In college, I studied abroad in Strasbourg, France during the second semester of my sophomore year. I lived in an apartment with 5 other girls from my undergrad. The experiences we had together (and not-so-much-together) are worth many a blog post (perhaps even a book) themselves.
Every story, no matter how short, should have at least one superhero. One masked man or woman of superhuman repute who swoops down from lofty heights to save a damsel or a dude in a moment of great distress.
Ahmed was my Strasbourgois superhero. I was walking home to my apartment on rue de Bouxwiller (affectionately known to us as Boux) from the hardware store at Les Halles, the Strasbourg mall.
Yes, the mall had a hardware store. The once-German then-French then-German-again-then-French-finally town of Strasbourg was quite efficient when it came to optimal store placement.
Because you never know when you might need some Draino with your fresh baguette and new sleek black-silhouetted ensemble.
In fact, I was leaving the store with a bottle of industrial strength de-clogger when I was cornered by two men. These men looked to be in their early twenties. One was wearing a backwards cap with the Italian soccer team logo and the other some sort of t-shirt and jeans. Both had greasy faces and looked as though they hadn't showered in a few days.
The guy in the cap took a step toward me and touched me on the arm. "Do you like hash-hish?" he asked.
"No, I don't smoke," I said. I started to walk in the opposite direction and greasy t-shirt guy grabbed my arm, "Hey, pretty girl, come with us. We'll show you a good time."
"I gotta...go..." I stammered. Both guys were in front of me now, blocking my exit, laughing. My muscles started to tense. The smell of fear welled in my nostrils. My breath quickened. How was I going to get out of here?
Before I could make another move, a voice from behind me boomed, "Stop! If you hurt her, I will kill you!"
I turned to face my rescuer. He was dark-skinned and muscular, though of average height, dressed in a t-shirt in jeans, and looking pretty greasy himself.
"Great... I'm being passed off from one weirdo to another, I thought."
He spoke again, "Hi, my name is Ahmed. Are you an American?"
Crap.... my strong accent had given me away again. "Yes," I said, barely audible.
Ahmed beamed. "I am from Cambodia. I love America. It is the great melting pot. I have always wanted to go there. Please, my friend, if you ever need anything, just call for Ahmed. I will help you."
"Ok," I said, and with my assailants nowhere in sight, he left.
I crossed the street, Draino in hand, and walked with purpose toward my house. I was passing the front entrance of the mall, when who should reappear, but Italian Cap and Greasy Shirt.
I did not hesitate.
"Ahhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmeeeeedddddddddd!?!?" I screamed from my core. I was sure he was long gone, but was hoping against hope that I was wrong.
I froze and looked down. The plastic shopping bag slipped from my fingers onto the ground. I felt Greasy Shirt's presence in front of me, and Italian Cap's hands around my waist. I closed my eyes and positioned my elbow to aim between his legs.
"STOP! I told you to leave her alone!" a familiar voice blared.
I felt the arms at my back release me and heard feet beating fast on the pavement. I was still in a daze.
Ahmed handed me my bag and placed his hand gently on my back. "Are you ok? Did they hurt you?"
I shook my head no. I was unable to speak. He walked with me for a few minutes as I regained my composure, and as we approached Boux, he told me goodbye with a smile.
I walked into my apartment, unsure how I was going to explain what had just happened to the other girls. Did I even want to tell them?
I went about my businessin our bathroom, pouring Draino into the shower drain. I set the bottle on the bathroom counter, walked into my bedroom, and shut the door.
"Drained," I muttered to myself-- and I wasn't talking about the shower.
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