I have always said that what I love about Mediterranean countries like Greece and Cyprus is their authenticity and how real the people are. Sure, you rarely get service with a smile, but at least when there is a smile, it’s genuine and the rest of the time, if said person is having a bad day, they make no attempt to hide it. They don’t coddle you with fake politeness. They’re rude and crass and funny and real. They’ll tell you if they think you look fat or thin without taking your fragile feelings into account and it teaches you to basically grow a thick skin, get over yourself and not sweat the small stuff.
There is one small exception to this rule however, where a little discretion and delicacy would be very much appreciated...Pharmacies. Many years ago, I had a little case of…ahem…thrush. No big deal, common occurrence in most women and I had a prescription for…um…a suppository. So off I trotted to my friendly neighbourhood pharmacy.
Before I continue, I have to point out the unique system of pharmacy working hours we have in Greece and Cyprus. They are not open on a regular basis. That would be too easy. Each neighbourhood is dotted with little pharmacies that work on a shift basis; open on certain days, for certain hours. At any given hour of the day, you can find an open pharmacy, the trick is finding out where it is. To do this, you need to consult a newspaper or call a special number which will list all open stores at that particular hour. You can imagine how much fun this is, especially in the case of an emergency.
Anyway, I found one that was open and I popped in before work to get my…uh…thing. To my absolute delight, there was a sweet old couple behind the counter; the kind that shuffles when they walk and is hard of hearing. There is just one other man in the store. I discretely slide the prescription across the counter to the old man and smile nervously. He puts on his glasses and moves the paper back and forth until it’s in focus. He then says, at full volume (is there any other kind in these countries?) “What’s this? For thrush?”. The other customer looks up. I cringe and mentally will him to keep his voice down, but this only seems to have the opposite effect. He yells to his wife “Get the Canesten for thrush!” and she shuffles into the back, right after giving me a good look up and down.
At this point a mother and her young daughter walk in and stand next to me, followed by another elderly man. The old woman shouts from the back “Does she need the pill or the suppository?” and her husband replies (because I cannot hear this word enough) “the suppository!” I swear the mother nudges her child away from me and it continues: the old woman shouts out “What?” and just for the cheap seats at the back, her husband bellows “the SUPPOSITORY!”
My knuckles have turned white from gripping onto the counter. I fear if I let go I may literally disappear into the floor. They hand me my package and I turn and leave. I’m not sure if I have them to thank for this or the sheer psychological torture of it all, but I never got thrush again.
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