Above is my first exper­i­men­ta­tion with wit­ness jour­nal­ism. I found myself in Barcelona’s Plaça d’Espanya watch­ing the World Cup finals with tens of thou­sands of peo­ple on a jumbo screen. Total cel­e­bra­tion erupted after Spain beat The Nether­lands 1–0. Lots of “Yo soy Espanol, Espanol, Espanol” singing, peo­ple drap­ing them­selves in flags. But then some­time after 1 a.m. the cel­e­bra­tory gath­er­ing in Plaça d’Espanya began to dis­in­te­grate as the (drunk) crowd began to toss metal bar­ri­ers and fling glass bot­tles into the circle.

Police vans, which I’d seen wait­ing just out­side the square in prepa­ra­tion, streamed in to clear the crowds with sirens blar­ing, lights flash­ing. Wear­ing riot gear and shoot­ing guns (not sure if with bul­lets or what? Prob not, seemed more for sound and light effect), they con­fronted crowds that chanted “hijo de punta” — “son of a whore.”

As police pushed down the side streets, peo­ple — many still draped in yel­low and red Span­ish flags! — began to flee. I ducked into an entry­way. In an effort to block the police’s progress, peo­ple threw metal chairs and pushed garbage recep­ta­cles into the streets. There was no tear gas that I smelled. And I was really wor­ried I’d get hit by a falling glass bot­tle because they were com­ing down just randomly.

I was really wor­ried how I’d get back to my hotel, since I only knew how to get there via the plaza. And I’d been herded down one road, with­out a map and no smart phone either. I was super­wor­ried. But when I looked up, my hotel was at the end of the alley that the police had been shoot­ing down. I couldn’t believe it.