In beautiful Salta, Argentina, where everything is decorated with llamas, and somehow, those llamas look really nice.
Argentina is nice and all, but pretty much everyone knows where it is. This is one of the reasons I recently bought a ticket to Bolivia.
Only after making the purchase, did I bother to look at visa requirements. Thanks to what, I am sure, is stupid US policy, I need one. I looked up the location of the Bolivian embassy in Salta. It is listed at Avenida San Martin 124. I found Ave. San Martin 128 and I found Ave. San Martin 122, but 124 must be located in the same place as the train platform for Hogwarts.
I also need proof of a yellow fever vaccination. During siesta, I contemplated faking the vaccination stamp in my documents. But then I logically recalled that Tarzan's Jane died of yellow fever. I think. So I got out of my bed to see what I could do.
Most people wouldn't get up from a nap in a country where they have a severe language handicap, and barely have a clue about the government, let alone the healthcare system, and decide to go get a yellow fever shot. 'Most people' are probably on to something.
It's a good thing I spent Christmas playing Cranium with my family, as I was a dead ringer for "I need a Yellow Fever vaccination" charades at multiple pharmacies and at a clinic. I struggled with directions, because "derecho" is 'straight' and "derecha" is 'right,' and I think we can agree that those are cruelly similar words.
Eventually, I found my way to a hospital, avoided the "Emergencia" door (this is not that, Thank God), and re-performed my perfected charade at an "Informacia" desk. (Most people would have had the first pharmacist write it down, but then, we're back to 'most people.') The information woman must have sensed my 'derecho/a' handicap, because she took my arm and led me down the hall.
This was the only hospital I've even been in that smelled overwhelmingly like diesel fuel. Once I was being led down the final hall to the needle, I started getting nervous about the shot. I blame this on Anna, who has been instilling a fear of sharp objects in me since the first high school blood drive. I regretted my siesta-time snack of crackers, because I suddenly wanted to throw them up.
Informacia Lady deposited me in front of a door that read "VACUNAR," knocked twice, and left me there.
I leaned against the wall next to the door and let my stomach twist itself around my nerves. I flexed my biceps to fend off needles. I know you are thinking: "Steph! You are an EMT!" I am. I have taught classes on inserting naso-pharangeal airways. But, here is my next confession: even typing the words "naso-pharangeal" kind of makes me want to throw up.
I waited for the Vacunar door to open. I shifted my weight and looked at the white tile wall I was leaning on. It was smeared with dried blood. I moved to the middle of the hallway and tried not to touch anything. I paced nervously, but didn't want to stray to far from the door, so I pivoted and paced with just one foot. This spinning didn't help the nausea.
A girl who was really hurt, and clearly in a lot of pain limped down the hall. She looked at me sympathetically. I probably looked like I was about to cry. I realized that this spinning around maneuver was not very cool, so I stopped and looked at the door, which was in the same state of closed. Of the 89 words on the door (I counted while I was trying to stand still), I understood 5 of them, not counting the "and"s and the "the"s. I tried opening the door. It didn't budge.
A line began forming behind me and the people asked me how long I had been waiting. Mercifully, I understood this question. However, I am still struggling with the difference between 'fourteen' and 'forty,' so I settled on replying 'a half hour,' which was in the neighborhood just shy of true.
After waiting an hour, and successfully not vomiting, I turned and walked out.
On the steps of the hospital, I put my head down and caught my breath. I straightened up and promised my inner child that no one was going to put a needle in her arm today. I also promised her ice cream. I walked down the steps and promptly got lost.
I eventually found a cafe and ordered "helado sabor americano," because I wanted to know what American-flavored ice cream would taste like. It's vanilla. My inner child was disappointed.
Argentina is nice and all, but pretty much everyone knows where it is. This is one of the reasons I recently bought a ticket to Bolivia.
Only after making the purchase, did I bother to look at visa requirements. Thanks to what, I am sure, is stupid US policy, I need one. I looked up the location of the Bolivian embassy in Salta. It is listed at Avenida San Martin 124. I found Ave. San Martin 128 and I found Ave. San Martin 122, but 124 must be located in the same place as the train platform for Hogwarts.
I also need proof of a yellow fever vaccination. During siesta, I contemplated faking the vaccination stamp in my documents. But then I logically recalled that Tarzan's Jane died of yellow fever. I think. So I got out of my bed to see what I could do.Most people wouldn't get up from a nap in a country where they have a severe language handicap, and barely have a clue about the government, let alone the healthcare system, and decide to go get a yellow fever shot. 'Most people' are probably on to something.
It's a good thing I spent Christmas playing Cranium with my family, as I was a dead ringer for "I need a Yellow Fever vaccination" charades at multiple pharmacies and at a clinic. I struggled with directions, because "derecho" is 'straight' and "derecha" is 'right,' and I think we can agree that those are cruelly similar words.
Eventually, I found my way to a hospital, avoided the "Emergencia" door (this is not that, Thank God), and re-performed my perfected charade at an "Informacia" desk. (Most people would have had the first pharmacist write it down, but then, we're back to 'most people.') The information woman must have sensed my 'derecho/a' handicap, because she took my arm and led me down the hall.
This was the only hospital I've even been in that smelled overwhelmingly like diesel fuel. Once I was being led down the final hall to the needle, I started getting nervous about the shot. I blame this on Anna, who has been instilling a fear of sharp objects in me since the first high school blood drive. I regretted my siesta-time snack of crackers, because I suddenly wanted to throw them up.
Informacia Lady deposited me in front of a door that read "VACUNAR," knocked twice, and left me there.
I leaned against the wall next to the door and let my stomach twist itself around my nerves. I flexed my biceps to fend off needles. I know you are thinking: "Steph! You are an EMT!" I am. I have taught classes on inserting naso-pharangeal airways. But, here is my next confession: even typing the words "naso-pharangeal" kind of makes me want to throw up.
I waited for the Vacunar door to open. I shifted my weight and looked at the white tile wall I was leaning on. It was smeared with dried blood. I moved to the middle of the hallway and tried not to touch anything. I paced nervously, but didn't want to stray to far from the door, so I pivoted and paced with just one foot. This spinning didn't help the nausea.
A girl who was really hurt, and clearly in a lot of pain limped down the hall. She looked at me sympathetically. I probably looked like I was about to cry. I realized that this spinning around maneuver was not very cool, so I stopped and looked at the door, which was in the same state of closed. Of the 89 words on the door (I counted while I was trying to stand still), I understood 5 of them, not counting the "and"s and the "the"s. I tried opening the door. It didn't budge.
A line began forming behind me and the people asked me how long I had been waiting. Mercifully, I understood this question. However, I am still struggling with the difference between 'fourteen' and 'forty,' so I settled on replying 'a half hour,' which was in the neighborhood just shy of true.
After waiting an hour, and successfully not vomiting, I turned and walked out.
On the steps of the hospital, I put my head down and caught my breath. I straightened up and promised my inner child that no one was going to put a needle in her arm today. I also promised her ice cream. I walked down the steps and promptly got lost.
I eventually found a cafe and ordered "helado sabor americano," because I wanted to know what American-flavored ice cream would taste like. It's vanilla. My inner child was disappointed.
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