In in Lausanne

The sun was shining brightly yesterday to be sure. I was following a lead that I fully expected to get me nowhere. It was a tip I got from someone on the internet. “What could possibly go wrong?” I thought while smiling. Obviously, I didn’t have much else on my agenda, or really wanted to find something. I don’t speak much French, and I didn’t expect that to help. So far, everything I knew of western Switzerland was French.

When I walked into the shop, upon first inspection it was a typical tiny headshop like any you might see in Amsterdam. The usual wares were taking up every space possible floor to ceiling: hookahs, pipes, bowls, papers, filters, ash trays, various little wooden boxes, hemp clothing, cocaine paraphernalia, you name it. This shop even had the prerequisite, headshop standard, corner glass display case in which are always all sorts of hand blown glass pipes haphazardly arranged on glass shelves with their prices most inconveniently visible only from below.
The comedy of these shops for me lies in their common vibe, whether in Switzerland, Amsterdam, or the USA: Although we literally have everything that a drug user could dream of owning, we absolutely positively in no circumstances distribute drugs, nor do with any of our wares intend to promote the use of drugs, nor are any of our wares intended for use as drug paraphernalia. When questioned about cocaine paraphernalia, shop keeps often just say, “I don’t know”. It’s a preposterous yet completely legal stance for the shop to take, and it works in many different forms of the western legal system, at least in the USA, the Netherlands, and now Switzerland. Inside this shop were a typical cast of characters/customers; this particular batch was composed of a hippy-looking girl (who was alone), two strapped-in backpackers (who were carefully browsing so as not to bump things behind them), and myself (something of an Indian-looking, half breed Filipino from Wisconsin in the USA). There were also a mother and daughter there when I walked in, but they departed immediately thus leaving the four of us.

Two women--one behind the counter and one not, both of whom I presumed were the shop keepers--were speaking what I guessed was Portuguese, but it may well have been Italian or Spanish; I was paying attention to the dogs. On the floor of the shop lay two dogs, one clearly older than the other. The young one appeared to be a real Swiss mountain dog complete with a beautiful tri-tone face and thick coat; I reasoned it young was because it was relatively small yet with huge paws. The other dog was more difficult to describe other than to say he was about the same size and all black, with white around the face betraying his old age. Later I would find out that tri-tone was only 9 months old and the other dog 16 years his elder. Being a dog lover and having Daisy and Sam at home, I could have guessed. The young pup constantly begged my attention as I pet the older dog by rolling over on his back, biting my arm, and putting his paws on my legs. As I simul-scratched the two dogs, I also listened and observed the goings-on without being too obvious. My initial hunch was that all of us were in the shop pondering the same question.

If there was any doubt about whether this was true, it vanished when the one of the backpackers spoke up in French. I couldn’t understand it word for word, but I got the jist of it. They were asking where in Switzerland they could buy marijuana, and more specifically if they could buy it in this shop. Their French was very good. At least to my ears they spoke confidently and with many French sounding words. The conversation was relatively in depth, discussing different cantons (states in Switzerland) and cities as good options tried or not. I thought I understood that they had been to two other cities where they couldn’t find any either. They seemed disappointed in the responses. It was the woman who wasn’t standing directly behind the counter (and closer to me) who answered all their questions; the other just listened intently from her post in front of the cash register.

During this conversation, something curious happened that neither the two backpackers nor the girl noticed. A man walked in from the street dressed in what could be called “work casual”. He had on khaki pants, a collared shirt, and a cotton jacket. He had grey hair and wore glasses without frames. He looked smart and sophisticated, like he was comfortable in his middle age. He asked for nothing that I heard, he only smiled and said softly “Bonjour mdmmzll.” Apparently this was all it took.

The lady behind the counter who hadn’t yet spoke said with a smile, “Bonjour, missure,” and disappeared behind a wall-colored curtain directly behind her. I had even noticed the curtain until that moment. That was all the evidence I needed; I had it all figured out. I was in exactly the right place. And it was an “in” situation. He was “in”, and he was getting hooked up.

In less time than it took the first woman to say in French something like, “Sorry guys, try Biel or Zurich. Good luck! Au revoir!” the man was out the door with white plastic bag in hand. The woman behind the counter did the exchange so quick I almost didn’t catch it, and he spoke so softly and left so quick that if I hadn’t be lucky enough to have seen him walk in, I’d probably not even noticed him at all. I never once saw any money change hands. I felt as though I was back in the behind the bar in Chicago, watching cocaine exchange hands on the other side, giving it away with the simply efficiency of the handshake. No two friends ever greet like that. The speed and lack of any real hand clasp belied the ulterior motive. Nobody looking like that guy shops in a headshop that efficiently. It had been a purchase of marijuana for sure. And they all missed it. Well done.

I figured my best bet was to lay low. The backpackers left shortly after they received their last of many disappointing answers, almost on the old man’s heels, and I continued to switch between looking at the close-by displays and playing with the two dogs. At some point the lonely girl left and immediately the shop keeper who had addressed the two boys spoke to me.

“Parlez-vous Francais?”

“Non, sorry.” I rolled the “r” in “sorry” to sound a bit more Dutch, sticking to the plan. “Je ne parle pas Francais.” I then wondered why she had asked me that. Did she hear me speaking to the dogs? I thought I was speaking under my breath to the dogs, or at least soft enough so as not to give away my yankee status. My hunch all along was that she (or whoever I encountered in this situation) would never sell to an American. For someone like her, letting the word out to an American could soon spell the end of her little enterprise, as it’s not legal by any interpretation of Swiss law. The last thing she wants is a reputation among talkative baked tourists. I was sure I had already blown it.

In a skeptical tone, she asked next, “Where do you come from?”

“Holland.” It was a firm and quick response. So far so good, but if she had heard my English before, I was sunk. This was the key in my mind. If she didn’t buy this, I was sunk. She had to trust me immediately, but I was lying and felt I had no leg to stand on except a straight face and three seconds eye contact, Rasputin style. I got to the count of two, and unconsciously looked back to the dogs. I would be exposed in my mind if I tried to say any more, and in the staring contest, she had already won. She wasn’t going to sell to an American if she didn’t sell to French speaking young folks who may well have been Swiss. And I wasn’t wearing orange; rather, I was carrying a University of Chicago sweatshirt (rolled up and not visible, but still there) and a phone set to English, with my accent being dead on mid-western USA. Ik was geen Nederlander. I should have held my eyes to hers a second longer. In my understanding, this Rasputin thing works especially in matters of trust in the hands (or in this case, eyes) of an especially gifted individual, even while all out lying. I don’t have this gift, but it still crosses my mind as something to try in situations like this, some kind of jedi mind trick. She spoke again.

“I thought you were speaking Dutch earlier,” she stated proudly. She seemed happy that she had heard correctly. I paused and a quizzical expression appeared on my face. I am sure she saw my expression change because I too was so surprised, I couldn’t hide it. What did she say? If I was speaking Dutch, I hadn’t even noticed. Yet now that she said it, I started to recall I had been speaking Dutch to the dogs, as that’s what I speak to my dogs at home. Once I fully comprehended this new information, I concluded that I must have been speaking in Dutch to them for maybe twenty minutes. I shook my head to myself. I couldn’t believe it. I was speaking Dutch without realizing it. I was so happy, as it was the first such experience I’ve had with a foreign language, the first time when I found myself using Dutch unconsciously. I had been mock scolding the biting of the young one and lavishing praises on the older, all in Dutch. I was so happy that I almost forgot that for which I was there. I quickly straightened my face and stayed with my new improved cards, knowing full well that I had my “in” if I played this bluff right. I smiled fully.

“Yes, I am here working for two months at the EPFL. I just miss my dogs. I apologize for getting them all excited like this.” All true. Just to add a bit more I said, “I couldn’t resist them lying here. They are both so adorable. Especially you…” As I said the last bit, I wrestled with the young one, and as he bit my arm, she replied.

“You have dogs at home?”

“Yup. Can you see all this hair? I have been in Switzerland for already two weeks and it’s still everywhere. The defense rests.” She didn’t get the last part, but I continued anyway. I asked how old each of the dogs were, what breeds, what their names were, etc. She asked something about my research. I was doing well, but still no where near asking her.

“And? Why did you really come into my shop?” The intonation was clear: two questions: And? Why did you really come into my shop? And I felt something in the word “really”. Since it was she asking instead of me, and in such an up-front way, I just relaxed and continued honestly. This was going really well. I was almost behind the curtain.

“Well, I was coming in for the same reason as those other fellas. But, after I heard your answers to their questions, I figured I’d just stay to pet the dogs a little while longer before I left.” As the word “longer” came out of my mouth, I diverted my gaze back to the dogs and continued to play with them. I fully expected her to offer it to me right then, but she didn’t. The conversation went right where I wanted it to: She had asked, and then she didn’t offer. I had run out of ideas. What had I done wrong? Maybe she really didn’t have any. I had asked all the standard dog-related questions I could think of and had no other conversation cards left to play. She had passed up the natural window in which she could have offered whatever she might have. She clearly found me uninteresting, as she wasn’t saying anything else either. It was an uncomfortably long silence. It felt like almost 10 minutes before I gave up waiting. I had tried my best, but she wasn’t going to budge. It was just there, literally 2 meters away, and I wasn’t getting any today. It was probably just too risky for her to just sell to strangers.

“Jij bent stout, denk ik.” I purposefully started in with Dutch again as I finished saying good-bye to my new favorite Swiss dogs in one last ditch effort. “Je mag niet biten, hoor...zo mooi ben je…ja, natuurlijk jij wil ook een beetje achter je oude oren…en iets op je oude buikje…Lekker, eh?” It was all I had. Now that I was conscious of speaking Dutch and a bit nervous that someone was actually listening, my pronunciation sounded terrible to me and I began to run out of words quickly. If I continued any longer, I’d have to start recycling phrases. I was done. Bluff called or access denied, either way I stood to walk out defeated. I was already in the doorway when she finally spoke again.

“You come from Holland, huh?” I stopped and she continued. “Well, I can give you some flowers.” It turned to face her with a smile. “It’s nothing special, just Swiss mountain outdoor. But it’s cheap. Just don’t tell anybody, OK?” I was shocked. I couldn’t even reply at first, I was laughing so hard on the inside. I was in.