I’ve just crossed Rue de Rivoli in Paris and am walking past Hotel de Ville when I catch a sudden, violent movement out of the corner of my vision. I turn around: several meters behind me two men are fighting on the sidewalk. Other pedestrians have stopped or are staring at this scene as they pass by. The older of the two men is crouched down, leaning against the fence, his hands thrown over his head to protect himself from the blows being delivered by the other man. It’s obvious that this fight, however it started and however long it’s gone on, is no longer fair. I advance toward the men, yelling, ‘Arrête!’ over and over, then ‘Ça suffit!’ When I am only a meter away my cries finally have an effect, and the younger man pauses to look up at me, a crazed look in his eye, his lip bloody. He yells a final insult at the older man, shoves him against the fence, then turns and marches off. I glance quickly around: several pedestrians are hovering, watching, and a couple of them take a step in the direction of the older man – perhaps ready, now that the storm has passed! – to offer assistance. I turn and walk off, muttering angrily to myself about the idiocy of crowds and the fear of ‘getting involved’. A paradox presents itself: was it perhaps easier for me to overcome this fear and intervene because of the fact that I’m a foreigner?