Inciting a Riot

It's a national pastime in some cultures - rioting - so much so that it even appears to have rules of conduct.

F tells a story about being in Lyon one evening, dining alone at an outdoor restaurant in  a pedestrian only street.  It became obvious that there was some sort of commotion going on in the avenue that ran perpendicular to the far end of the street.

Q'est que c'est?

Waiter (with exaggerated Gallic shrug) "C'est une manifestation."

Translation: What's that? It's a riot.  (or 'a demonstration')

Before long a whiff of tear gas wafted along the street of cafes and restaurants ahead of departing rioters, who were running along the precinct grabbing bottles of water off tables to wash their eyes.

Having reached the park at the 'non-riot' end of the street of outdoor diners, the rioters calmly dispersed and walked home.

They had to walk, the authorities had closed all the public transport in response to the 'manifestation'.

What was it about?  Political disappointment it seems. Their chosen candidate did not win the election held that day, they demonstrated their views on that, and democracy was permitted to trundle on.

F was amazed; first by the riot itself, secondly by the police response (water cannons and tear gas), but mainly by the after match wander home.  No smashed windows or cars, no overturned rubbish bins, no fires, no fighting, no shouting (or singing).  The whole episode had almost been like a match with rules and expectations observed by both sides.  It was all a bit surreal.

Is the difference between a protest, a demonstration, and a riot the degree of response employed by the authorities?  Or the damage caused in the aftermath (in which case, maybe that wasn't a riot at all).

I incited a riot last night.

From our back balcony I wailed and wailed, low and slow to long and loud, reached a crescendo, and tailed off into a plaintiff plea.

Higher up the hill a response rang out; the same building crescendo of feline protest that finished with the most heart-wrenching wail of despair.  Then it all kicked off.  Cats everywhere were yowling and screeching; at one another, at the humans, at the sky, at the buildings, off walls and balconies, from the garden, from caves on the beach - a riot of noise, a protest at everything it seemed.

Cool!

When I tried again this morning, F leapt out and hustled me indoors before I even got into my stride.  Then she shut the door firmly and put up with the sound of the wind - which when in a certain direction makes the socket the door slides into wail mournfully.

Her loss.  I don't have rules.....I might tear up a rug or some furniture 'on my way home'.

PS - F had to walk home that night too - and she was staying in the outskirts of Lyon - an hour's walk away.

Who me?? Butter wouldn't melt....