I arrive late to class and my stomach feels a little weird, and I think it's just nervousness over the ATM card. The teacher Karin and the classmates Karen and Miles give me an enthusiastic greeting which makes me feel like less of a fool for losing the card, and after class I have a Coke for lunch and we go on this field trip where we watch a potter make a black-clay pot from scratch. San Bartolo Coyotepec. Pretty amazing.
I have bananas and saltines at comida, just in case, and sure enough, about an hour later, the trouble starts. Silvia tells me that my face looks gray and offers to take me to the doctor. I refuse, but then go into the bathroom and have a bout of diarrhea with blood in it. Feeling dizzy and weak, I lie down on the bathroom floor. The tile is cold against my back, so, at first, I think the chills are just from that. But even after I get up, the chills continue, until I'm shaking.
Silvia catches me in the courtyard and tells me the earlier we go to the doctor the better, because the lines will be shorter. I agree and then retreat into the bathroom for the "both ends" experience, adding puking into a garbage can to my list of new and weird talents.
Soon Silvia and I are sitting in the small doctor's office adjacent to a pharmacy. I've got a plastic bag at the ready and I'm trying to tell Silvia about the clay workshop my class visited but I keep getting the name wrong. "Cual?" she says. "Que?" "No entiendo." We're killing time with constant miscommunication.
A wave of nausea and cramps hits me. "?Hay un ban~o?" I ask.
The pharmacy assistant opens a door to...a set of thirty gray, concrete stairs. I start my way up at a steady pace, hoping I'll be quick enough to get there and slow enough to avoid jarring my intestines too much. My sandals slap against the concrete. Slap. Slap. With each footfall, I say a little prayer to Saint-I-Don't-Want-To-Shit-My-Pants.
Please.
Please.
I open the door to a grimy, gray bathroom with no soap or toilet paper, but since it has a toilet not already filled with anything disgusting, I'm delighted to be there.
I do my thing, and I'm just about finished, when I hear Silvia calling to me that the doctor is ready to see me. I can't lose my place in line. Damn it. Down the stairs. Down the stairs. Same little prayers.
The doctor tests my two days of Spanish classes by asking me my date of birth and known allergies. I answer him, puke into the plastic bag, answer, puke. He palpates my belly, announces the usual case of "turista." He says, "I'm going to give you an injection now."
He's speaking Spanish, but I understand him instantly. I look down at the floor which is coated in a gray film. The baseboards are lined with quarter-inch ant-ridges of dirt and other particles.
I try to say, "I'm not going to let you give me an injection because your floor is dirty," but it comes out as, "No shot. Dirty floor."
I'm being rude to his face, but I don't care.
"Now, why are you afraid of the injection?" he asks.
I use non-verbal communication now. I hold up one finger. I open up the plastic bag with both hands. My body shakes. I puke.
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