a Saturday afternoon.

Before I leave the apartment, I remove my Swiss passport from my jacket pocket, and replace it with my American. Though I did not enter this country as an American, if something were to happen today, I would rather have the US Embassy behind me.
As I walk to the city center, things are much quieter than the usual Saturday in our neighborhood. Coming up on one of the main plazas closer to downtown the street has been blocked off, and I take the sidewalk around it. Looking into one of the police vans, I meet eyes with one of the men inside, helmeted and clutching a plastic shield. Riot Police have always reminded me of Storm Troopers.

There are thirteen vans in all, filled with them. They are far away from where the demonstration is taking place, so I figure they must be the reinforcements. Such police presence is not unfamiliar to me. While living in South America riot police were not uncommon. Though it was not an every day occurrence, it was not surprising if burning tires and demonstrations blocked roads and shut down neighborhoods, with troops not far off. But this was not a sight I had seen here yet.

The police are here to keep the order for the Gay Rights protest. Last years’ demonstration got out of hand when gay rights activists met Nazi Skinheads on the streets. From what I understand, police at the time watched idle as Skinheads attacked and threw stones at the protestors, arresting only 29 rights activists for being part of an illegal demonstration. Poland has been warned by the European Union that if it does not improve discrimination on sexual minorities, the EU will revoke voting rights.

Last week while walking home Patryk and I were cursed at and shoved in the street by three men with shaved heads. Shaken by this experience, Patryk has decided not to attend the protest, so I am going alone. Some things are too important to stay home. As I approach the plaza, there is a row of 20 or so police dogs separating the protesters from the spectators on the sidewalk. In the crowd there is little elbow room, but people give the dogs a good two yards of space. I make my way around the dogs, and head to a large group of people who have moved onto a rise of steps where they can better see the mob of banners and protesters across the other side of the plaza.

More riot police are arriving, and a dozen mounted officers ride there horses between the crowd I am in, and the protesters facing us. As I look on, a man pushes past me. He is wearing camouflage pants that tighten around the legs a they tuck into a pair of combat boots. He wears a leather jacket, and a shaved head. Back in the States I used to work in a coffee shop, where many of the customers dressed in a similar manner. There it meant only that the person probably played guitar in a band. Here in Eastern Europe it means something completely different. As I look around me I notice that many people in the mob I am in are similarly dressed. The leader of the mounted policemen yells something into a bull horn as a wall of horses step towards us. The Gay Rights Demonstrators are shouting behind them as they try to make there way to the very steps I am standing on. It has become abundantly clear that I am in the middle of standoff, and very much on the wrong side of if. The mob around shouts loudly in return, as I lower my head and slowly make my way out.

My heart rate slows as I slip past the plastic shields that have been moved in to keep the group contained. As I cross the sidewalk I decide to move into an open area well behind the police lines. There are five or six other people beside me, including a woman with a baby carriage, who have decided this was the safest place to view. Another line of plastic shields has been deployed between us and the crowd I just came from. To the left there is a row of the vans that brought the riot police, and to the right are vans with bars to remove unruly protesters. The few of us on the street corner have placed ourselves well into the Police staging ground. There is no place safer.

Over the next several minutes I watch on as angry words fly on both sides. Abruptly you can hear dogs start barking from across the other side of the plaza. The mounted policemen shout into there bullhorns as they start advancing towards the large mob engulfing the steps. The two rows of troop in front of me are visibly anxious. If anything is going to happen, it will be now. The horses slowly ride into the mob, guarded on our side by the plastic shields, and on the other by dogs. Everyone in tense, and but with a few angry shouts, the mob disperses. As the rainbow banners take the steps, the police pull only one shaved head into the van beside me.

After several minutes of cheers and camera flashes, the news crews focus on the center of the steps and the speeches begin. I stay for a few minutes before heading for home. I don’t speak enough polish to know their words, but I know what is said all the same. The cheers have a much different meaning than those I have heard during gay pride parades at home.
When I make it back to the apartment, I find Patryk on the couch. He had been very worried, and was glad I was home. I turned on the television to see what was on the news. One story dominated all air waves, local news, CNN and BBC. Every one wanted to know what the verdict was: Was the Tom Cruise- Katie Holms wedding really happening today?