A woman I've known vaguely anonymously for a dozen years or so, bartender, client, comes in after a long absence.  It was hard to get back to DC from New York given the winter storm, she tells me.
"How's New York?"
"It's a shit show.  A lot of angry people," she says.  African descent, like all of us.  British accent.  My guess she's in style, hair, maybe.  "And if you're nice, people take it as a sign of weakness, {and take their nastiness and anger out on your flesh}…"
My boss sits near her to eat his dinner.  It's been a busy Valentine's Day.  It's after ten, we opened a half an hour early, at five.  I relate out loud what the lady was telling me, as my boss worked in New York for well long enough to know.  Quietly, as he finishes his soup:  "You run.  All the time, you run."