Shopping for free

It was Henrik Ibsen who famously claimed, "You don't get nothing for nothing in this life." But for all his writing genius and insight into the human condition, that is one score on which he was wrong. For in Berlin there are a number of places where you can get quite a bit of something for nothing.

They call themselves Umsonstlaeden, which translate to "for-free-shops," and as the name bellows, nothing in them costs a single cent. In a city where large parts of the population are still trying to wrap their heads around the idea of a free-market economy, the shops have become a bit of an institution.

For a long time, the best known of the bunch was housed in a squat on Brunnenstrasse. When the building, which was due to be gentrified, was forcibly emptied by hundreds of police officers back in 2009, the shop found a new home on Prenzlauerberg's now ferociously trendy Kastanienallee.

Daring to be different

Last summer the same fate threatened to befall the shop a second time. There was another meeting with police and the future looked bleak, but rumor now has it that the cellar premises are back up and running and open for their social brand of business for four hours every weekday afternoon. I guess they must have been having a day off when I went to check it out.

How long the shop can continue to hang on in a street in which almost every house has been given the district's regulatory facelift and filled with either a fancy cafe, or even fancier clothes store, is anybody's guess.

With its crumbling facade which bear the words "capitalism normalizes, kills, destroys," the building which now accommodates the Umsonstladen certainly stands out from the crowd. It looks like a relic of a movement that has moved on. But those involved with the project would say looks can be deceptive because what it actually represents is an alternative kind of future. A future in which anyone can walk into a shop with nothing and walk out 10 minutes later with a bundle of books and a new outfit.

Busy, busy, busy

From what I can tell, Berlin is home to a lot of habitual for-free shoppers. I went to a little store the other night and was amazed to see how many people had decided to brave the treacherously icy pavements and bitter cold to rummage through the items on its shelves and rails.

Most came equipped with something to replace whatever it is they were hoping to take away. Although exchange is not the philosophy at the core of such shops, it is a self-imposed rule many visitors stick to in order to keep the places well stocked. And rather than handing their giveaways to one of the store's volunteers to put on display, customers do it for themselves.

They can bring anything except printers, which are definitely not on the most-wanted list. My printer is ancient, so I suggested to the organizer that I might take one of the many models they have up for grabs off their hands. He looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses and told me in categoric Berlin terms not to bother. I wasn't about to argue, so I went to have a look at the clothes instead.

An intimate experience

Having spent many hours of my life at flea markets and in second-hand shops, I felt right at home among the musty garb hanging on rack and wall. And in that I wasn't alone. People were chatting as they tried on tops and shoes and browsed through the books.

One girl I met - an avid for-free shopper - told me she loves the intimate feeling of the stores. "It's like being at a friend's," she said. "You see something you like and ask to borrow it for a while." Ultimately though she either brings things back or passes them on to other people.

So what goes around comes around. For free, Mr. Ibsen, for free. And nothing highlights that point more gently, more succinctly than the hand-drawn sign tacked up in a place of prominence for all to see. "We are not afraid of theft," it reads. Even so, when I put a blue T-shirt into my bag without first handing over my cash, I felt as if I were doing something wrong. Perhaps there is a price after all.

Author: Tamsin Walker

Editor: Sean Sinico