Gypsy Healthcare

After I graduated college, I rewarded myself by visiting my friend who was living in Spain at the time.  She was living in Almeria, the southern most point in Spain.  I visited Almeria, Barcelona, Madrid, and Granada.

(Almeria is the Southern most point of Spain. It’s a big vacation spot for Europeans in the summer.)

Barcelona was my favorite.  The Sangrada Familia was so awe inspiring, that for a moment (the first in years, and last in years) I actually believed there was a God.

(Inside the last church that I prayed in and actually meant it.)

I went to Madrid and Granada by myself.  I didn’t tell my folks I was visiting these cities alone.  I would tell them years later… like right now, in this blog post.  Madrid was fine, because it’s a metropolis.  I ended up meeting some kids who went to NYU in the Palace.  Most everyone spoke English, so it was easy to get around.  Granada, not so much.

(The Palace in Madrid.)

Upon arrival in Grenada, I quickly learned that not only did people not speak English here, but they did not give a shit that it was getting dark, and you’re just a lone, scared 21-year-old American girl trying to find her hostel.  Some friendly police officers directed me where to go.  If you’ve been to Europe, then you already know that the streets were made long, long ago, so they bend and turn, and don’t make any fucking sense, and their street signs are little plaques on buildings, and basically you feel like a mouse in a scientists lab.

I did find my hostel, and I had done extensive research to find a good one because of my crippling fear of getting bed bugs or fleas, or getting stabbed in my sleep, so it was actually pretty nice for nineteen euro a night.  I had a private room, but a shared bathroom.  Fortunately for me, there was no one else staying in my section, so I had the bathroom to myself.  I went to dinner across the street from the hostel, because I feared leaving the vicinity and getting lost in the dark.  Granada was a bit sketchy.  I wasn’t comfortable.  So much so, that I stole the steak knife from the restaurant I ate at.  I slept with it, the steak knife.  The next morning, I hid it on the window ledge when I check out of the hostel.  I feared I would get searched at the Alhambra.  That’s why I went to Granada, to see, no not see, experience the Alhambra…

(Originally built by the Moors during the Middle Ages, the Alhambra ad it’s own running water before that was a thing. Architecturally stunning, innovative, and survived wars, bombings, and multiple take-overs.)

For what it’s worth, being alone and scared in a foreign city is an experience I think everyone should have.  Your senses heighten, and putting yourself outside your comfort zone is healthy sometimes.  In the morning, I felt much better.  They city was alive.  The people still didn’t want to help you though.  Seriously, Granada made New York City seem like Munchinkinland.

The Alhambra exceeded my expectations.  I got lost in it’s detailed architecture and rich history.  I was happy I came.  I left dreaming about the stories and characters that once occupied that palace, feeling cultured, and well, a bit brave.  When I left, I was in my head, lost in a story I was writing in my mind.  My guard was down. I was admiring a church when a lady handed me rosemary.

I’m from New York.  I shouldn’t have taken it.  I should’ve been paying attention.  I should’ve known this woman was a gypsy.  But I took the rosemary, without thinking.  And then she grabbed my palm and started ranting in Spanish.

(Much to my surprise, Gypsies don’t look anything like this.)

“No hablo Espanol,” I explained.

After years of Spanish class in high school and college, the best I could do was pick up bits and pieces of what she was telling me.  At some point she said, “embarazado.” Which I knew meant pregnant.

You should know that going on an airplane can fuck up your period.  Something about changing altitude throws it off.  I had missed my period.  I had also had sex not too long before I left for the trip, so suddenly, I was very interested in what this gypsy lady was telling me.

“Embarazada?” I panicked.

“Si,” the gypsy pointed at my stomach, “Dos.”

“Dos? Dos?! Ahora?”

“No, no. En tiempo.”

“Embarazado in the future, right? Si? Not ahora.”

“En tiempo.”

“Jesus, don’t scare me like that. Gracias,” I said with a sigh of relief as I tried to walk away. Then she stepped in front of me. And what sounded like perfect English to me she said:

“Five Euros.”

“What? No, no. No dinero. I’m broke. No dinero.”

“Five Euros.” She help up her hand with five fingers, as if I didn’t understand.

“I don’t have any cash. Lo siento. No dinero.”

“Five Euros.”

Then I see it.  The other gypsies.  They looked like regular citizens, but they started caving in.  There were three or four.  Shit.  I grabbed whatever coins I had in my pocket, which probably amounted to three euros and change.  I practically threw the money at her face, and hastily made my way out of there.

About a year later, I found myself in my gynecologists office.  I had not gotten my period in over a month.  After a $20 co-pay, and $20 for a lab test, for a total of $40, the doctor told me I wasn’t pregnant, and my lack of a period was likely due to stress.  Fucking stress.  $40.  In retrospect, five euros was a bad deal at all.