"High schoolers suspended for Tebowing"

you know you've made it when you a neologism is created by verbing you!

Vigorexia

It would only seem natural after months of obsessing over Viggo Mortensen, his movies, his physique, that scene in Eastern Promises, that I would be diagnosed with vigorexia.  But, it is not what you think!


Vigorexia is a condition that I have only here in Spain.  You see, the other day when I was leading a discussion on common addictions, such as caffeine or internet porn, I found that the classroom full of mature adults had absolutely nothing that they wanted to admit to!  This lackluster response was either due to an inherit inability to understand my American, a personal embarrassment or I had just happened upon a large group of seriously boring people.  Lackluster.  So, what?  I could keep repeating the ills of cigarettes.  Done.  Or the addictive powers of the internet.  Boring.  The horrendous repercussions of gambling.  Same old story.  Or, I could admit to my own addiction...  exercise.


If I don't go to the gym, hike a few miles, get outside and move around - I am a cranky bastard.  Not only that, I feel despondent, don't want to eat and generally don't want to interact with anyone.  If I feel a little soft in the middle or my legs aren't toned...  If I cannot lift my backpack with complete ease...  If I am embarrassed in my clothing...  these issues trigger the likes of Mr Hyde and need to correct myself fast!


But, isn't that normal?  It's not like I am addicted to adrenaline - I am not constantly jumping out of airplanes for goodness sake - it's just that my body is telling me that exercise is good for me and that I must maintain.  Good heart, good health, right?


No.  According to these Spaniards - I have vigorexia.  In English - bixorexia.  En serio?  Now, I realize that when I go to the gym and run for an hour that I have more muscular legs than the guys.  And I realize that when I walk around in shorts - I get stares from all of the old biddies on the park benches.  And I realize that I cannot wear the Liverpudlian stripper heals because I would look like a drag queen.  But mentally ill?  I think not.


Well, at least I now know why I look so different from everyone here - more foreign than Amazonia - and why only bomberos seem to ever think to ask me on dates.  I am a physical challenge - or someone in desperate need of rehab!

Salud? En Realidad?

I need to refocus – to push myself a bit – to try new things – to sharpen my observation.  Push myself to learn about our Health Care System before I can have an intelligent conversation with my students – adults – here in Spain.  So I asked.  There is a great program by Frontline that tells some pretty ugly realities but without the sensationalism of Michael Moore.  That is what I needed.  I needed to know why, while working as a professional – most of the problems people faced never effected me.  I learned and now I know why some things are broken.  But, I can also keep to my original theory that insurance companies that work for a profit – as any good businessman does – are really the problem.  That, and their lawyers. 

But what about in a system with quote un-quote universal coverage, with standardized pricing and access to the latest technology?  Where does it fail?  Or, does it?  It seems that given the choice, most Spaniards opt for private health care (at around 60 euros a month) because of convenience and quicker access to appointments and non-emergency surgeries.  (Two weeks for a hernia as opposed to six.)  When I asked my professional adults if they would be willing to take that same 60 euros and hand it over to the government to improve the State system – no one was.  This is the exact same parallel as America asking us to fork over more taxes to pay for a system that may or may not improve by throwing more money at it.  They understood and agreed.  Americans pay 16% of their GPD on Health Care.  So what gives?  It is obviously highly inefficient.  Or, the insurance companies have a nice take.  ( I just read El Cid and can draw all sorts of parallels there, too).

And what happens when you receive free Health Care in Spain?  Why, after three years of “coverage”, you decide to take advantage of the system and get those annual checkups that you’d been missing.  You call up for an appointment on a Monday.  The doctor can see you on Thursday.  Not bad.  No long queues, nothing messy.  They clinic is beautiful and clean.  The staff professional.  You get to see the inside of your uterus live for the first time in your life and you are free to go.  Drop off the sample for the lab on the way out the door.  Wow.  They didn’t weigh you, they didn’t take your height, or your blood pressure, or anything vital.  But, you got to see that there aren’t any cobwebs in your fallopian tubes, as you suspected, so you are happy.  Downstairs, the receptionist asks for 80 euros.  What?  I thought this was free.  Look, I have my insurance card.  Here.  Newly minted.  No, no.  Step over here.  We get charged for the lab and we use a private lab.  Fine.  Can I take it to the public lab?  Yes, it is well, over there.  Oh, I have a map.  Where is it?  Um, somewhere over here.  Right.  So once you have the results, mind you, you have to bring them back to this clinic.  Fine.  Here’s my insurance card.  Well, I don’t really want it, but I will scan it anyway.  And, remember, you cannot come back here ever, for anything, as long as you shall live.  Or something to that effect.  WHAT?  I got your name from the book for crying out loud.  This town is a freaking baby factory and this is the only freaking gynecologist in town.  WTF?

So, the next day, I venture to the dentist.  Same insurance card but this time they accept it.  All rosy smiles and welcoming.  Watch the news on the flat screen next to your head and your teeth are given a cursory review for cavities.  None.  Good.  Cleaned with raspberry paste and you are good to go.  At this point you are elated to have received better treatment than at the gyno's, so you proceed to checkout and are on your way. Wait.  I know you don't really speak Spanish or really know the system, but shouldn't there be an XRay or two?  Nope.  Fluoride?  Nope.  Recommendations of toothpaste or toothbrushes?  Nope.  Six month check-up?  Por supuesto no.  Do people even really clean their teeth in this country?  Well, I do see more missing and rotting teeth here than I should when 'everyone is covered'...

But, what about emergency care?  When you go out and about exploring the environs of this beautiful paisaje, you tend to run across a cold or two and if you are extremely lucky - it may either develop into or weaken you enough that a stomach flu comes along.   It's not actually called that here.  But I have finally come to find out that I do not indeed, have a Social Security Card.  Nice as it is that the Junta de Andalusia gave me private insurance by Mapfre on top of the 'universal coverage' - it doesn't really mean shit when the receptionist has no idea how to fill out the resulting forms or whether she needs to turn me away.  Fortunately, after waiting an hour for the doctor to return from siesta (in a clinic with presumably 20 doctors), he accepted my diagnosis, listened to my belly and gave a prescription.  He asked if I had the magic prescription paper from my doctor - uh, no, I have an emergency situation - if I had a doctor - I would have gone to him.  Sin magic paper - prescription is paid out of pocket until I find a doctor to provide it.  Hmm.  Wasn't the guy with the prescription a doctor?  Well, in the end, maybe not.  It seems I was just given a script for diarrhea.  Vamos a ver.

In the end, I prefer to be sick in America.  At least I have confidence that a temperature will be taken, blood pressure, weight - something that provides a baseline or an indication other than that I can pick up my head and speak in a halting second language.  Fighting the insurance companies has never compromised my faith in our doctors.  Here, that element's gone and I still ain't confident.   

The Importance of Laughter...

which brings me to the question my friend Diana asked me about what I was thankful for at T-Day.  I'd thought of something entirely sage, like laughter, but since it wasn't spontaneous, I figure it didn't count in my original response...

But, in reality, that is what I am thankful for.  People are so damn serious.  If you take a nation of people and tell them that they cannot have alcohol (even wine dammit) and that they have to live in constant filth and basically beg for money from any stray foreigner that wanders your streets looking for "that perfect picture", then you, too, would lack a serious freaking sense of humor.  

For a large portion of our stay in Morocco - I was missing entirely that.  Humor isn't translatable in a third language and I am just a rich tourist that refuses to buy your stink-cured leather products or buy you a bowl of couscous for taking us up and down the Medina.  Until you meet a Canadian named Geordan.  

A gorgeous blonde backpacker that we, okay I, descended upon in the Jewish Medina to help fend off not one, but two of our failing local guides for the morning.  Geordan speaks French, had been backpacking through Morocco for a few weeks and had picked up some Arabic and was totally comfortable interacting with the locals.  What a pleasure.  

Whereas my American friend thought it better to ignore or bark at the locals and I was trying to politely disengage from them, Geordan bought oranges to share with the kids and smiled at everyone.  Granted, being a boy is better than being a girl.  But man, he made Fes so much more palatable.  He was not a complaining Aussie, he was not an uneducated American, he was sweet and unassuming.  That night, when we went out 'after hours' (9 pm) to get a sandwich, he was freely joking with the locals about what condiments to use.  They do laugh.  Its at night.  When the tourists are in bed.  It was refreshing.  A day without laughter....  just sucks ;)

Hammam-in'

Across the street from our hostel was an honest to goodness local hamman.  Real women.  5 euros each.  Heck ya.

Since we do not speak French, we asked the concierge (for lack of a better title) to introduce us at the door and in we went.  the rest would have to be communicated by gesture.  

Take off your clothes and put them on the bench.  Check.  We had heard that these were all nude affairs and I'd convinced April that I was game for that, but as I'd started my regla unexpectadly, I went with bathing shorts.  She had pretty, scandalous undies... and kept them on.  Good thing as that turned out to be more apropos.  Okay, go in.  And, we did.  women were sitting on small stools sloshing themselves with water from large buckets on the ground.  their personal buckets had soap and oils and brushes and things.  

April and I just stood there like two total white foreigners looking around like meerkats and having not a clue what to do.  There were no free stools. No obviously unused buckets and noone would even look in our direction.  Shit.  Onto the next room.  Okay, more people.  Some kids.  more sloshing.  Warmer.  But, no progress.  Still standing the middle.  White and tattooed.  Onto the next room.  Okay, its the last room.  Women lined the walls washing themselves and buckets were being refreshed in the trough in the corner.  Warmer still.  Finally, we were gestured to the corner.  buckets were moved our pads were grabbed and placed on the floor and we were told to douse.  Done.  

still unsure, we proceeded to observe the rituals of the other women and suspected that the order was to wash our hair.  okay.  that could take some time. eventually, our guardian widow, aka arabian mamacita, came to our aide.  she slopped some paste soap on our legs and told us to rub it all over.  check.  then, i rinsed.  bad idea.  when AM came back - she had a black skin-removing glove and proceeded to rake my appendages like a lawn.  not too hard.  not uncomfortable, but ribbons of skin beading on my arms indicated that I was a dirty girl and though I'd previously felt clean - long overdue.  we got arms, legs, back.  and when we didn't remove our grundies, she pulled them open at the front like an abuela and splashed us down there, too.  

all quite humorous and all in good fun.  April and I were giggling throughout.  I'd heard AM mention that we were foreigners, duh, to the local women, and they were all respectfully inattentive to us.  I think I saw AM crack a smile, but I was not entirely sure until she smacked me on the ass to hustle me out.

Thanksgiving

An eclectic mix of ex-patriots 'down under' in Andalusia lends for a very festive if not eventful Turkey Day treat.  At the insistence of una Americana, we decided to pot-luck our favorite traditional dishes and drag them over to her rental ...

In preparations, flurries of FB messages earmarked which dishes to cook, beverages were purchased and a tree of thanks was created as inspiration for our minions.  Leaves of every shape and color.

let's just say, I am really glad my mother is an excellent cook and created more variety a la vegetables than the traditional American family.  There were four separate potato dishes!  The turkey was delish - even if it looked like a scorched cat - it had been basted in a honey glaze and initially fired too long.  But, of course, my Grammy-style sweet potatoes with marshmallows was the hit.  Cranberry sauce de dried cranberries was the definite coup de etat.   We were able to share with a few locals who bravely dipped into the strange casseroles and left feeling as bloated and stuffed as we did!

so, other than delicious Spanish wine and the generosity of spirit of the occasion, what can one actually be thankful for whilst living so far away from home?  just that.  generosity of spirit and good wine.  often they come hand in hand.  without one you likely lack the other...  Thank goodness for Spain!

and of course, for the American spirit of tradition... ;)