International travels: interrogations

Border crossing in front of CERN

Just beyond the main entrance, the road in front of CERN crosses from Switzerland to France at an important border station.  CERN is not just international in its political status and spirit, it is physically international: the main site straddles the two countries.  In its early years CERN was entirely within Switzerland, but only just barely.  Later expansion now puts most of its area in France.  Still, outside of limited weekday hours the only entrance is from Switzerland, and many employees and users from other countries choose to live in France. The international border has kept the “French suburbs” of Geneva, which surround the city on three sides, distinctly less developed. Because of this, housing can be cheaper and distinctly easier to find on the French side of the border (though prices have been equalizing over time and apartment searches are still not without their frustrations).  So for many the everyday the commute requires a border crossing.  This was the situation I was in a few years back.

Even at a popular crossing like the one in front of CERN, the border stations are intermittently staffed.  The Swiss are almost always visible for part of the day, mostly during the morning commute into Geneva.   The French make an appearance somewhat randomly, we might see them once or twice per week.  Most cars are just waved through; or, more likely in the French case, an intense expression of disregard forces you to the conclusion that you may pass.   If no one is around, of course, you just drive right through.

One day when I was driving home with my flatmates we were actually stopped and questioned by the French border guards.  I didn’t speak any French, but they are usually kind enough to switch to English when necessary.  The person questioning me was a woman, which was already a significant distinction from the Swiss: though this is not unusual for the French, I have never seen a woman “manning” the Swiss crossing. (Gender politics trivia: Switzerland was the last western democracy to allow women to vote). I may have shown her my passport, though usually my passport gets only a glancing inspection. She then asked if I had anything to declare, and moved almost immediately to the topic of cigarettes. (Shortly after arriving at CERN I read somewhere that importing tobacco and Ikea products are two good ways to run into trouble with the French border patrol. The only Ikea store around is in Switzerland, where the tobacco prices must be significantly more favorable also.)

She questions:
“Do you have any tobacco products to declare?” No.
“Are you carrying any cigarettes at all?” No.
“Do any of your friends have cigarettes?” No.
“Do you smoke?” No, none of us smoke.

It seemed this last response made me especially suspicious. Her persistence and focus was getting a little weird. Finally, she pointed to the console in front of the gearshift.

“What is that?”

“Ummm, this? It’s my camera.”

Puzzled expression.

I pick it up and show her. I go everywhere with my camera. This one is compact and boxy, a little too shiny and thick for a cigarette pack, but I’m starting to see the resemblance. Later I purchased an SLR that has the auxiliary advantage of being clearly identifiable as something other than a cigarette pack. I hold it up to her and say again, “it’s my camera.”

The thin film of tension quickly breaks and washes away. She asks, “what do you call that in English?”

“A camera,” I say.

“Camera.”

“Yes, camera.”

“Thank you.” She even apologizes for stopping us.

“No, thank you“.

Now I am puzzled. A French official is thanking me for teaching her some English. Not only have all implied accusations of smuggling been dropped, but stereotypes are being smashed.  In fact I have never run into much snobbery regarding the language from the French.

Some days later, we were stopped as we crossed into Switzerland. Typically stiff and serious, the Swiss guards are outfitted with the green canvas of military personnel. The guard addressed us in French, and my friend who was driving the car this time didn’t immediately understand his request. (Sadly, none of us, probably not even the guard himself, had the language skills to engage with a distinctly Swiss language, Romansh. Maybe I should learn a little, or maybe not.)  The guard grudgingly clarified with some English, but before moving along we were reprimanded: “You are entering Switzerland and we speak French here!” It was an oddly specific statement considering the country we had clearly come from.