Last Wednesday evening, I flirted with danger.

I was waiting for Kylie and Paddy on a lit street, next to the bar we were to meet. At midnight, it was not late by Argentine standards, and I regularly saw people passing by.

In fact one of these passersby stopped and began shouting at me in Spanish, getting right up in my grill. He looked about my age, and smelled bad, perhaps of alcohol. I backed away and repeated, “No entiendo!” (“I don’t understand!”) until he left me alone.

The ruckus caused some people crossing the road on the other side to look up at me. Now I felt a bit uneasy, texting Kylie to find out how far away they were. But I figured if anything else dodgy happened I could always run into the bar, whose door was wide open and was empty except for one bartender who would surely notice if I came in yelling.

The thought was almost prophetic.

Not three minutes later the guy was back and grabbed me by the arms, pushing me further into the walls, pinning me with his body.

I yelled, “omigod you freak, what the fuck are you doing?” I pushed him with all my might, squeezing out of the corner and running straight into the bar. He tried to hold onto my arm, but I managed to pull away. By the time the bartender and security guard ran out onto the street, the guy was gone.

I like to think that I’m the kind of person who doesn’t haven’t “victim” stamped across my gringo (tourist) face. I live without fear, and believe that in most places, so long as I go in with an attitude of respect, an open mind and take ‘reasonable care’, I will leave unharmed.

That said, considering all the places I’ve been to, things I’ve seen (and OK, on occasion things I’ve said/ consumed/ drank) the fact that this is the closest I’ve been to danger just goes to show that perhaps luck has played a part in my (knock on wood) well-being.

If you’re wondering why I didn’t wait in the bar, I guess I wasn’t certain we were going to drink, or go home. And not speaking Spanish I didn’t want the trouble of going in there and trying to ask if I could just sit and wait. But trying to avoid situations where I need to speak Spanish, is hardly going to help me learn, is it? And as it turns out the bartender was American!

One thing I will take away from this experience is the importance of learning to say “help me” (ayudarme) in the national language. When the bartender heard me yelling (or should I say shouting indignantly rather than with alarm) he thought I was just kidding around with a friend.

And maybe I should learn some self-defense.

But I will not adopt a policy of fear or over pre-caution, that strangles my love of life, people and the world we live in. It was bad luck that put me in the position, but action and good luck that saved me.

And that night turned out to be one of my favourite nights so far here in Buenos Aires. We didn’t leave that bar until the clock hit 6 in the morning!