The Time I Got Tear-Gassed in Lyon

Following the crowd, until the crowd turned

Picture perfect at la Place des Jacobins—Photo by author

I aced my prediction about the results of the 2022 FIFA World Cup Final match, when Argentina defeated France. “It will be a 3–3 draw, and Argentina will win on penalties.” If only I was the type of person to know a bookie.

“No way six scores would happen during a World Cup final!” was my sister’s reasoning. We were in Lyon together with my sixty-four-year-old mother, having lunch at a charming brasserie in the hilly Croix-Rousse district. It was December 18, and the final match’s transmission was scheduled for that same evening.

It was fur-eezing. Every time I travel to Europe in winter I figure that coming from Canada, I am in for a treat. But the humidity gets me, every time. The cold just creeps into my bones, regardless of the number of layers I may be wearing.

Despite the cold, we were enjoying our first visit to Lyon: We wandered around the old town’s Christmas markets; admired the tranquil views of the Rhône and Saône rivers; felt smug finding our way through some cool traboules — “secret” covered ways connecting buildings and courtyards — supposedly reserved only for the locals. We took our sweet time walking around the narrow streets of the Vieux Lyon, taking photos of the street art. We had some classic mother-daughters bonding over some shopping.

The painted steps of Passage Mermet—Photo by author

Being in France with their team about to play the World Cup Final certainly felt like the cherry on top. We were staying at a cozy hotel conveniently nestled in the central Bellecour neighborhood and readied ourselves to spend a good time watching the match at the lobby.

As the minutes passed, a feverish energy spilled into the streets, pulling us toward it. We could see from the hotel windows groups of people coming and going and the crowds forming outside the bars and restaurants, cheering at the screens. France had a 50/50 chance of winning, and we wanted to be part of the excitement. So, during halftime pause, we hurried outside, walked for about five minutes and joined a merry party outside of a bar at the corner of a street leading to the centric Place Bellecourt.

Argentina was winning 3–2 until France’s Mbappé evened out the score during extra time. The crowds erupted in roars, small fireworks went off, someone ignited a flare and threw it up in the air and it landed dangerously close to where my sister was standing. I started thinking that getting there had been a terrible idea, and even more so taking our mother along. I locked eyes with my sister and understood that she too wanted to get back to the hotel. My mother was happily jumping and singing along but was okay to follow us. However, we quickly realized that it was going to be extremely difficult to go back to where we came from, when what seemed like rivers of people were converging towards Place Bellecourt. So, we stayed put.

France, as everyone knows, lost 2–4 on the penalty shootouts, and what had started as a peaceful sport gathering quickly descended into full-blown chaos: Fireworks kept on erupting, glass bottles were smashed, and the riot police, who — unbeknownst to us at first– had been standing at the square’s flanks, started closing in.

The moment we realized maybe we should not be there—Photo by author

I will never forget the frightening sound of the police — head-to-toe in tactical gear–pounding at their plastic shields with their batons. People started hurling objects at them: bottles, stones, flares, bins. At one point, a smoke bomb was thrown over our heads in that direction and seconds later, the police responded with tear gas canisters. The air immediately filled with an acrid, overwhelming smell and our throats felt as if they were on fire, tears blinding our eyes.

We were still some meters away from the square where hell was breaking loose, and we managed to slowly retreat a few blocks south, covering our mouths and noses with our clothes. We reached a point where we could run, and we did, heading toward one of the bridges that crossed the river. We didn’t stop until we made it to the opposite bank.

Always heading south, we reached the next bridge and waited. It was past ten p.m., and where we were standing now, there was no sign of unrest. Below us, the river moved on undisturbed, its surface calmly reflecting the city lights, as if nothing had happened. We crossed again and walked in our hotel direction.

A few blocks ahead, riot police charged groups of people who tore pieces from the security fences erected earlier that evening and rushed back at them, only to be chased again. Tired and scared, we realized that we would not be able to make it to our hotel, and found an open restaurant, ordered some crêpes that we were in no mood to eat, and stayed there until midnight.

What an utter relief we felt when we finally made it to our hotel! Tucked in our beds, the room finally felt like a safe haven. The riots were subsiding, but we could clearly hear the angry noise until the wee hours of the next morning.

My mother later said she had never felt scared and that, aside from the nasty effects of the tear gas, it was an adventure worth having. For my part, I learned what should have been a common‑sense lesson all along: to keep my distance from crowds and be wary of unruly sports fans. Happily, the next stop on our itinerary was the Swiss Alps, where we joined the rest of our family and finally settled into a quieter, well‑earned holiday.

Thanks for reading!

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