Most of the time, I gloat about how much higher my standard of living is in Germany and about how much cheaper things are here.
My flat is twice as big and twenty times nicer than the one I had in London, at half the price.
But all this smugness evaporates as soon as I begin my journey home.
I have this slightly OCD fear of being de-hydrated on the plane, so I have to fly with a bottle, but to do so at Cologne-Bonn airport requires me to swallow my Yorkshire penny-pinching pride and be totally ripped off.
The last time I flew, I went around every shop to figure out what's the best deal. Incidentally, staff at the restaurants were generally quite embarassed about the high prices and were fairly encouraging about me making a complaint.
"German customers don't like it either," one cashier told me. "But they just get grumpy and do nothing about it."
For anyone who's interested in getting a bargain, here's the result of my research. To make it more useful I've written in brackets the cost for the average mouthful, which is apparently 30 ml.
Sion
1 litre Volvic: EUR 4.25 (13 cents)
Leysieffer
1 litre Volvic: EUR 4.95 (15 cents)
CAFETIERO
0.5 litre Gruene Quelle: EUR 2.90 (17 cents)
0.5 litre Evian: EUR 3.20 (19 cents)
0.5 litre Bonaqa: EUR 3.40 (20 cents)
Travel Bar near gate B50
0.33 litre Bonaqa: EUR 3.20 (29 cents)
1 litre Volvic: 4.25 (13 cents)
Vending machines and on Germanwings flight
0.5 litre Bonaqua: EUR 3.00 (18 cents)
So if you want to get your money's worth on a per mouthful basis, you have to spend over four euros for a bottle, which to my mind is excessive.
I wondered if I was slightly blowing things out of proportion, but the WH Smith's at London Stansted in the UK offers two 0.75 bottles for £2.20. If you convert this into Euros, it works out as a bargain 5 cents per mouthful - almost three times cheaper than the cheapest gulp at Cologne-Bonn airport.
So why does the water cost so much? I wrote to all of the above establishments asking them and only received two responses.
"We can assure you that the higher pricing structure for CAFETIERO at German airports is not on an "exploitation" of our customers, but is primarily due to the the airport-specific cost structure which is imposed on us. This results in all of our airport locations having a higher price level than, say, our inner-city locations," explained Frederic van de Loo from Controlling in HAGACON GmbH & Co. KG, adding that airports tended to demand higher rents.
Well, this is all very good, but it still doesn't really explain why water costs over six times more than in supermarkets, where a 1l bottle of Evian is typically around 1 euro.
"These prices are normal for gastronomic establishments, compared to retail outlets like supermarkets," Christina Maier, Manager at Woellhaf (which manages Leysieffer and Sion) told me.
Why is that, I wondered, that restaurants and bars charge more than shops? Do they pay more tax or does the water cost more. "No, it's just normal across the whole of Germany for them to cost more," Maier replied.
Maier said she'd review the costs this week and see if they could introduce a 0.5l Tetrapack of water for 2.50 euro (15 cents per gulp), which actually does not reduce the per gulp cost at all!
On the plus side, if you don't mind drinking tap water, you can ask for a glass at either Sion or Leysieffer, Maier assured me.
It seems that as well as well as sky-high water prices, Travel Bar has no interest in customer care.
In an airport where there are no water fountains (as far as I can tell) I wonder, what Cologne Airport is planning to do to protect their customers from being held hostage to parting with up to 29 cents per gulp? It's not like we can bring water in from the outside, after all.
Well, apparently they're quite proud of the fact that they've managed to keep prices to such a level:
" On the air side (past security), there are significantly higher expenses for personnel, logistics, etc. Nevertheless, the airport is of course trying, together with the caterers, to keep the prices for mineral water in a certain range, for example, 1 liter of Volvic costs 4.25 euro including deposit and 0.5 l for 3 euro including deposit," said Hanne Dickmann, from the central complaints department at Cologne Bonn Airport.
Is this really something to be proud of - I don't think so! My point was that these prices are ridiculously expensive. Even buying from a vending machine costs 3 euros. Am I the only one who finds this insanely expensive?
And why aren't there any water fountains? Ms Dickmann assured me she'd ask the responsible department at the airport to look into it.
Sunday 11 September 2011
Tuesday 14 June 2011
Pain
"Would you like it with or without a local anesthetic," the dentist asked.
"Erm, you're about to drill into my tooth, gouge out my old filling and replace it", I thought.
"With, please," I smiled, slightly unnerved by the question.
In England, they never ask. Drilling equals anesthetic. Full stop.
In fact, the British National Health Service will jump at every opportunity to offer pain relief.
When I was hit by a van on Fleet Street, London, I got as much laughing gas and morphine as I wanted. It was one of the best highs I've ever had in my whole life and made the whole experience of fracturing my foot and tearing every ligament below my ankle somewhat more enjoyable.
In contrast, when I talk about pregnancy with my German boyfriend, he tells me - based on having watched this German TV show about it - that it's not good to have an epidural, and that when you break something, you should be able to feel what's wrong with your body. That's why Germans don't believe in taking or giving out pain relief.
Do Germans enjoy suffering more, or are they just tougher?
"Aw there weally people who do it without an anesthetic?" I asked the Dentist's assistant, as my lip started to go numb.
The nurse reckoned most people preferred to do it without because the injection could be more uncomfortable.
As it turned out, in some ways she was right. The injection I received made my whole face - from my chin right behind my ears and up to my temples - ache from numbness for a whole day. I wondered whether in Germany they give you a higher dose of anesthetic as punishment for not being tough enough.
As I lay my head back, the dentist asked me if I wanted to listen to music. I had a choice between classical or rock, and I decided that watching the dentist drill the side of my face to the Red Hot Chili Peppers would likely freak me out, so I opted for some string chamber music.
A civilized way to endure pain, I thought.
As the violins were swamped by the roar of the drill, I considered the incongruity of it all. On the one hand, Germans preferred to endure pain without pain relief, but on the other hand, they had a much greater tendency to be complaining hypochondriacs.
Germany has the biggest market in the world for medication to treat "circulation problems". You know, when you stand up too quickly and get a bit dizzy, Germans will rush to the doctors!
It seems that each country has it's own 'pain focus'. Germans are more likely to complain about their hearts, the French about their liver and the Brits about their intestines.
Perhaps by suffering the pain without any relief, Germans continue to justify their frequent visits to the doctor.
One thing's for sure, British stiff-upper-lip stoicism gets you nowhere. If you don't complain about pain, you won't receive much treatment in the German health system.
"Erm, you're about to drill into my tooth, gouge out my old filling and replace it", I thought.
"With, please," I smiled, slightly unnerved by the question.
In England, they never ask. Drilling equals anesthetic. Full stop.
In fact, the British National Health Service will jump at every opportunity to offer pain relief.
When I was hit by a van on Fleet Street, London, I got as much laughing gas and morphine as I wanted. It was one of the best highs I've ever had in my whole life and made the whole experience of fracturing my foot and tearing every ligament below my ankle somewhat more enjoyable.
In contrast, when I talk about pregnancy with my German boyfriend, he tells me - based on having watched this German TV show about it - that it's not good to have an epidural, and that when you break something, you should be able to feel what's wrong with your body. That's why Germans don't believe in taking or giving out pain relief.
Do Germans enjoy suffering more, or are they just tougher?
"Aw there weally people who do it without an anesthetic?" I asked the Dentist's assistant, as my lip started to go numb.
The nurse reckoned most people preferred to do it without because the injection could be more uncomfortable.
As it turned out, in some ways she was right. The injection I received made my whole face - from my chin right behind my ears and up to my temples - ache from numbness for a whole day. I wondered whether in Germany they give you a higher dose of anesthetic as punishment for not being tough enough.
As I lay my head back, the dentist asked me if I wanted to listen to music. I had a choice between classical or rock, and I decided that watching the dentist drill the side of my face to the Red Hot Chili Peppers would likely freak me out, so I opted for some string chamber music.
A civilized way to endure pain, I thought.
As the violins were swamped by the roar of the drill, I considered the incongruity of it all. On the one hand, Germans preferred to endure pain without pain relief, but on the other hand, they had a much greater tendency to be complaining hypochondriacs.
Germany has the biggest market in the world for medication to treat "circulation problems". You know, when you stand up too quickly and get a bit dizzy, Germans will rush to the doctors!
It seems that each country has it's own 'pain focus'. Germans are more likely to complain about their hearts, the French about their liver and the Brits about their intestines.
Perhaps by suffering the pain without any relief, Germans continue to justify their frequent visits to the doctor.
One thing's for sure, British stiff-upper-lip stoicism gets you nowhere. If you don't complain about pain, you won't receive much treatment in the German health system.
Tuesday 31 May 2011
Ordnung muss sein
I stood on the supermarket forecourt gawping for a good twenty seconds after the stranger strode over to the bicycle, booted it to the ground, lifted his bike over it and cycled off with his rust covered jacket flapping in the wind.
He hadn't heard my friendly quip and seemed utterly enraged that someone had blocked him in.
It was the second time that day that I saw a German get annoyed by rule breaking. The first time was just a few moments before.
"I'm sorry, I've had it for a long time and I kept forgetting," I stammered to the supermarket cashier, as I attempted to iron out the piece of paper.
She raised an eyebrow as I handed her a faded crumpled receipt for the empty beer bottles I'd returned to the machine over 3 months ago.
In Germany, the shops pay you to recycle. But there's a system. You return the bottle to a machine, take a receipt and collect your money at the cash desk before you leave. I hadn't done that. I'd returned to the supermarket over and over, and each time I got to the cash desk, I'd forgotten to surrender the receipt. Through my forgetfulness, I had broken the rules.
"It may not work," I said, nervously trying to pre-empt her rage.
The bar code on the scrunched up paper didn't work, and the woman’s frizzy greying hair seemed electrified with annoyance. She raised another eyebrow as she stabbed the reference number into her keypad. Maybe she was irritated because I was costing her time. Maybe she was incensed that for 3 months, two weeks and four days, I had forgotten over and over again to do this. Or maybe it was my nervous apologetic tone that she couldn't handle. After all, wouldn’t a German be more mater-of-fact about this?
The pensioner who had gone before me snatched his last jar of pickled gherkins and muttered something under his breath. Either he too was fired up about the non-conformity of my receipts or he was relieved that I'd given him enough time to bag all his shopping before the cashier started racing my groceries over the bar-code scanner.
As I left the supermarket, I walked into another uniquely German uncomfortable situation.
I fully admit I'd realised when I chose the parking spot for my bike that it might be controversial. It had been an opportunistic decision - I'd seen a space beside the stack of carbonated water bottles and gone for it. As I parked it, my hairs stood to attention and I almost expected a comment from someone nearby about what a thoughtless place it was to park my bike.
But no-one decided to get involved in my business that day.
On my return to the scene, I notice a middle-aged man had parked his heavy Dutch bike even further into the supermarket's pavement displays of special offers.
I was relieved, and decided to offer up some jovial camaraderie.
"It looks like there's a bit of a traffic jam here at the moment," I said with a smile, gesturing at the bikes on the curb which were blocking us both in.
Before he could reply, I watched in slow motion as he forced the offending bike to the ground, lifted his bike over it and cycled off without a word.
I stood for a few moments in utter disbelief. It was only later that my boyfriend Daniel explained this mysteriously violent behaviour.
"Germans don't like it when people break the rules or when they disrupt the order."
This same fear of chaos and desire for order is what drives Germans to buy a train ticket, even though there are no ticket barriers to check up on them. It's what stops Germans from crossing the road on a red light, even when there are no cars.
Instinctively this characteristic feels sinisterly militaristic and I wonder whether it dates back to a Prussian addiction to rule making. But perhaps it's what also allows Germans to have a transport system that's based on trust. One thing’s for sure though, it's non-negotiable: Ordnung muss sein.
He hadn't heard my friendly quip and seemed utterly enraged that someone had blocked him in.
It was the second time that day that I saw a German get annoyed by rule breaking. The first time was just a few moments before.
"I'm sorry, I've had it for a long time and I kept forgetting," I stammered to the supermarket cashier, as I attempted to iron out the piece of paper.
She raised an eyebrow as I handed her a faded crumpled receipt for the empty beer bottles I'd returned to the machine over 3 months ago.
In Germany, the shops pay you to recycle. But there's a system. You return the bottle to a machine, take a receipt and collect your money at the cash desk before you leave. I hadn't done that. I'd returned to the supermarket over and over, and each time I got to the cash desk, I'd forgotten to surrender the receipt. Through my forgetfulness, I had broken the rules.
"It may not work," I said, nervously trying to pre-empt her rage.
The bar code on the scrunched up paper didn't work, and the woman’s frizzy greying hair seemed electrified with annoyance. She raised another eyebrow as she stabbed the reference number into her keypad. Maybe she was irritated because I was costing her time. Maybe she was incensed that for 3 months, two weeks and four days, I had forgotten over and over again to do this. Or maybe it was my nervous apologetic tone that she couldn't handle. After all, wouldn’t a German be more mater-of-fact about this?
The pensioner who had gone before me snatched his last jar of pickled gherkins and muttered something under his breath. Either he too was fired up about the non-conformity of my receipts or he was relieved that I'd given him enough time to bag all his shopping before the cashier started racing my groceries over the bar-code scanner.
As I left the supermarket, I walked into another uniquely German uncomfortable situation.
I fully admit I'd realised when I chose the parking spot for my bike that it might be controversial. It had been an opportunistic decision - I'd seen a space beside the stack of carbonated water bottles and gone for it. As I parked it, my hairs stood to attention and I almost expected a comment from someone nearby about what a thoughtless place it was to park my bike.
But no-one decided to get involved in my business that day.
On my return to the scene, I notice a middle-aged man had parked his heavy Dutch bike even further into the supermarket's pavement displays of special offers.
I was relieved, and decided to offer up some jovial camaraderie.
"It looks like there's a bit of a traffic jam here at the moment," I said with a smile, gesturing at the bikes on the curb which were blocking us both in.
Before he could reply, I watched in slow motion as he forced the offending bike to the ground, lifted his bike over it and cycled off without a word.
I stood for a few moments in utter disbelief. It was only later that my boyfriend Daniel explained this mysteriously violent behaviour.
"Germans don't like it when people break the rules or when they disrupt the order."
This same fear of chaos and desire for order is what drives Germans to buy a train ticket, even though there are no ticket barriers to check up on them. It's what stops Germans from crossing the road on a red light, even when there are no cars.
Instinctively this characteristic feels sinisterly militaristic and I wonder whether it dates back to a Prussian addiction to rule making. But perhaps it's what also allows Germans to have a transport system that's based on trust. One thing’s for sure though, it's non-negotiable: Ordnung muss sein.
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