The cultural capital is Peter. No matter how.

I parked 15 years ago in Brooklyn. The district is unique. Now he has lost his colour, and then there were mostly car workshops, the poorest shark offices (in one of them I worked) and a lot of sex shops and strip bars. These establishments were forbidden to open closer than a few feet from schools and churches, and there were a couple of neighborhoods across Brooklyn where it was possible. Lunch we went to the strip bar, there were at least edible hamburgers.

So, I try to depict a parallel parking in this cute area and slightly touch the pickup behind. I checked the damage, no damage counted. In Brooklyn, touch parking is a common thing, on both bumpers a bunch of markings, among which you will not find the new ones at once. Here comes the owner of the pick-up, a seven-to-eight ambal in a working combination, and asks who taught me how to park. I explain that nothing happened. The guy grows out of anger, drops on me all the scarce stock of English idioms with the addition of Spanish and climbs into the pickup for the assembly. Okay, I say, here’s my insurance, let’s find out officially.
Do I have your insurance? He is Oret.
Should I call the police because of the scratch? Give the police.
Do you fuck me with your police?
What do you want then?
First I want you to apologize.
Okay, I say, I’m sorry. It’s my fault, I’m really sorry it happened.

and all! This conflict ended. The man smiled widely, looked at the scratches once again, said "a fig question" and left.

Since then, I have taken the rule, a little bit, first apologize, and then everything else. You live in a cultural capital.