We had a funny moment this week that reminded me of another quirk of la vita Italiana. We were spending the week back alle montagne, near the Dolomite mountains in the far northeast corner of the country (you may remember we went their last summer to escape the heat, and enjoy the Germanic-Italian orderliness-charm of the Alto Adige region). Well, one day I wasn't feeling very well, and...wait, first some background...
I've mentioned before that so-called 'big box' stores are quite rare here; you'll see an occasional mega-mall-type complex along the highway outside of the larger towns, but nothing like a Target or, heaven forbid, a Wal-Mart. If you need to get your shop on at something more specialized like a "drug store," there's no equivalent of CVS or Walgreen's or (shout out to NYers) Duane Reade. Instead, Italians go to La Farmacia, which easily translates to "the pharmacy," but is a very different animal here.
In Italy, the pharmacy is an odd mash-up of a traditional drug store—with all manner of prescriptions and medications—and more of a "health and beauty" boutique, with high-end lotions, creams, and gels to help you moisturize and enhance your skin and hair; plus an array of products to help you whiten your teeth or lose weight. My theory is that, because prescription drug prices are somewhat regulated here, the real profit in the Italian pharmacy business is in these fairly expensive health and beauty products, which are therefore marketed way more than the medicines (contrast this with the U.S., where Big Pharma is creating profitable solutions to health problems you didn't even know you had).
The Italian pharmacist is rightly one of the most respected and prominent people in any Italian town—like the U.S., he/she is a very trusted source of quick medical advice, and is the gatekeeper to any prescription medicine that you need.
But here, they are also the gatekeeper for many, many things you would consider basic "over-the-counter" stuff in the U.S. (aspirin, cold medicine, Benadryl, etc.). You can't just pop into a pharmacy and grab, say, some Advil...you have to have a (brief) conversation first.
Now, generally, it's quite nice to have a dedicated professional on-hand to assist you with just the right remedy for your aches and pains—how much time have you spent standing in the aisle of Walgreens wondering whether you need _______________? It was great, last month, when I got an awful bee sting in Siena, I just stepped into a local farmacia, showed my swollen arm to the young farmacista, and she handed me some antihistamine and cortisone cream...5 minutes and €11 later, I was out the door and feeling better.
But you know how you sometimes need to get something quickly and, for any number of reasons, don't really want to have a chat about it with a stranger? You know, maybe you have an, ummm, embarrassing ailment and you just want to skulk into the anonymous canyons of the CVS, grab your healing salve quickly and quietly, pay at the self-checkout machine, and get the hell out of there without making eye contact?
Well, there's no such option here—if you want almost anything, you must wait in line to see the kind/attentive professional at the window, and tell them or show them your problem. Now, this is not an issue if you need to see the farmacista on (a) a quiet day, and (b) you speak Italian clearly, and (c) you are not speaking through a mask, and (d) you are not trying to speak with a person who is standing behind a newly-constructed wall of plexiglass.
Alas, none of these were the case other day when...well, I don't want to get into my medical idiosyncrasies too much, let's say I was suffering from a certain kind of intestinal distress that rhymes with "pyorrhea." I take you to the scene, on the lovely streets of picturesque Merano...(it might help if you picture me telling you this in person, with all of the hand gesture and the voices):
Me: [shaking a little] "Oh there's a pharmacy...man we really need to get something for this...OK, how do you want to do this?"
Barbara: [smiles, walks away] "Good luck!" [heads to caffe without looking back]
Me: [takes deep breath, checks google translate] "Oh wow that's convenient - the word I am looking for sounds the same in Italian!" (still rhymes with "pyorrhea")
Me: [steps into busy farmacia; puts on fake smile, wonders if there is any way there is a big box on a nearby shelf clearly labeled "Imodium," and maybe a self-check machine?...Then remembers this is a small-town in Italy]
Farmacista [distinguished-looking man about my age]: "posso aiutarla?" [can I help you?]
Me: "Si, avete qualcosa per, uh, you know, diarrea?" (do you have anything for...)
Farmacista: [cups ear] "che cosa?"
Me: [slightly louder, through gritted teeth] "c'mon man, dee-uh-RAY-uh"
Farmacista: "ahh, DIARREA!" [at least 60% of store inhabitants stop what they are doing to look over at us; one woman literally looks me up and down and makes a face]
Me: Si, yeah, diarrea...[desperate look in my eyes, a silent plea for cooperation and discretion, last seen when I tried to buy a box of condoms in like 1981].
Farmacista: "per bambino o adulto?" (for child or adult?)
Me: [struggling with this question...if I say 'bambini,' it would imply it's for my (imaginary) child, yes that's the answer? but wait then the dosage will be too low. Damn, be honest you idiot!] "Oh, adulto" [points to self, oddly proud for telling a medical professional the truth about his simple condition].
Farmacista: [furtive glance at my abdomen, speaks to other farmacista in Italian] "do we have any Imodium? This guy's got diarrhea."
So I'll just skip to the end—The medicine was not expensive and very effective; I was feeling better within the hour. And through google translate and some disturbing gesturing, I learned the Italian words for "capsule," "dosage," and of course "firm stool."
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Thanks for letting me share my (very minor) travel travails; more trip photos to come soon!