Elderhostels are very rewarding; new places, new knowledge, new people, and sometimes, new ways of looking at things.
Meg and I had almost finished two weeks of "elderhosteling" in California. We had just finished a pleasant meal at La Posada on Fillmore Street, a few blocks north of Sutter, in the Pacific Heights district of San Francisco, and were walking back to Miyako Inn, across from the Japan Center.
Reaching Sutter Street, we turned toward the Inn, which was only a couple of blocks away. San Francisco had been enjoying the almost too bountiful ending of a long drought, and we were used to hustling around in rain or threat of rain, but I don't think it was raining at the time, because, when we came to an interesting flight of steps up to the next street, with the interesting name, Cottage Row, we decided to explore it. It was well after sundown, perhaps eight o'clock, but the steps were well enough lighted that we could see the plants and shrubs of a little park and the equipment of a little playground along one side of the steps.
About half way up the steps, five young people pushed past us. We decided that we had gone far enough, and turned to go back to Sutter Street. I was a step or two ahead of Meg when we were suddenly surrounded by the young people. One of them immediately absorbed all of my attention by sticking his face into mine. Only a pair of dark eyes were showing, because the rest of his face was covered by a sweater or jacket pulled up over his nose.
I was conscious of the others crowded around us, of the street perhaps fifty feet down the steps from us, and then, or soon after, a feeling of pity for people who could do such a thing. I started to say something like, "You don't want to do this..." when he repeated several times, "All we want is your money."
The feeling that the encounter must end as soon as possible, while I was the center of attention, led me to decide to make as much noise as I could and I began to shout with all my might. I must have lost eye contact with my assailant, because I remember noting that, in the street below, the immediate sidewalk was empty of passers-by.
The next thing that happened to me was a resounding blow to the side of my head, and our assailants went scurrying for safety. Meg had also received a blow to her head, but neither of us had fallen. Although we were a bit groggy, both could navigate. As we walked toward the Inn, Meg said, "I hope no one steps on his glasses before he goes back for them. I didn't know you could make so much noise."
I realized that I was bleeding before we reached the Inn, and put a paper napkin from my pocket up to my temple. We hustled across the lobby and up to our room. Meg immediately went out to get ice and made me an ice pack to reduce the swelling that was taking place at my temple.
As soon as I was ensconced with an ice pack, she went back down to the lobby to ask for first aid materials. When she returned with tape and bandages, we realized that the glasses on the steps were mine. Meg offered to go back and get them, but I objected until she promised me that she would not go after them alone. The young man at the front desk offered to accompany her, and the glasses, with the frames badly smashed, were recovered.
The scraped skin did not stop oozing blood until about three in the morning, and we put a pillow at my back to preserve the linens. The idea was to prevent me from rolling over in my sleep and bloodying the sheets or pillow cases. The next morning, we put a dressing on the scraped place and went to our classes. To all questions about what happened, we simply said that we didn't want to make any fuss about it.
The next morning, we took my computer glasses and the broken trifocals to a local optometrist, where his assistant switched the trifocal lenses to the intact frames, at no charge. Meg has written to the optometrist with thanks for this work, and to the Miyako Inn management, describing the incident and praising the bravery and helpfulness of Joseph, the night desk man.
Five days later, as I write this, I am changing dressings on the abrasion, worrying a little about sore tissues in the right side of my neck, and trying to find words that say how I feel about the whole business.. For the second time in my life, my throat is complaining about the demands made by shouting as loud as possible. The first time is related in the story, Wild Dogs and Bad English.
Perhaps I can cut the problem up into pieces. That is some times a good way to tackle something complex, sometimes a good way to lose sight of any possible solutions.
What do I feel for the individuals who threatened me, tried to rob me, struck me, made me feel fear, and made me realize what it would mean to me if anything happened to hurt my wife? From almost the moment when I realized what was happening, only sadness and pity for anyone reduced to that level of self-esteem.
How do I feel toward those responsible for the safety of the individual in the city? First among these is the individual himself, or herself; the only person who can watch you every waking minute of your existence is yourself. Most of the responsibility for the incident lies with myself. I had the best chance to insure that it would not happen by avoiding circumstances where it could occur.
Next are one's fellow citizens; they are responsible for the selection of honest, humane, and diligent guardians of public safety; they are responsible for the fair treatment of each other; they must not let themselves be hoodwinked into hating others for no reason, or into denying anyone a chance at their best possible life. I do not feel that my fellow citizens have done a very good job in any of these categories.
Meg and I agreed that reporting the attack would really dampen the spirits of the meetings, but it was difficult to maintain an air of "Isn't it a beautiful shiner" and fob off those who had to have an account of how I acquired it, I found it practical to change the subject to how the questioner had acquired the finest black eye of his or her experience.
One of the ladies attending the Elderhostel classes was extremely insistent that I should admit that my horrible appearance was the result of "street violence". She feels that the routine of noting muggings and publishing warnings about the areas where they occur will have some effect. As near as I can tell, this practice empties the streets promptly at dusk and sets the stage for more of the same, but I hesitate to lay responsibility without knowing which way her efforts add up.