“This is passport control, right?” I ask the armed officer standing in the corridor, arms crossed, shoulders squared.

The agent at the ticket counter told me I should be at least twenty minutes early so that passport control will let me into the international platform where trains to France pass through.

“Oui,” the policeman answers, curt and disinterested.

“Do you… want to see my passport..?”

The police officer raises an eyebrow, as if I’ve suggested something completely absurd. He seems to think for a moment – not, mind you, about whether he wants to see my passport, but rather, as if he is trying to make up his mind on whether I’m a total idiot, or just very strange.

“Non,” he finally answers, and waves me through.

I find the casual nature of Europeans’ approach to borders jarring. While they seem to stand on ceremony almost everywhere else, dictating a severe form of discipline in everything related to conduct in public spaces, the official and, to me, strict realm of border crossings is almost comically informal. This is diametrically opposed to my experience with the Israeli state of things; while public conduct is exceedingly familiar and informal, crossing borders is one of the most serious bureaucratic undertakings one can imagine.

Oh well.

Im on my way to meet a friend from my high school days in France – now an artist living in the quaint mountain village of Arbois.

More to come