I arrived at Washington, D.C., in the late afternoon on a flight from Los Angeles. I had come for a birthday party: One of my best friends from college was turning 50 and his wife was turning 40 and they were having a joint party at a country club in Mitchellville, Md.

I didn’t realize that the weekend was also D.C.’s gay pride weekend celebration until my cab from the airport began to move through an ever-thickening swarm of rainbow-clad revelers and finally came to a stop four blocks from my hotel, because that was as close as the driver could get me. I had to drag my luggage through the crowd and across a parade route.

It was a hassle, but hey, it was PRIDE! The celebratory mood was infectious.

I got settled in my room, got food, and then began to get dressed for the party. The only thing on my mind was the trivial concern of how far I would have to walk out of this zone to get an Uber.

Moments later, I heard the sound of people banging on doors and yelling something. I thought maybe it was people celebrating who crossed a line from revelry into rowdiness. I could tell that the sound was traveling down the hall. And then it became clear to me what they were yelling: “Help us! Somebody help us!”