While Marina and I are away for the week, we’ve turned over the blog to veteran Notes from Spain contributor and guest blogger Gary Child, who was recently let loose for a fortnight in Barcelona. In this first instalment, something anyone living in Spain strives to avoid: sorting out anything medical…
Domingo. A day of rest before I start my fortnight’s intensive Spanish course in Barcelona. Or so I thought. I was awakened earlier than I would have liked by the arrival of a text from home that just said “Ring me”. Naturally, panic set in. Rather than ring and clock up a bill bigger than the national debt, I texted back, “On Skype in 5 mins”.
I have to confess it was a long five minutes. Had there been an accident? Was the dog ill? Were the grandkids okay in Mojacar with their mum and dad? Had the roof fallen in?
It was none of the above. It turned out that I had left my medication on the work surface in the kitchen. No biggy for me, but ‘her indoors’ seemed concerned that with the sunshine, the relaxed atmosphere and the two weeks complete lack of stress, I might have a problem with my blood pressure. ‘Don’t be silly’ wasn’t working and so I agreed to set out on a quest to source an alternative supply of little asprin and felodipine, lest she had to repatriate me for terminal snoozing.
So to la farmácia, my first intercambio of the fortnight.
Little asprin, no problem. Ibuprofen for arthritic knee, no problem. Felodipine? Nowhere to be seen. Of course it would have helped had I spelt it correctly on the paper I handed to her with my list of requirements. They even went on ‘Google for Chemists in Spanish’ and could find no trace. I returned to the flat convinced I would sort it out but, of course, I couldn’t spell it so couldn’t find it either. Still, I could always go back to cilazapril. It gives me a cough but it would do for a fortnight.
Back to the farmácia for cilazapril, but still no luck. I would have to see a doctor for a ‘receta’ for cilazapril. I was told that there was a Sala de Urgencías two blocks away and my heart sank at the prospect of spending the rest of the day hanging about to be seen.
And so to my second intercambio, with los médicos…
I explained the problem at reception. They asked for my European E111 card, no problem, and my passport, which was back at the flat. My heart sank again – it was hot and a walk of way over a kilometre round trip – but, joy of joys, they were prepared to accept photo IDs from a couple of agencies I work with in the UK and a snapshot of my grandchildren.
As they filled in a form for me, photocopied my E111 and IDs and cooed over my nietos pelirojos, I wondered how long I would have to camp out in the waiting area. Not too long as it turned out. I just love the way that Gary almost rhymes with Dalí when called out in Spain.
So, straight in. Brilliant. Name? DOB? Do you have allergies? Are you on any other medication? God this was easy, even in Spanish! Then the penny dropped. This was triage – like they do in the fast food restaurants when they say they’ll serve you within sixty seconds of being seated – you get a placemat, a knife and fork and a glass of water and you’re served.
They have triage in our local hospital, mainly to assess your ability to survive the ritual four hour wait, before putting you in the queue to get into the queue to actually see a doctor. Finding the Holy Grail would probably be less of a challenge than A&E on a Friday night.
No matter, with my trusty iPhone full of podcasts, I returned to base camp.
In the end it took forty minutes thread to needle. Very impressive. The place was spotlessly clean, air-conditioned. The young lady doctor I saw, the nurses and the receptionists were all stunningly pretty in their crisp white scrubs. It was like being on a TV set in a US medical soap opera, fair cheered me up it did.
Anyway, back to the chemists with my receta and sorted! One thing that always strikes me about Spain is the number of farmácias that there are – sometimes half a dozen in the space of a hundred yards. Can the Spanish as a nation really be that ill? No importa, I was able to assure Mrs C. that on this occasion there would be no necessity to make arrangements to have me interred on foreign soil… and I had most of the day left to reacquaint myself up the sights and sounds of Barcelona!
When not living it up in Barcelona, Gary Child works on great Free educational resources for the Primary classroom.
