It had to happen. With all this traveling, on three planes, three
trams, eight taxicabs, three trains, and a bus, amid clouds of foreign viruses
to which we are not immune, despite obsessive hand washing, we were bound to contract an illness.
Two weeks into our vacation in Thailand, ten years ago, I
became so wracked with fever and chills that I threw myself on the mercy of a
pharmacist. In Thailand, the pharmacist, not the doctor, is the ultimate answer
to most medical problems. Pharmacies there have signs proclaiming: “PHARMACIST
HELP YOU!” They dispense every possible kind of medication, including serious
antibiotics that would require HMO approval and a nuisance office visit in the
States. All I had to do there was walk in, gesture feebly with a hand to my forehead and make a
woeful expression, and pharmacist indeed helped me. But I still remember several
miserable days.
Now, two and a half weeks into our vacation in Europe,
same-same. Bill has been preparing Knorr minestrone for us, but tomorrow I plan to consult a
handsome Italian pharmacist--in fact any Italian
pharmacist, I don't care, he can have warts--so that I may enjoy some more of this town’s delightful cuisine
before we leave.
On the other hand, this way, we might not gain weight in Italy.
No comments:
Post a Comment