Clinica Anglo Americana

Raise your hand if you've ever wanted to experience another country's health care system while travelling. Everyone got their hands by their sides? Yeah. Me too.

This is being written from hospital in San Isidro, the suburb next to Miraflores. They actually call it a clinic, but that must be a cultural thing, because this would be bigger than any clinic I've ever seen back home.

On the phone with my travel insurance provider prior to coming here, I was assured that they had worked out payment details with the clinic, and that I wouldn't have to pay anything. A relief.

Here, in the emergency room, I was informed that the deal they worked out with my insurance provider was only in respect to a hospital stay. To see a doctor, I'll have to pay now and then get my insurance provider to reimburse me. Less relieving.

For those wondering, this doesn't feel particularly urgent to me. It's just day six of diarrhea. Yes, I'm probably very dehydrated. Yes, I can hardly eat, so I'm likely short of all kinds of nutrients. But emergency?

It was my professor de español who convinced me. She is the one who pointed out all that is likely going wrong with my body. The fact that my lunch had just been evacuated lent strength to her words.

Now I'm here and they want a sample. They have given me a tiny tupperware that easily fits in the palm of my hand. Along with a proportionally tiny shovel. All of which makes me a little nervous. Am I supposed to hold the tupperware underneath me as I release? Because I'm not sure that shovel will be particularly effective at scooping up what is almost entirely liquid. But I'm equally uncertain that holding the tupperware underneath me will result in anything more than an intense need to wash my hand.

But, for now, I'm sitting here on the bowl. No decision to make, yet.

I'm just sitting.

And nothing.

For the first time in days.

Is happening.

Surreality

In the heart of Miraflores, the barrio of Lima where I am staying, is an archaeological dig. A pre-Incan temple is being unearthed and, in places, rebuilt. Huaca Pucllana.

Their theories explaining what they've found are interesting. 

Like they've found that the bricks used to construct this pyramid are placed vertically, as opposed to horizontally which is what most constructions do, along with space between the bricks, as opposed to having them stuck together. Their theory being that this would give the structure protection from the frequent earthquakes that the Lima region experiences.

Or, they've found decapitated bodies of young women inside the walls of the pyramid wearing jewellery that they associate with the rich elite of that time period. Their theory being that the children of the highest class were sacrificed in periods of strife to placate the earth goddess.

And while all of that is interesting, it ignores the complete surreality of an archaeological dig in the middle of a city. Of how a society interacts with something like that. Because it has only been an archaeological dig for thirty-three years. Prior to that it has been an obstacle for people looking to build their homes, so they had to move the pyramid out of their way to lay their foundations. A target for graverobbers looking for ancient artefacts of value. And, as a site for the graves of early Chinese immigrants who did not have access to the Catholic cemeterios. 

El sol

Considering the national currency is the sol, I somehow thought I would see more of it while in Lima. Not the currency, but the sun itself, el sol.

It is cloudy. It has been continuously cloudy since I landed Friday morning. A local told me that she hadn't seen the sun in at least three weeks. "That's winter," she said.

Today, between the minutes of 16h36 and 16h39, the sun came out.

Problems

The last two and a half days have been more or less confined to the hostel. Digestive problems would be the polite way of saying what's happening to me.

There's no way, for me, of knowing why this is happening. My anxiety can manifest itself physically, and stressors abound here.

This is a party hostel, so relating to many of the other travellers is difficult. I don't play beer pong. I don't get hammered every night (or any night) crashing at five in the morning and sleeping until the afternoon. I don't spend all my time (or any of my time) trying to hook up with the other people here.

There isn't anyone with me. I didn't travel with or to anyone, so there's no one to rely on but me, and socially, it's interact with the others in the hostel or the locals or no one at all.

And the locals pose their own problem for me. I don't know what to do when an attractive woman is flirting with me past the point that could be considered flirting. I don't understand why it is happening. I know it's not because I'm just that good looking. It's only when the waitress hands me the bar tab with more than just my drinks on it that I can understand what is happening.

Money. I am constantly calculating the cost of everything in Canadian dollars. Visualizing my bank account. Thinking about how much school costs.

But maybe it's not even anxiety. Maybe I'm sick. Or maybe I have food poisoning.

I had all that fresh fruit in D.F.. That maracuya within hours of touching down here.

Tacos with I have no idea what meat inside. Ceviche, raw fish, on the streets of Lima. Sure, the locals were eating it, but they're used to it.

So I've done something I didn't want to do. I have Imodiumed myself. In a few hours my frequent trips to the bathroom will replace themselves with the opposite problem. But flying however much around the world I did to get here and not leaving the hostel for two and a half days out of a five week trip is turning into yet another stressor.

Surprise

Having been to Sur America before, there are things that don't surprise me about Miraflores.

You can't toss a one Sol coin without having it fall into a slot machine. This is not a surprise.

There are big chain fast food shops all over the place. McDonalds. Burger King. Pizza Hut. KFC (that's what it's called here). Sad, but not surprising.

For coffee there's Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts. Even sadder, still not surprising.

On the surprising end, they put Americans to shame with their penchant for flag waving. Places of business, houses, apartments, cars, there are Peruvian flags everywhere. Many, curiously, as just the red white red stripes, without the coat of arms in the centre, kind of like a Canadian flag without the maple leaf in the centre. This surprised me a lot.

But, imagine my surprise when, walking around town to register for español classes, to buy some maracuyas at the market, and to eat some street food, I see more branches of a Canadian bank, than I would see branches of that bank while running similar errands in the streets of Montréal.

Peligroso

Twelve hour layover in Lima two years ago. Shivered in the all too air conditioned airport. Walked through every shop often enough that I could have written up inventories. Only ate once because I couldn't justify forking over that kind of cash twice. Was convinced that the airport was in a dangerous part of town. Peligroso.

Nine hour layover in Mexico D.F. today. Withdrew two hundred pesos from my account, ignorant of the exchange rate. Ate some tacos on the road. Bought a bottle of water. Bought a fruit salad the size of my head that was covered in salt, lime juice, chili pepper, and spicy sauce. Large enough that I was unable to finish it. Later, had ten more tacos (the small ones) and a cinnamon bun in a small market near a bus station.

In September, I go back to school for the third time. The last time I studied in français I was still legally a child. The last time I studied at all, I went into more debt than I've earned in the last two years working a minimum wage job. The last time I studied, I ended up a hermit. Drunk. Never leaving the house. I ended up needing more years of therapy than I have years of studying coming my way.

In September, I face the potential for history to repeat itself.

Peru

Tickets? Booked.

Health insurance? Purchased.

Hostel? Reserved.

Rucksack? Packed.

Lift? Mike.

Digestive tract? Blocked.

We

Wow, you're a beautiful woman, I say after she says something about not finding herself attractive.

"Obviously," she says, "we think like that, or we wouldn't be here."

Leaning in closer, I stumble on the word it. It. It.

"Is there something you want to say?"

Yes, it, it bothers me that you don't find yourself beautiful, because I've spent all night thinking about kissing you.

"Why shouldn't you?"

Why shouldn't I want to kiss you?

"Why shouldn't you kiss me?"

Still leaning in, I stay statue still, and she turns her head away.

Gently, my hand moves forward, my fingers lightly touching her on the cheek, and her head turns.

We kiss.

I'm cheering for you

One of my favourite games is called Ricochet Robots. Every round, a robot and endpoint are chosen at random and the players stare at the board until they can figure out how to get the robot to the endpoint using as few moves as possible.

When I play, to me, it feels a lot like programming, the goal is elegance, because the elegant solution is often the best one, however, often times, a brute force solution will be arrived at faster.

But that's not my favourite part, my favourite part of the game is, after I come up with a solution, the other players have one minute to come up with a better one. And I love it when they do. I love seeing their more elegant than mine solutions. For me, it's a game that encourages cheering on your play partners.

We, her and I, we were playing a different game, one that doesn't encourage you to cheer for the person you're playing with. But I still was. I told her as such while we played. "I'm cheering for you to win." And when the final scores were displayed, she had indeed won. My smile towards her was genuine.

Her dream is to have a baby.

She knows I can't.

Two questions

Our third date followed a conversation with my ex on the telephone. She asked me many things before deciding to take a break from my existence, but in the middle two questions showed up.

Are you in love with her?

Will you fall in love with her?

As my friend says, if you could answer that second question, it would certainly make dating easier.

That day, my digestive system shut down. I was bloating. My breakfast. My pre gym shake. My post gym shake. A sandwich for lunch. They were all sitting in my stomach, pushing it out.

Unlike our last two dates, my smiles were rarer. I didn't talk as much. I couldn't go grab a bite to eat, or even drink the beer I ordered at the bar.

She asked about what was going on, not trusting that I was indeed experiencing food poisoning, and I explained to her about the phone conversation. I told her every question posed to me by my ex. Except those two.

Pigs

When I was younger, I made the mistake of telling people I liked pigs. It started slowly, a piggy bank for Christmas, a little figurine for my birthday, but eventually I only received pig themed gifts. Dish towels with pig images. Pig themed toques. CDs of pig noises.

My grandmother, I think, took it hardest when I told people I no longer collected pigs. That I was pigged out.