The following post is based upon a diary entry from late August, less than two weeks after arriving in Austria:
Within a week of arriving in Austria, my body was already rebelling against all that so-called fresh air. While my brain was busy trying to fathom how on earth the smell of cows could so permeate everything, including the train, my body was busy oozing Chinese toxins to fend off a new foe: nature.
The initial battle was energetic and violent with explosive sneezes that threatened to knock my nose right off my face. Unidentifiable substances escaped the onslaught via any available orifice they could find. After a “surge” lasting several days, I finally grew fed up enough with the siege to call in chemical-weapon-toting reinforcements. The only problem? Sourcing weapons potent enough to do in the attackers.
So I trudged over to the only pharmacy in all of Bludesch, Austria with some hesitation. I’ve been to this particular pharmacy a few times during our past vacations to the area, and each time there was some trouble or another acquiring the nuclear-grade pharmaceuticals I was after. Although the pharmacy claimed to house any number of modern drugs for dealing with any number of modern woes, it seemed whenever I went in there with Christian as my translator, we came out with some medieval contraption for sucking snot out of noses or a magical mix of herbs and flowers meant to be drunk with tea.
Don’t get me wrong. I love me some natural medicine so long as I’m healthy. I’m a sucker for those silly vitamins constructed of whole foods and random fortifications of minerals that proclaim unverifiable properties. If you stick ginseng or gingko or some random-ass Asian mushroom no one’s ever heard of but that’s supposed to protect you from some obscure form of cancer, I will probably at least try it. But if my brain is being attacked by a series of suicide bombers and a machine gun has taken up residence inside my nose, I need something conjured up by 20th or 21st century nerds and patented by multi-billion dollar companies, something that can only be found within the World of Man, something scientifically engineered to wreak as much havoc as biologically possible. For times like this, “Natural” just won’t do.
However, out here in Western Austria, where people normally stick crystals in drinking water in order to “energize” it, the temporary benefits of modern medicine seem to be frowned upon, and no more so than by a particular pharmacist at the only pharmacy in the village of Bludesch. This is why I was so nervous about going by myself. If I can’t even get this man to sell me modern medicine with Christian in tow to act as my voice, how on earth was I going to get this accomplished by myself with only a handful of German insults to my repertoire?
The doors to the pharmacy slid open automatically as I neared, giving me no opportunity to turn back lest I look outrageously stupid, so I entered. At 11 am on a weekday, the place was overrun with little old ladies, chatting away with one another and the pharmacists. Flowery concoctions of various kinds were passed back and forth across the sales counter. I queued up and began mentally practicing the one mantra that might get through this: “Spechen Sie englisch?” I really had no idea what on earth I was going to do if the person I asked answered “Nein.” Perhaps walk away crying.
Fifteen minutes or so later, though, it was time to find out. Relieved, it appeared the one pharmacist I knew with the “natural” love affair didn’t appear to be working that day. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with another older pharmacist, an unknown quantity. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?” I gurgled hesitantly while crinkling up my nose to keep another sneeze from detonating.
His response: “A little.”
Well, gosh darn it. “Yes,” I could deal with. “No,” at least would have left me with pantomimes at my disposal. But “A little” actually gives one very little information, especially when dealing with an unfamiliar culture. For example, “A little” in Dalian, China usually means, “If you speak very, very slowly, utilize gigantic hand gestures, and bits and pieces of your terrible Mandarin, I might grasp what you’re getting at within the next hour.” Whereas “a little” in Amsterdam, The Netherlands seems to mean something more along the lines of, “I probably speak English better than you do, but since I’m Dutch and thus loved by everyone, I’ll try to use small words and speak a little slower so your American brain has a shot at comprehending.” But what does it mean when a pharmacist in rural Western Austria over the age of 60 says “A little.”
I opted for the American stereotype of speaking everything slowly and in the form of a question: “Do you know what an allergy is?”
The pharmacist raised an eyebrow as if he’d just realized he was conversing with a talking dog, “Yes…”
“And anti-histamine? Do you know what that is?”
“Yes…”
Great! I waited for the man to run off to this box of allergy medicine, but he didn’t budge, leaving me wondering what magic word I was missing in order to make the medicine materialize, “Well, can I have some?”
“Yes…”
Oh come on now! Did he think this was a survey? I began fumbling in my pockets as if pulling out money would make him realize I was serious, but something finally clicked before I could wave my wad of cash at the man, “What kind of allergy do you have?”
What a perfectly practical question to which I had no answer. At this point I could be allergic to any number of things: grass, trees, cows, cheese, bread, a lack of smog and construction dust, whatever they’ve replaced lead with in paint in countries with strictly adhered-to building codes, caucasians, tap water that is not strangely greasy, the smell of flowers, stars, Sundays with nothing to do… I sniffled up the blob that was trying to sneak out my nostrils and opted for as general an answer as I could conjure, “Umm… Nature? Can you sell me something?”
The pharmacist sighed. To him I might as well have been a small irritable child, “Would you like a box of ten or a box of thirty?”
Ten or thirty what, I didn’t know and couldn’t care less, this was the first promising moment in our conversation. Surely this box would spell my redemption in this sorry fiasco of a move that had left me on a strangely clean continent surrounded by very nice people I hardly knew who all seemed so desperate to please me they left me nothing to do and a husband and son I rarely saw anymore. “Oh, just give me ten now and if it turns out I need more, I’ll buy more.”
And finally, finally a box miraculously appeared, filled with equally miraculous pills entirely dreamed up, tested, and manufactured by man. “You should take one a day. It’s best in the morning, but if you get too sleepy, you can switch to taking it at night. That’ll be 6.90 euros.”
I paid with minimal fuss and walked out of the pharmacy on a cloud. Sure, I’d completed my transaction while utilizing nary an ounce of German, but at least I’d completed it. On my own. I popped a pill out of its plastic bubble and swallowed it dry, savoring the scratchy, choking feeling of success.
The next day, my so-called “allergy” had finally developed into a cold or a flu or something else equally nasty plaguing one with fever, chills, sore throat, body aches and all the usual accouterments. Left with no other options, I submitted myself to my in-laws’ offerings of teas, herbal remedies, and mineral supplements. And you know what? Medical science aside, sometimes being looked after by family–even if you have trouble thinking of them as your family–isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s not bad at all.