Covid-19 vaccination in Berlin: a Velodrome where soldiers hand out chocolates

Inside the Covid-19 vaccination centre at Berlin's Velodrome. Photo / Getty Images

Berlin-based New Zealand author Sarah Quigley on having the jab in a velodrome and the race against a virus.

V Day is here! I've been waiting for this day for two months. But now that it's arrived I want nothing more than to stay home watching "Tidying Up with Marie Kondo" on Netflix and mastering the art of folding a fitted sheet. Frankly, I'm nervous. The last time I was vaccinated – well, I can't even remember it.

After 20 years of living in Berlin, I've only just realised that most Germans carry little yellow booklets that document a lifetime of shots. I'm supposed to bring my "Impfpass" to the vaccination centre but I can't, because I don't have one. I rustle worriedly through all the other documents I've filled out, assisted by Google Translate. I don't feel confident. Being assisted by Google Translate is like being helped by a friend who's drunk a bottle and a half of cider and just doesn't care. If you query a particularly random-sounding translation, they just shrug and say merrily, "Okay, try this one!"

Sinister grey clouds are looming. I grab my umbrella and clatter down the stairs, coming up short behind my frail elderly neighbour and her caregiver who are taking one step at a time. We pause for a rest on the first-floor landing, where my neighbour's two octogenarian friends used to live. The Welcome doormat has gone. Last December the couple died from Covid-19. If ever there's an incentive to get a jab in the arm, this is it.
On the tram I watch three teenage boys holding a shouted conversation, compulsory masks worn on their chins. Why aren't teenagers being prioritised for vaccines? They're out all day, travelling the city, coming into contact with hundreds of people, while I'm at home 24/7, writing and folding sheets.

Eleven minutes later I'm in a windswept park, under spitting rain. Berlin has some bizarre vaccination locations – abandoned airports, ice-skating rinks – but this one takes the cake. The Velodrom is a vast underground cycle arena; only its circular roof is visible. It looks like a spaceship that's crash-landed and sunk into the ground.

An ancient-looking lift carries visitors into the bowels of the Earth, but my fear of lifts is equal to my fear of vaccinations. "The stairs?" The volunteer looks astonished. "Well, be careful!"

Four flights down, and I'm on a huge concrete forecourt thronging with high-vis vests. Volunteer workers seem to outnumber patients by about five to one. Every few metres someone checks something: my ID, my bag, my registration letter, my temperature. Everyone is polite, spraying my hands liberally with disinfectant, wishing me good health. "You're early? Well done!" Now I know for sure I'm in an alternate universe. No one in Berlin is ever polite or helpful, and punctuality is mandatory, not a cause for praise.

A copy of New Zealand author Sarah Quigley's German vaccine certificate.

Soon I'm out of the yellow-vest zone and into a swarm of orange vests: the heart of the race-track hive. "Choose a counter," says a motherly busy-bee. With typical Kiwi reticence, I head for one in the lowly numbers. "Go to the top!" she urges. "Go to Number 12."

Counter 12 is manned by someone who actually looks 12. She checks my Google-prompted answers and then asks the question I've been dreading: do I have an Impfpass? "No, but my cat does," I say nervously. Because we're in an alternate universe, she laughs uproariously and waves me on.

I'm ushered into a curtained booth by another motherly orange vest. Whoosh! Two doctors materialise, exuding bonhomie. "Any questions?" smiles the older one, while the younger one busies herself with my left arm. I have a zillion questions but my German isn't good enough to express them. "Hold still," says the younger doctor and I brace myself for pain. She sticks a tiny plaster on my shoulder. "It's over?" I haven't felt a thing.

With more wishes for good health, I'm handed to a blue vest, who leads me to the recovery area: an expanse of gleaming floor planted out with socially distanced chairs, encircled by a bizarrely steep cycle track and tier on tier of empty seats. Soldiers in camo gear carry around trays of water like waiters. "Would you like a chocolate?" one of them offers politely.

Sarah Quigley: "Now I'm part of the 1.6 billion vaccinated worldwide."

Phones are forbidden, so we all sit quietly on our chairs, facing in the same direction like seafarers peering into a hazy future. The huge clock on the wall ticks on. The 250m race track – one of the fastest in the world – gleams in the floodlights. I feel as if we're all in a silent but intense race against an unseen competitor.

It's pretty peaceful sitting motionlessly in an East Berlin racing arena. But my 15 minutes are up. Out in the real world, it's as blustery and grey as before – but I've changed. Now I'm part of the 1.6 billion vaccinated worldwide - and it feels like a big step in the right direction.

Side effects? I end up with a sore arm, a headache and a couple of days of tiredness – nothing worse than that.