Berlin is just a village.
That’s nothing new; in fact, it’s a collection of many little villages. That’s how the city grew—it all started in the Nikolaiviertel. The village of Cölln and the village of Berlin were connected by a bridge, and just like that, there was a city. More and more villages (neighborhoods) came to be part of it. They all grew together. People who don’t venture outside their own neighborhood call it a “Kiez” and behave pretty much the same as someone from a Dutch, English, or French village. Dorf. Village.
Over the centuries, a certain urban harshness has crept in. No more greeting people on the street, not knowing your neighbors, not making eye contact on the S-Bahn or U-Bahn—you can walk the streets here quite anonymously and unrecognized, without ever being spoken to.
People here sometimes display that same behavior in places where it’s less appropriate—at the checkout counter in large shopping centers, on the bus, or at the post office. (I’m not making this up; I’ve experienced it myself.)
“That postcard needs a 3.45-euro stamp! Because of its unusual shape.”
“Wow, that’s really expensive—why is that?”
“(*Sigh*) Yes, ma’am, I didn’t make this up either. I’m just telling you.”
A quick call to the doctor after I received a prescription.
“I just wanted to ask why I have to pay for this medication out of pocket—you just gave me that prescription.”
“Because insurance companies no longer cover it.”
“But why not? It’s a cough medicine, isn’t it? And I have a cough.”
“(*Sigh*) Because insurance companies haven’t been covering it for a few years now.” Click.
Try getting that in the Netherlands. An explanation or something? They don’t usually do that here. Customer service? As in, them providing you with a service—no way. They’re there with a completely different mindset: “I’ve got 17 more years to go, and then I’m out of here.” That kind of attitude.
But then, suddenly, there was the exception that proves the rule. And this person actually provides service (yes, really) at a pharmacy.
Pharmacies here are more fun than in the Netherlands. They’re much more like stores—they have knickknacks, candy, cosmetics, and lots of shelves to browse through. It makes being sick a little more pleasant, so to speak.
In this pharmacy (which I didn’t yet know would become my “regular” pharmacy), they also have two simple rocking horses for kids. And that’s pretty endearing (and handy) when you walk in with your one-and-a-half-year-old daughter.
I’ve been there twice with my kids. Both times, after just two minutes, the staff called out from behind the counter with a smile: “Oh, just leave them here—we’ll take care of them. We’re open until 7 p.m.!”
It surprised me. I got extra information about febrile seizures. And when you feel at ease in a pharmacy, you end up asking a lot more questions. Things you’ve always wanted to know but would otherwise just Google, because the clerk was basically just trying to get you out of the pharmacy as quickly as possible.
Today I walked in without the kids.
“Oh, out on your own today?” asked the pharmacist (friendly, gray-haired, glasses, the kind of guy… well, a pharmacist, without a white coat).
“Yes, just without the kids today—after all, I need to pamper myself a little, too.” (I handed him my prescription.)
“You haven’t failed to notice that there’s a hint of disappointment in my remark?” (He actually said it very poetically: “Es ist Ihnen nicht entgangen, dass eine leichte Enttäuschung mitschwingt in meiner Bemerkung?”).
I had to laugh. He just thought it was a shame my kids weren’t with me. Isn’t that the best way to build customer loyalty with moms?
My medication wasn’t in stock but had to be ordered. It would be there by three o’clock.
“But you already came back especially for this the day before yesterday. You don’t need to do that today. We’ll have it delivered to you this afternoon by our courier.”
That courier certainly doesn’t drive just for me. But especially for older people who can’t bike back every time. Still: exactly (exactly!!!) at 3 p.m., the doorbell rings. A nice older gentleman hands me a small bag.
On the front: a neat little note with my name and address.
Inside: my medicine.
And two little stuffed animals for my kids.
And now I really love that man.
And I’ll never go to another pharmacy again.
And I’m telling my parents and neighbors that they should go there, too.
That’s what it must feel like to live in a village.
