We never really know when life's ready to take a left-hand turn, do we? My little existence reminded me about that all over again this morning when I found myself too close to a heated political discussion. (Can't we all just get along? Friends don't let friends argue about politics. [Insert other easily-adaptable clichés here.])
This a.m., shortly before noon: me, in one of the local cafeterías, finishing up a cup of espresso and a glass of water. Lots of people about, all making conversation. Including three 30-something males positioned between me and the counter, talking loud politics. I finish up, get to my feet, grab now-empty coffee cup and glass, go to leave them at the bar. As I pass the 30-somethings, the hands of the one nearest me -- voice already loud in a fit of mid-argument pique -- fly out and up in an emphatic gesture, one striking my right hand, driving the water glass into my upper nose where it breaks apart, producing an explosion of blood.
Damn, what a moment -- so intense, so unexpected that I burst into astonished laughter. Until I saw many stunned faces staring at me, heard a strange silence, felt substantial quantities of blood running down my face. (Those darned head and face wounds get right down to the business of bleeding profusely.) People gathered around, napkins were proferred.
Amazingly:
-- All broken bits of glass wound up in the water tumbler, leaving no pesky splinters and shards on floor, clothing, etc.
-- No blood wound up on clothes or shoes.
Don't know how I managed any of that.
Two kind individuals helped me get the bleeding contained, examining the wound as best they could. Deep, they said, but not too extensive. Activity in the cafetería had by then begun to resume some normalcy, people drifting back to food, conversation, etc. Some cast sideways glances at me, clearly discussing the entertainment I'd just provided. At some point, I looked around for the guy who'd triggered this joyous event, discovered he'd bolted in all the hubbub, along with his two argumates. Ah, well. Should I ever see him again, we'll have an especially meaningful memory to share.
Someone walked me to my building, I came upstairs on my own. Once inside, I eeled my way out of upper-body clothing, cleaned up my face, spent a long time applying direct pressure to the wound with paper towels to stop the bloodflow. The folks in the cafetería were right: deep cuts, not too extensive. Deep enough to warrant stitches. Applied a band-aid to spare the general public the sight of my new facial alteration, consulted a map, headed out to an emergency room.
In my only other E.R. experience here [see entries of February 18 and 19, 2002], I went to a huge hospital in one of Madrid's southwest neighborhoods. This time around, I found a small clinic a couple of Metro stops north of here. Small, efficient, uncrowded. With no waiting.
No waiting!
I showed up, they took my info., immediately ushered me in to see a 60ish female doctor. (Fast tangent: I recently learned that a slang word for doctor here is 'matasanos' -- literally, 'kill healthy ones.' Like the old Stateside term 'sawbones.') Formal, this woman, kind of stiff. Took notes while I told my story, instructed me to lay down on her examining table. She poked around the wound, cleaned it up. A P.A. joined her, they applied a local while filling me in on what they were about to do (there is nothing quite like the sensation of a large needle going into the side of one's nose), then tossed an operating blind over my face, began stitching away with happy abandon.
As they worked, a male stood in the hallway outside the office, talking on a mobile phone. Part of his side of the conversation: "¿Sí? ¿Sí? ¿Sí? ¿Sí? ¡Joder!" ("Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? Fuck!!")
Post-sewing, they covered the stitches with a sizeable white bandage, then sent me downstairs for a fast x-ray (no waiting!), the resulting image materializing immediately. They informed me I was fine, scheduled me to return next week for stitches-removal, sent me back out into the sunlight.
I'd sported a discrete, skin-colored bandage during the trip to the E.R., attracting little attention on the street and in the Metro. The bugger the clinic slapped on me was designed to attract as much attention as possible. Many people stared, all attempted at least a pretense of discretion -- all except a young woman who glanced my way, then made a face of horror.
And it was a spectacular spring afternoon -- air warm, sunshine pouring down from blue skies, people sitting at tables outside restaurants eating, chatting. Plants on balcones have burst into flower in an abrupt, explosive show of primary colors, while drying laundry has also appeared on many of those same balconies, blossoming in a parallel show of color.
I live a charmed life. An experience like this comes along, passes quickly, I get a good story out of it. I may not tell it all that well, but the story itself is not bad. And it gets me counting my blessings, the many gifts that are strewn throughout my life in ridiculous abundance.
Meanwhile, Easter weekend is underway here. Tonight's news showed video clips of long traffic jams extending out from Madrid toward the coast. The city is quiet, most commercial concerns will be closed tomorrow and Friday. A good opportunity to catch up on sleep, get some reading done, go to a movie. The weather folks have warned of a drop in temperature overnight, of colder days than we've had recently.
As with most everything in this life, that'll pass. On to the weekend.
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 1:39 PM [+]