Tuesday, January 27, 2004
The Arrival
The man with the gun on his hip stands in the middle of Eisenhowerlaan, a line of cars in front of him. I walk across behind him, in front of the idle traffic. A guard stops me at the ICTY gate on the other side. Other staffers mill about, many straddling bicycles, all waiting. The line before the security guard grows longer and angrier. Horns that sounded sporadically before now blare. One goes on for at least 30 seconds. The man with the gun is unperturbed.
Before I know it, two BMW's whizz past, one with screens in the back windows to obscure the identity of the occupant. They zoom into the gates, not five feet from me, and into the building. We display our badges for the guard and make our way toward the door.
The man with the gun on his hip steps out of the street, and the impatient traffic jam disappears car-by-car. As I head into the building, I hear a shout lobbed from one of the cars as it passes.
One needn't have understood Dutch to know what the driver was saying.
Before I know it, two BMW's whizz past, one with screens in the back windows to obscure the identity of the occupant. They zoom into the gates, not five feet from me, and into the building. We display our badges for the guard and make our way toward the door.
The man with the gun on his hip steps out of the street, and the impatient traffic jam disappears car-by-car. As I head into the building, I hear a shout lobbed from one of the cars as it passes.
One needn't have understood Dutch to know what the driver was saying.
