Totally sick holidays, part 4

Sprog 1 started pissing blood yesterday (that vomit fountain wasn’t caused by Fartons, palm oil-fried crackers, bananas, a virus or car sickness after all). Going by how challenging it was to get a beer from the apathetic and non-English-speaking hotel staff, I didn’t anticipate getting medical assistance would be a walk in the park. After finally wrestling the front desk guy’s attention from his constant mobile phoning, only to have him indicate there was no medical attention to be had in the whole Spanish city of Girona, Husband took matters – and his iPad – into his own hands and found a clinico. And so the rest of our final day in Spain was spent in an emergency room instead of strolling along the top of Girona’s medieval fortifications. The final verdict: a UTI, as I’d predicted (Husband was initially skeptical, as he thinks I have a tendency to dramatise after that time I made him rush Sprog 2 to hospital with me-diagnosed kidney failure). We met lots of lovely, friendly people at the hospital and it was fascinating to watch how little effect one of my few Spanish phrases “no habla Espangol” had in staunching their rapid-fire questioning of me in their native tongue. Kind of like how Americans/Aussies etc think just talking louder to non-English-speaking people will get their point across. Luckily a pink urine sample did the trick where words couldn’t and we moved onto our next challenge: finding a pharmacy open on a Saturday afternoon. Oh, and the small problem of a nice girl called Jess waiting for us three hours away in France at the cottage we’d rented, at the precise moment we were administering Sprog 1’s first lot of antibiotics in another country entirely. Pay phones aren’t that easy to come by in Spain’s mobile age, even harder than Saturday afternoon pharmacists. But we got there in the end, Sprog 1 is on the mend, we’ve stocked up with lots of French cheese, sausage, bread and wine, and all is well in the world again.

LAST NIGHT’S MENU: Cooked at the table on a fabulous contraption called a “raclette”, created for the sole purpose of melting raclette cheese to pour over bread, potatoes, meat etc: Ingenious.

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