A lesson in Russian at Zurich Airport

A lesson in Russian at Zurich Airport

I was sitting on a plane from Moscow to Zurich. The flight attendants of Swiss Air had an average age of about fifty. Perhaps it was the airline’s policy not to hire younger women, so as not to confuse the male passengers.

After Moscow, Zurich felt like a village. Few cities could be so different. The rich in Moscow showed how rich they were: limousines, fur coats, and private clubs shaped the city. At the same time, the poor rummaged through trash bins, looking for leftovers. Millions of people were on the move day and night. They lived every day as if it were the last day of their lives.

In contrast to Moscow, people in Zurich lived as if they would remain on this earth forever. The pace of life there was reduced to a minimum. Everything was clean and polished. After 10 p.m. on weekdays, the city felt deserted. The Swiss disliked being disturbed and reacted with fear and skepticism to anything foreign that crossed their path. After all, with its 600,000 inhabitants, Zurich was a large yet provincial city by Swiss standards, shaped by two beautiful rivers and an even more beautiful lake.

Such thoughts occupied my tired mind as I got off the plane. The line at passport control was long, and it moved only slowly.

“Your profession?” The shrill voice of the Swiss border guard brought me back to reality. The question was not addressed to me, but to a burly Russian standing in front of me.

Two worlds collided:

The Swiss man was thin, wore glasses, had short hair, and made a dutiful impression in his clean uniform. The Russian was strong, wearing a red tracksuit with “RUSSIA” written on it in large capital letters. They looked at each other for a few seconds. In that silence, tension was palpable.

“Your profession?” the Swiss officer repeated his question in German.

The Russian stood in front of him and looked at him silently. He shrugged his shoulders cluelessly.

I considered translating the question into Russian for him, but I wanted to take part in this conversation a little longer.

“Occupation?” the Swiss man demonstrated his foreign-language skills.

The Russian looked back bravely. He did not let himself be unsettled.

He repeated aloud to himself:

“Occupation, occupation – occupy – AAAAA – OKUPATZIYAA,” he said in a cheerful voice, having finally understood what information was being asked of him. Then he shook his head vigorously several times.

“NOOO, NOOO OCCUPATION – just holiday.”

.”