I came across quite a confronting scene this morning soon after I had left the apartment. In fact, I not only came across the confronting scene, but I somehow managed to become a part of it.
It was 9.10am and I had planned to firstly head to Zum Guten Glueck (the Good Luck Cafe) for a latte and a quick re-read of what I had written yesterday, before continuing to venture further into the industrial area of Zurich, where dilapidated buildings, smoke-stacks and unused railway tracks hide a particularly cool little cafe where it is perfectly acceptable to sip one coffee for three hours with notebooks strewn across the table in front of you. My backpack was laden with a variety of material to keep me both occupied and inspired for a day of writing: my laptop, my bulging A4 notebook, my bulging little moleskin notebook, my storyboarding cards (in a variety of colours: grey for the central plot, yellow for subplot, green for setting, blue for imagery, symbolism and motifs, and pink for characterisation), the novel I am currently reading (Special Topics in Calamity Physics, by Marisha Pessl) and, in case of a complete lack of enthusiasm, a chunky book entitled Living and Working in Switzerland. Throw in a variety of pens (black felt tip, blue roller ball, black biro... believe it or not these make an enormous difference to the style of my writing), some earphones, my ipod and a few cables, and I'm good to go. I jumped on my bike and headed out the gate, wincing as the bumps jarred my poor elbow (stupid snowboarding) and took the back streets for the one kilometre journey to cafe number one.
So what was the confronting sight? I rounded the first corner, jumped into the bike lane and then rounded the second corner onto a thin suburban street. From a distance I saw the flashing lights of the three police cars, though I initially thought it was just more roadworks. As I came closer, I noticed the six policemen that had strategically positioned themselves on the street, dressed fully in black with large white POLIZEI written across the front. Each of them held what appeared to be, to the untrained eye, a machine gun. Slung across their shoulders, the enormous machine hung at a forty-five degree angle across their bodies, and while they weren't pointing it at anything, each of them had one hand on the barrel and another on the trigger.
Now, what is an innocent little passer-by such as myself to do? The only guns I had ever seen up until six months ago were starter pistols, and since then I can now add the gun of the occasional army recruit as he stands on a train platform (though even this has been known to make me incredibly uncomfortable). I suppose I have seen guns sitting in the holsters of Australian police before, but that's just it - they have always been in the holster. They are small enough to be able to fit in a holster!
So I've slowed down, trying to decide what to do. To my left, two big scary policemen with even bigger scarier guns, one standing on the footpath, the other standing ontop of the wall and a few metres down. To my right, two big scary policemen with even bigger scarier guns, one standing ontop of the wall , the other standing on the footpath a few metres down. Directly in front of me... well, you get the idea. Big. Scary. Two of them.
I get off my bike. I prepare to turn around, aware that something big is going down. But then one of them yelled at me. I'm not sure which one, as I had already half turned around by that point. I turned back to face them, suddenly aware of all the possible infringements I might have committed: I haven't gotten my bike registered yet = illegal. Maybe on this street I should be riding on the footpath instead of the road (the rules seem a bit hit and miss when there is no bike path) = illegal. We probably brought in too much alcohol (though I don't really remember) over the border from Germany = illegal. They probably want to throw me out of the country for consuming too much of their beloved cheese. But no, the big scary policeman that is standing in the middle of the road with the even bigger scarier gun is beckoning for me to come forwards. So I do. With piercing eye contact, he speaks a few words of SuisseDeutsch (incomprehensible) and beckons for me to continue down the road. His big scary friend who is positioned around fifteen metres behind him turns around and also beckons for me to continue towards him. So of course I do. And the entire time I am aware that, firstly, these guys are here for a reason. They look like they are surrounding some area for some reason, and now I am smack in the middle of it. Secondly, as a result, I am now entirely surrounded by armed policemen. And to make matters worse, I can no longer hide the fact my bike doesn't have a registration sticker on the back. But I don't think anyone has gotten shot for that before.
I walked quickly between them all, suddenly aware that they are not looking at me at all, but not wanting to stick around to find out what it is that they are looking at. I pass the final policeman and, in my hurry to jump on my bike and get out of there, proceed to instead drop my bike with an enormous clatter. Red faced, heart pounding, I jump on and pedal like a maniac to my Good Luck Cafe, whip out my computer and start writing this.
Today's realisation: I sure am a lucky bugger to have lived such a sheltered life.
