On my last blog, I promised to tell you how to offend people by going to a grocery store in Berlin.

The answer is easy.  You just show up.

First, let me compare American stores with Berlin’s shops.  In America, stores tend to be the size of an entire Ugandan village, stock everything from fresh fruit to charcoal, and is run by employees who smile, personally take you to the item you want but can’t find, and chat about the rash on their arm while they ring up the rest of your purchases. 

In Berlin, a large grocery store is a rare thing.  Usually one walks to the corner shop with one’s own canvas tote.  The doors will not automatically open because there are no sensor pads in all of Germany.  You can’t touch the fruit to test for firmness.  The meat looks freshly stripped from the dead animal.   The proprietor has never heard of hamburger.  And there is no German word for ”buns”.  Their version of a bun is a tiny rock-hard lump of bread that fits around the meat like finger cymbals.  It is rather like a bratwurst roach-clip.  That way, the food doesn’t touch one’s fingers, and therefore, one doesn’t offend German culture by getting a smidge of uncleanness on one’s hands while in the midst of Germans.  The wee rock of bread is delicious, but one needs the invincible teeth of a blubber-eating Eskimo to chew it.

The store’s checker, or cashier, sits on a stool behind a small runway where you can place your food.  Then, while the cashier rings up your items at lightning speed, you bag it yourself by shoving it all into your tote as fast as you can without pausing for breath.  If you, indeed, pause to pant for breath, the cashier will try to hurt you. 

My first trip into a large Berlin grocery store quickly became my last. 

It all started with the little old lady beating me on the back with her cane.  At first I thought I was in her way, so I moved aside.  So did she.  I started walking faster.  So did she.  After about the fifth geriatric whack, I took off running and hid in the Schnapps aisle until I saw her toddle past.  It seems that she just didn’t like me.  She kept after me, but I steadfastly stayed out of her way by ducking whenever she would spot me. 

Then, when we came up to the checkout, I didn’t seem to be fast enough in stuffing my tote.  When the cashier got to the uber-bitter beer I had bought for my dad, she decided to throw it.  I intercepted her hand – the bottles were 5 Marks each, after all – which made her even more angry.  So she let loose a verbal slug-fest in German that called my morals into question, along with my parentage.  Then she proceeded to threaten me.  Meanwhile, I kept fast hold of her wrist with one hand while wrestling away the beer bottle with the other.

My mother, who was behind me in the line, tried to intervene, explaining in German why I wasn’t so fast in bagging my own groceries . . . i.e. that I was an American.

Even I knew that was a huge mistake.  Most Germans deeply resent the first two World Wars, but are ready to start a third one.  They truly believe that 3 times is a charm, bless their hearts.

However, it did distract the cashier from my bottle of beer.  She let go and whirled on my mother.  What verbally transpired between them was too fast and furious for me to follow.  Needless to say, I took advantage of the misdirection of invectives to bag my stuff.  And my mother’s.  The inhumanely efficient cashier was still totalling up the purchases through all her screaming threats without even missing a beat.

Then, after attempting to slap both of us, the cashier let us go.  Mom, having assimilated more Americanism than she would have liked, decided to complain to the manager.

Even I knew that would get us nowhere.  I think insulting customers was the store’s policy . . . Nay, motto.

When Mom actually tracked down the manager somewhere in the store’s back rooms, he was furious with us for having the gall not to enjoy the whole experience.  He told us that he couldn’t care less how his cashier acted since he knew her – he didn’t know us.  Then he offered to let us out into the alley.  Apparently, he truly DID know his cashier well. . .  he recommended that we don’t let her see our faces again . . . ever.

On a more sedate note, my father did, finally, get his beer when we got home, along with a fresh box of liquor chocolates.

And on that tidbit, I will leave you with a few pictures . . .

Here we are . . . totally lost, but happy

And this picture will give some idea of how we were able to infuriate Germans on sight . . .

Next time I write on my site, I will have a SPECIAL blog – the Sunshine Awards. 

Then, afterwards, back to Germany - where I will talk about the yummy German food . . .  and why you should never eat anything bigger than your head . . .

 Until next time . . .

On my last blog, I promised to talk about how far one can push the Eastern German authorities without getting shot.

The answer is, apparently, not far for some, but pretty far for others.  My mother grew up in West Berlin during the occupation.  She, her brother, and her mother – my grandmother – made a sport of outsmarting Communists with guns.  Ahhh . . . the fond memories of childhood. 

This time was no different for my mother.  No force-imposed East German authority was going to make her do anything she didn’t want to.  I did not know this until after we had been through the Eastern Zone three times.  I did wonder, however, when I silently watched her performances from the sidelines.  I say ’sidelines’, but in reality I was in line to get the first bullet.  Or trailing behind her one step as she fled. 

On one such occasion, she ran past a gun-laden Eastern official at the train station turnstile.  We were supposed to wait in line – behind the nice couple getting their luggage searched – for our turn to gain admittance onto the train’s platform.  I didn’t know what Mom was going to do until she broke into a sudden run, wrestled with the turnstile, passing through and somehow jamming it, before disappearing around a corner.  She did this even though I yelled, “Wait!” and the man with the gun yelled, “Halt!!!” several times. 

I looked at the official’s gun strapped over his shoulder, his hands full of someone’s underthings, and the jammed turnstile that I couldn’t pass through, and made a split second decision.  I was much more afraid of ticking off my mother than I was of some duty bound East German told to shoot on sight.  I took off after my mother and jumped the turnstile like Rudolf Nureyev.  I didn’t have much of a choice.  I didn’t speak German well enough to dig my way out of getting lost in the Eastern Zone.  I didn’t even know the address of where we were staying in the West.  I never ran so fast, nor jumped so high.

Mom’s excuse?  We were going to be late for our train.

On another occasion, we were just through the passport counters and one step away from stepping out on Eastern Berlin soil when we were accosted by an armed East German soldier demanding if we were carrying East German currency.  We were, as a matter of fact, since we had exchanged West Marks into East Marks just that morning before heading out.  However, instead of answering the question, Mom suddenly became a half-wit.  I was immediately suspicious.  Why was this man asking us this, and why was my mother suddenly confused by the sunlight?  This went on for a few moments while I prudently stayed silent.

I found out what was going on once we had been dismissed by the irritated, yet resigned, official and shoved out of the train station.  I found out once we were both deep into East Germany.  Apparently it is illegal to bring any money that we had exchanged in the West into the East.  People had been incarcerated for having an unaccounted penny under the floor mats of their cars.  It would have been easy to obey their law.  There was an East German Bank in the train station.

Mom’s excuse, however?  The West gave a better rate of exchange.

So, until next time, when I will talk about our public brawl on the way to the Opera.  In the meantime, I will leave you with some pictures . . .

Looking through a hole in the Berlin Wall at "No-man's land" where the East Germans stood guard, ready to shoot any trying to cross over.

A close-up of one of the guard towers in "No-man's land" as seen from a Western train's window as we passed... looking into the Eastern Zone.

Checking passports at Checkpoint Charlie

And a picture for ~Ifer -  (See the first three comments at the end of this blog)

Standing at the West side of Checkpoint Charlie, looking into the East at the guards.

Me, standing in front of Checkpoint Charlie

And last, but not least . . .

...the guards we made faces at to see if we could get them to crack a smile.

So until next time . . .