In the quaint days before 9/11, the Euro and Bush, I got an advance notice on the rioting that has gripped France for the past two weeks.

That is, on a trip to France with my wife, we had an encounter in Paris that, even now, sends shivers up my spine. After visiting the Pompidou Center one afternoon, we decided to ditch the crowds by taking a stroll in the surrounding neighborhood. We were in Paris, and we couldn't imagine any place on earth more sublime and beautiful than this city on this particular picture postcard day.

Several blocks away, the sidewalk thinned to a section for pedestrians only. As we made our way onto an isolated stretch of the path, we heard shouts and screeching tires approaching from behind. I turned in time to see a bicycle stop short of impaling my wife with its handlebars, its front tire creasing her leg. The rider was a teenage boy of North African descent and his companions soon arrived in his wake, screeching to a halt in unison, like a pint-sized Hells Angel gang. This pack of 8 to 10 miscreants glowered malevolently and gave every indication of being up to no good.

I am a big man (6'2") but not a violent one, having never owned or fired a gun, never been in a fistfight. My size, I suppose, is enough to keep such encounters away. My point: I don't look for trouble. But I knew then I was in a heap of it. Before I had time to think, I'd pulled the gang leader — who was rearing up as if to strike at my wife — from his bicycle seat. I heaved him onto the sidewalk, ripping the shirt off his back. He stood up, shirtless and jabbering in an incoherent patois of anger, his mouth so close to my face I could smell his breath. His enraged droogs shouted and encircled me. My wife, who speaks French fluently, tried to exhort the gang to leave us alone. No go.

I told her to move down the sidewalk, toward the intersection. All vestiges of my former do-gooder liberalism were gone. This was a fight to the finish, my body told me, and I had no choice. I submit to any of my readers, of any ethnic or political background, you'd have felt the same, and probably fought even harder, if you were in my shoes.

The gang swarmed me, shoving me repeatedly against a wall, each shove eliciting an absurdly loud 'clang' on the large metal storefront shutter. I was punched by 16 different fists, spat on and jabbed with what I thought was a knife but turned out to be a pointed stick. My wife was weeping. It was a weird scene. All I could think of was that I had to stay on my feet, if I fell I was dead meat. Fortunately, the noise drew the attention of a man — a middle-aged French-Algerian — who ran over, shoved into the circle, deflecting the attack long enough for me to stumble up the street.

As we walked away, this Good Samaritan tried to explain the situation. They were angry, bitter, jobless [the unemployment rate for 15- to 24-year-olds of North African descent in France is 37 percent], he said, they were a nuisance but, my bruised ribs notwithstanding, not dangerous. He looked weary and depressed. He led us to a restaurant and called the gendarmes. The cops arrived, arrested the gang leader, and asked if we wanted to press charges. We told them to hold him long enough for us to walk safely from the area.

Despite this encounter, we enjoyed the rest of our trip to France, visiting the Loire Valley, Angers and Arles. Regardless of what wine-boycotting, Freedom Fries-eating superpatriots will tell you, France is still one of world's most fascinating and beautiful countries. It is sad to see such a glorious place enveloped in such chaos, but it is understandable. The handwriting has been on the wall, as they say, for many years.

To those who gloat over French troubles, a warning: The same thing can happen, and has happened, here. All it will take is another hurricane or epidemic to reveal the scars of our own poverty. The one difference between our chaos and theirs can be guessed at by this fact: Despite two weeks of rioting that has burned 6,000 vehicles in 300 cities in France, there have been few fatalities. Over here, with all our guns and all our hatreds, egads, I shudder to think.