Flashback: Passport check

Shit. 


That was my first thought when I saw that I would have to show my passport upon exiting Switzerland.  They must have added this checkpoint once they joined the Schengen agreement last year.  Dammit Dammit Dammit.

Okay, game plan.  Hair is down, check.  Cueing my inner flighty blonde (I prefer this to your typical "dumb blonde" characterization technique), check.  Act like you know nothing about the fact that you've overstayed your welcome in Switzerland by almost four months.  Or the fact that you were working illegally for nearly seven months.  So NOT important.  


"Bonjour," says the straight-faced security guard on the other side of the glass.

"Bonjour, monsieur," I say as I casually hand over my passport.  Good call on the attention to authority.  Nice touch.


Flipping through my passport once, then twice, then three times, "Uh, Madame? Quand est-ce-que vous êtes arrivée en Suisse?"

Well, no sense in lying to the nice man.  It says it right there on my passport.  "Le fin d'août, monsieur."

"Et votre visa?  Vous avez un visa, oui?"

"Mais non.  Non, monsieur."

And that's when he looks at me with a puzzled look on his face, cocking his head slightly to process my situation.  And I stare back as if this is nothing out of the ordinary.  Why or how would I possibly know that without a Schengen visa, I am only allowed to stay within the Schengen states (which includes nearly all the European countries, east and west) for 90 days within a six month period?  Okay, so maybe this information is displayed on all websites concerning visas for Switzerland or the other Schengen states but he doesn't need to know that I know this.  No, definitely not.  

The nice and now very confused man behind the glass picks up his phone and calls for backup. Apparently I'm that important.  Or that illegal.  Eh, just details.

Another armed security guard joins my friend in the glass box and they have a little chit chat about my situation.  The second man asks if I can please follow him, and we go into a small waiting room with white walls and sad old chairs.  Hmmm. . . So this is where all the foreign criminals gather.  He briefly explains the rules of the Schengen agreement and I sit there looking shocked, petrified that they will transport me to some basement cell never to be heard of or seen by my beloved family and friends again.

In my defense, I explain that I have been traveling around Europe, visiting family and such, and thought that I only needed the visa if I were to stay in Switzerland for longer than a three-month period.  But since I had been in and out of the country, I didn't think those rules applied.  (Insert fearful expression and much batting of the eye lashes here.)

Apparently my innocent American blonde act went over well, because I was free to go ten minutes later. He just had to fill out some paperwork to document my stay and save their asses in case anyone caught my extended visit down the line.  He did warn me, however, that if someone had checked my passport while I had been traveling around, I would have likely been taken to the nearest police station to be questioned, fined, and sent home.  Whoa.  Good thing that didn't happen.  Although, that would have made for a refreshing blog post.  "Live from Swiss Prison with your favorite American criminal, Mel" or something like that.

Swinging my backpack over my shoulder, I proudly walked and maybe even strutted to my gate, smiling to myself and my cleverness.  Damn that was smooth.  Then I unexpectedly tripped over my tired feet.  Typical.  Just typical.