Covering the protests isn't really my bag, but fate yesterday placed me on the near periphery of a dust-up between protesters and police, who popped open some teargas canisters of which I got the first taste in my life.
I see now why they call teargas teargas. Your upper palette gets that film that you might know from smelling gas around the house, except times five. Your eyes do indeed tear up. And my face – my forehead and cheekbones felt for nearly two minutes like they were about to catch fire. It wasn't quite painful, but I can imagine that it damn well would have been if I'd been closer. I now know why I've never been much of a protester.
