Portrait: Cashier in the grocery store

I dragged my suitcase through the little grocery store, feeling a bit like a bear in a China shop. I had just returned from London and didn’t want to bother hauling my suitcase up the six flights of stairs to my apartment then turning around to go pick up some bananas and bread.

Perhaps it is no affront here, because no one said anything as I steered its wheels around the shelves of goods painted in German words. After filling my arms with my purchases, I headed to the cash register to pay – the one to the right that is normally open.

“Over here young lady,” I heard a women call through the racks of chocolate eggs and chewing gum. A heavy set cashier sat on her stool without a line.

“Oh I didn’t see you,” I said, careful to use the formal form of the word “you” in German.

“I don’t want to sit here while my co-worker does all the work,” she said with a smile that matched her honey blond hair. I was a little caught off guard by her chattiness. In Germany, cordial customer service is rationed out like water during a drought. I usually have to brace myself before I head to a register to pay.

I basked in her friendliness.

She chatted on, determined to explore all avenues of her previous topic. “The people don’t usually see me over here and usually always head to her,” she said, waving my purchases over her scanner. With a flourish, she pushed the total button. “Also, sieben comma sechzig,” she said the total.

I paid, almost sadly.

Next time I was in the store, I looked again for my friendly cashier, but in her place was a sour-looking woman. I again switched back to holding my wallet and plastic bag ready like a cowboy playing Russian Roulette as I waited for my total.