Assaulted

Just barely 48 hours after coming to Washington, still not a full-fledged Executive Director, around seven in the evening of a dark October night, I stopped and looked up to admire the beautiful building of the National Geographic Society, especially its illumination, when suddenly I was thrown to the pavement by a third-rate version of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named who kept pushing a handgun into my belly while loudly demanding my watch and my wallet. The watchstrap had just broken, and so I had placed it in my pocket and had a hard time getting it out while being held down. After seconds turned into minutes, I was relieved of my wallet, with too much cash in it, although the watch, when I finally got it out, was scornfully rejected with a “Keep it!” Meanwhile my side of the street had of course emptied completely. 

Shocked, I walked a block and entered a liquor store (I don’t know why) where they immediately called the police, who arrived in seconds. We started to discuss the incident. As it all had happened just blocks away from the World Bank building and the White House, I inquired whether this really could be considered a dangerous area of the city. The policeman told me no, it was a safe area, but, as people did not go any longer to the unsafe areas, all these small-time criminals had to come and search for their victims here. Although I strongly disagreed with reducing my assaulter to a “small-time criminal,” as an economist I could identify with his looking for the appropriate market for his activity.

The policeman, very kindly, perhaps because he also had a Polish surname, presented his sincere excuse on behalf of Washington, with a “You know, this happens in all big cities.” I, though grateful for his attitude, could just not resist letting out an “I know, but I come from Caracas, Venezuela, and we never see such incidents there.” At that moment, I felt a lot better, so much so that I even left the liquor store empty-handed.

Days later, I found the incident reported by the police in “District Events,” and that clipping became my first souvenir from Washington.

P.S. The last time I had been attacked, it was at knifepoint in the very shady port of Buenaventura, in Colombia, in 1966. At that time, the events featured the following incredible dialogue: “Give me your money!” “I don’t have any money” “Come on, you must have hidden it—perhaps in your shoes?” “Well . . . perhaps?” “Well, if you care about the money enough to hide it in your shoes, then we don’t take it.” And that was it! 

I always think back to this incident as the night I discovered some very particular ethics among Buenaventura’s hoodlums.