t know why I was bothering with the phone call home that night. In 36 hours I would be home from Paris and seeing my husband and children, but I was lonesome and wanted to hear their voices, so I stood in the lobby of our Parisienne hotel chatting with my husband about the adventures of the RHS group’s last day in Europe.
Suddenly, Donna Garst got my attention, noting that one of our students was headed out the front door—a big no-no. She detained him until I got off the phone. No one was to leave the hotel after returning from dinner. This was especially true in Paris. During the day the plaza to the west of our hotel was bustling with book vendors, students, café revelers and tourists. The fountains and charming shops were glorious and welcoming, but we knew that at night this area was less than pristine and my good friend Jan Lund, former French teacher at RHS and current instructor at Creighton had expressed concern about us housing in that neighborhood. It had been the scene of violent student protests the fall before, and she had reiterated many times that this was an area we did not want to be out in after dark.
I asked Dakota what he was doing and he said his roommates had pooled money for him to cross the plaza to the McDonald’s and get them some food. Paris? McDonald’s? Teenagers. I was actually sympathetic. While I had loved the group meal that night of whitefish (including eating some of the kids’ portions), I knew that many American teens weren’t big fish eaters and many had had little to eat at all. The McDonald’s so close by seemed like a logical way to dump some of the kids’ euros this last night in France.
I mildly scolded Dakota, then told him I would go with him. Thus began one of the most frightening events of my adult life.
Dakota and I hit the McDonald’s armed with some euros, his umbrella and virtually no French. Dakota was undaunted, however, and waited in line to place his room’s order. I busied myself watching workmen unload buns from a bread truck. I enjoyed their banter even though I couldn’t understand a thing they or anyone else in the restaurant were saying. I noticed a gentleman helping them who seemed to work at the McDonald’s but didn’t have the requisite uniform shirt. I surmised that he was security.
Dakota and I got our share of polite notice—we definitely didn’t fit there. This was not a touristy place at night, and clearly we didn’t belong. Most customers were young, students, college age and aside from the language, the activity could have been in any American McDonalds. Soon the workmen were finished and they pulled away in their truck.
Suddenly, the atmosphere changed, the faces of the employees tightened and strong voices demanded attention at the door. I turned to see two very tall, very dark, very braided men entering the restaurant. They zeroed in on me and Dakota immediately. One pushed up beside me at the counter, the other to Dakota’s left and grabbed his umbrella. “Hey,” Dakota said, calmly, pulling his umbrella back. They were speaking quickly, laughing at us, I’m sure. I was still okay up to this point until I looked up at the cashier and clearly saw fear in her face as she locked eyes with me. These two were obviously known in this restaurant. And it wasn’t because they were boy scouts.
I backed from the counter and against a wall so as to not have my back to them and scanned the situation. Dakota sidled away too, but had already ordered and paid, so immediate retreat wasn’t desirable and seemed a little premature. What was taking so long with the order? The men were now verbally working over the cashier, never taking too much time between glances directed at me, at Dakota. The young clerk withdrew further into herself and responded quietly to the jeering men, never making eye contact. No one else at the counter seemed to want any part of the going’s on. Now the two were on each side of Dakota. I noticed the security man had come down from the upstairs eating area and was locked in on the men.
“Parelez-vous Anglais?” I queried the man.
“Yes, I speak English,” he gently replied.
“I’m concerned about the two men at the front door.” By now they had ensconced themselves at either side of the only perceptible exit, like sentries.
“Yes, I know,” the man said, “That is why I am down here.” The hushed tone and his reply confirmed my fear.
“Do you believe I am right in being concerned?” I asked hoping for him to laugh off my silly tourist fears, but his eyes never left the men at the front door even as he spoke directly to me, “I have concerns.” I explained to the man where we were staying and I hoped against hope that he would offer to walk us across the plaza. Without my asking, he indicated that he could not leave the restaurant. He was hired as security for that location.
“Would we be better off crossing to one of the lighted cafés rather than walking directly toward the hotel?” The idea of heading straight into the inky blackness with these two men at our heels made my stomach tighten.
The security guard considered the question and none-too-confidently replied, “You will be ok. You will be ok.” Clearly my face conveyed I wasn’t feeling that “okay,” and he suggested Dakota and I go upstairs to the eating area, wait a while (ostensibly in the hopes that the men would lose interest and leave), and then come down when the coast was clear.
Dakota grabbed the large McDonald’s bag and we headed upstairs, the chilling laughter of the men ringing behind us. No language barrier there. They weren’t headed anywhere.
Dakota and I sat at the table, in the upper level and pondered our options. We had no way of contacting the hotel or our fellow travelers. A small entourage of escorts would have rectified the whole situation, but we had nothing. I sat thinking about how stupid I had been—just as bad as kids who thought the guidelines didn’t apply to them. Here I was doing exactly what we told the kids not to do. Why did I think I was invincible to the dangers our students would fall prey to? Because of my incredible physical strength and prowess? My fantastic command of the French language? My simple misplaced confidence of being able to handle any situation that might arise, that was the answer.
As we sat discussing our possibilities I thought about Dakota’s mom making the half joking comment at the airport as we were leaving, “Make sure you bring him back.” Ha, ha. We thought that was really funny. Now, not so much. We were probably both going to be attacked, clubbed over the head and robbed in the pitch dark 75 yard stretch to our hotel. I wouldn’t be out much money, but the loss of my passport would pose a real problem in getting home the next morning. No time for help from the embassy, etc., etc.
The sitting was driving me crazy; we needed to get out of there. We finalized our simple plan—we’d head away from our hotel to the well-lighted café across the other side of the plaza. From there we’d go to the opposite side—another well-lighted café and then directly to the hotel completing 3 sides of a diamond. I turned my backpack purse around to the front, threw Dakota’s hoodie on over my person and purse. Dakota armed himself with the umbrella. We agreed to walk with purpose straight down the stairs, out the front door without looking directly at the men. Calm, cool, swift, but not fast.
You can guess what happened. Nothing.
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| A Parisian McDonald's |
Yes, they were there, still standing eating on either side of the door intimidating people leaving. We walked through them and started to head to the café. I turned my head just enough to see that they were not following us and quickly we changed our tact, turning directly to the hotel, rounded the corner encountering more unsavory characters, walked in, got on the elevator, punched our floor numbers and let out a big breath. I pulled Dakota’s hoodie off and silently counted my blessings. For the most part, he seemed unfazed by what had just not happened. I, on the other hand, have read enough books, seen enough magazines and newspapers, watched enough movies, and followed enough news of that particular section of Paris to know that we had just as likely dodged a bullet as not.
I stepped off the elevator, told Dakota to enjoy his McDonalds and vowed to never put myself or anyone else I was in charge of in that kind of situation again.
