Riot Police

We walked off the ship through the shiny new glass and steel cruise ship terminal in Warnemunde. Once past the train station, we looked toward downtown and everything seemed just as it was during our last visit here. Almost. We heard a faint shouting in the distance, men’s voices chanting some sort of cheer. Next we heard the pop of fireworks—or was it the crack of a rifle? Half a dozen ordinary SUV’s drove invisibly past us. No sirens, but when the vehicles stopped, policemen arrayed in riot gear silently exited and took their position on a side street. Just in case. More fireworks. More shouting. Louder and angrier. A parade of maybe 400 to 500 angry young men pushed through the crowds of tourists and made their way toward us. I raised my camera to take a picture. A young man shouted something at me in German and made a gesture I didn’t understand. The explosions got louder and closer. One heavy BOOM sounded serious.

Glenda was afraid. “Come this way,” she said as she slipped down a side street. The parade soon passed and we found a cluster of young German men, all wearing black.

“Who speaks English?” I asked.

They pointed to a comrade.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Go,” and he lifted his arm and pointed to some place in the distance, “HERE.”

I pointed in the same direction. “HERE?”

“Ja,” he said, pointing again. “HERE.”

I pointed in the opposite direction. “What if I go THERE?”

He grabbed my arm. “NO! NO! NO,” he said. He pulled it in the original direction. “GO HERE!”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go HERE.”

They all laughed and pointed, “Ja! Ja! Ja! Go HERE!”

They seemed jolly enough, and I saw no banners or slogans indicating that this might be some kind of a protest march.

“Football?” I asked.

They all laughed, “Ja! Ja! Football.”Læs mere