The 50 Cent Foul-up
It
was only last month that I happened to write, “… we bolted beyond the scenery
of our front door to where else but Italy, this time for three months of whatever may happen”. Little did I anticipate the come what may intuition
buried in those highlighted, open-ended words.
There is a high-altitude
wind that blows northeast from Africa with hurricane force. Known as the Sirocco Wind it is generated
when a low-pressure system along the shores of the Mediterranean pulls warm,
dry air from the nearby Sahara Desert.
This action causes dust to be sucked-up to high altitudes for easy
transport across the Med to Europe. It
is a common occurrence especially in summer months. Situated as we are in southern Italy, east of
Naples (but then just about all of Italy is) we see evidence of this phenomenon
whenever we venture out, regardless of the season. It’s no wonder that a Tuscan friend, years
back, once told us we lived in Africa! Africa
it is not, yet as I was making my way to Josephine’s Market for some daily staples
recently, I couldn’t help but notice grasses and weeds sprouting from roof-edge
gutters, and here and there along the edges of terracotta roof tiles. It is amazing to me that over time, the
fallout from the Sirocco, which is what it basically is, has deposited enough
organic material along its path to support the growth of this vegetation. When the Sirocco is in action, the dust
doesn’t care where it settles. Leave a door
or window open, and it stealthily makes its way inside on a cooling breeze to
the despair of many a housewife who’s just mopped her marble floors. There are days when I’ve seen it accumulate overnight
on Bianco’s windshield like a fine pink cosmetic blush. Ever so slowly, unexpectedly, and without
notice it just happens. Life is like
that, unexpectedly things just happen.
We arrived at
the Ospedale San Giovanni di Dio
(Melfi Regional Hospital) emergency room at 10:30 am. It had been a 45-minute
journey over hill and dale from Calitri. I’d been driving, and by this point it wasn’t
an emergency, maybe it never had been.
Along with us was our friend, Titti (T-T), who would serve as our translator. That, at least, we had anticipated and
luckily, she was available. When we
entered the Pronto Soccorso (Emergency
Room) there were about 25-30 people already waiting. It was not immediately clear what the process
might be. Everyone was seated in a hall-like
room overlooked by a large glass window.
While there wasn’t any blood visible anywhere, there were prominent
signs explaining their color-coded levels of triage ranging from rosso (critical), giallo (urgent situation),
verde (situation not grave), and bianco (nothing urgent), based as it said on the gravity of the
case. This was the closest orthopedic
hospital in our region but first let me explain how we got to be there.
We’d been in
Italy for a few weeks by the time we headed off to Polignano a Mare on Puglia’s
Adriatic coast for a change of scenery. By
then, there had been a changeout in our visitors. Leslie and Lilly had returned to the States
and our daughter’s husband, Michael, had arrived to add to the number of men in
Calitri named “Michaele”. We’d visited Puglia
many times before and wanted our family to also experience its intriguing
cliffside cities along the sea, so one day off we ventured into the morning sun. We were staying at lovely B&B Dimora delle Rondini in
Polignano who’s only drawback was that it was on the top
floor of a three-story building, without an elevator of course. Here I advise caution to all those who travel
adventurously with multiple suitcases and every pair of shoes they own. Try it and discover that less equals happier. I doubt I’ve ever meet a traveler claiming
they’re sorry they hadn’t brought more along.
The region of Puglia,
south of Bari, offers a picturesque coastline of sabbia (sand) wedged between rocky outcroppings enough to generate 800
kms of the finest beaches in all of Italy. Here and there, white limestone pillars dot
the shore like watery signposts announcing you’ve arrived. Moving down the coast, blockhouse style watchtowers,
that once warned of pirate attacks, add man- made monoliths to nature’s majesty. Rocky rustic or saltshaker sandy, these
beaches feature the cleanest, see-through water sprinkled every shade of blue
imaginable. Now and again, strikingly
regional trabucco fishing machines,
thought to be Phoenician in origin, jut from their rocky perches. Poles like giant lobster antennas, swathed
with nets, extend out over the water from a platform. A winch mechanism dips the nets below the
surface of the water, hopefully, to later be hoisted with a rewarding catch. Ancient Puglian towns like Polignano a Mare sit
atop these limestone cliffs all along the coast. Beneath them, the Adriatic sea’s incessant
actions have gouged caves big enough to explore by boat. We looked forward to sharing all these
irresistible sights: the caves, the towns, and of course the soft golden sandy beaches
with our visiting family members.
Following our
arrival and check-in, we had lunch at “Neuro”, a restaurant in the old town’s
main square, Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, followed afterword by a quick tour of
the town. There had been a storm at sea
and high surf put off the chance of any cave exploring by boat from nearby Fear
Cove. It remained that way our entire stay. There would not be a boat tour of the caves
or the opportunity to jump overboard and swim in the caves as we’d envisioned. We needed a Plan B.
Plan B materialized
in the form of a next day excursion to Castellana Grotte, a cave system
formed about 90 million years ago beneath a nearby town of the same name. In an amazing scenario of stalactites,
stalagmites, concretions, canyons, lofty domes, in addition to incredibly shaped
fictitious inhabitants, colors, and precious crystals, nature has molded the caverns into one of the most important attractions in Puglia. The cave network went on for miles, but ours
would be an abbreviated tour. Our
excursion would cover a distance of 1 km, 70 meters below the surface, all at a
refreshing temperature of 65 deg F verses the 80 plus degree temperature we
were experiencing on the surface. Not
knowing we’d be grouped into tours with scheduled departure times, we’d arrived
out of sync and had to kill almost two hours waiting for our 50-minute English
guided tour to begin. We accommodated
the time breach in a shaded garden-like café before joining the growing line of
anxious spelunkers.
It was right
about then that I learned a new Italian word, caduta. Maria Elena thought
it wise to go to the bathroom before heading off on the tour. There’d be no chance for a stop once the tour
got underway. As we waited in line she
noticed a restroom in the piazza and walked over to investigate. Apparently to use it, she’d need 50 centesimi, or just over 50 cents. As she was walking back toward us, all the while
looking in her purse in hope that she might have the necessary exact change,
she walked off the edge of the piazza. When
I was a kid, I’d wear Weejun loafers.
Back then, sneakers were worn for gym class and blue jeans were what
farmers wore. As I recall, they were
called “penny-loafers”. Mare went with
the conventional penny slid into the convenient tab on top of each shoe, which
wasn’t really useful for anything beyond aesthetics. Without a clue what “aesthetics” even meant (it
sounded like athletics to me), I inserted dimes in mine just in case I might
need to make a phone call. Yes, absent
cellphones, a telephone call from a little shelter called a phone booth was
only a dime back then, and yes, we went to high school together. In this instance, a shoe with bigger slots
for 50 cent EU coins would certainly have helped Maria Elena, possibly saving
the day. While the terrace continued, she
had not noticed that it changed levels, not by much, only about 5 inches, but
enough of a step down that unexpected as it was, she fell (caduta). Thankfully, she didn’t
hit her head and overall did a pretty good roll if you were into grading it,
but still enough of a caduta to
apparently twist her ankle, or so we suspected. Sure enough, it began to swell. While an attendant got a chemical ice pack,
we got her comfortably situated in the shade.
Smiling and downplaying the incident, while repeatedly announcing she’d
be alright which she routinely does whenever she is injured, Mare insisted we
continue with the tour while she’d wait for us.
She couldn’t have gotten far in 50 minutes anyway!
Over the next
few days the swelling seemed to go down.
The ankle looked better. Along
with elevating it above the level of her heart, as everyone would advise,
taping it with a sort of ace bandage, and applying ice-packs, she invented a
new use for our room’s bidet and would soak her ankle there in cool water while sipping wine. She could walk on it, but
it was tender. We were encouraged when
she told us how painful it had been once when she’d broken a toe, and this was
nothing like that. We couldn’t find a
place that would rent a wheelchair or borrow one from one of the old women who
would sit in the street late on afternoons, but we were able to get her a cane
with an arm cup for added support. It
was made of aluminum, was adjustable in length, and even came with a red
reflector in the handle for added visibility at night, although we knew she
wouldn’t be out on the streets sauntering along in the evening any time soon. The three story hike up and down the stairs to
our apartment, meant for people with two good feet, didn’t help. Slow and easy does it, a step at a time, she’d
make it.
We still had a
day to go before returning to Calitri.
With the surf still “unboatworthy”, we decided to go to the beach. Mirella, our B&B hostess, recommended a private
beach in Locale Capitolo to our south called “Sabbiadoro” (Golden Sand). Here was a classic example of one of those ultra-organized
Italian beaches with uniformed attendants, a colorful umbrella tree-farm, easy
access bars and cabanas, everything you’d expect. We thought Maria Elena could relax on a
sunbed in the shade of an umbrella and occasionally venture into the water for
refreshing breaks, even soak her foot. That turned out not to work well. Waves and the soft sand beneath her one good
foot, that would erode with each arriving wave, didn’t allow her to stand in the
water. Sitting down wasn’t any better either
because she’d get battered like a piece of driftwood by those after-storm
waves. One try was enough, especially
after the lifeguards arrived to investigate.
That’s how bad it must have looked.
She didn’t mind a bit. Some
lotion, a chilled bottle of prosecco and bowl of fries proved just what the
doctor would have ordered. How times
have changed, we used to refer to it as “suntan lotion”, now it’s “sunblock”! All
in all, aside from a little tanning, we made a good day of it.
It was late on
Friday, three days after Mare had rolled her ankle, when we returned to
Calitri. We decided then that we’d visit
a doctor on Monday. Titti met us at the
doctor’s office that morning about 9 am.
There are no appointments, you simply sit in the waiting area and on a
first-come, first-served basis, which everyone tracks like a hawk, you get to
see the doctor. We were in his office
all of two minutes max. After Titti
explained what had happened, he just glanced at her ankle and immediately proclaimed
that she needed an X-ray. So much for
that, but like a Primary Care Physician back home, you needed to touch base
with a doctor to authorize further treatment.
They referred to getting the X-ray as a prescription. Ten minutes later we entered the Centro Diagnostico alta Irpinia. When it was her turn, she was taken to an
X-ray room and asked to stand on a metal flange on the floor and hold onto a
handle at her side. Soon in position,
she was quite surprised when the support behind her began to tilt backwards
away from her. After all these years, I
can honestly say Mare is not mechanically inclined and hadn’t figured it out, although
in her defense nothing had been said, there had been no forewarning. Seems the machine, like a utility dolly, was beginning
to lean her back into a prone position with her as the cargo. Once horizontal, the head of the X-ray unit
was positioned over her foot. It was a
rather dated unit. As the technician made
final adjustments, Maria Elena later told us how she’d asked for a lead shielded
apron, which was her expectation whenever radiation was involved. He apparently hadn’t planned to provide one
but kindly accommodated her. The results
were not encouraging. He reported that Maria
Elena had two fractures and a small break … I recall the “5th metatarsal”
being mentioned. The next day, back at
the doctor’s office, we were quickly informed that we next needed to visit the
orthopedic department at the Melfi Hospital since there were no orthopedic
doctors in Calitri.
The long and
short of it faithfully summarized, my story now unspooled, those were the
events and “missteps” that got us to the Melfi Emergency Room. It soon became clear that the glass window
and what lay behind it was the ER operations center. Inside we could see what appeared to be a curly
haired, blond nurse in a maroon uniform taking the vital signs of an earlier
arrival. A crowd of limping and assisted
newcomers soon appeared and cued-up. Fortunately,
we were next. Inside the office we
provided the necessary information which was dutifully entered into a computer
and then we rejoined the crowd of patients who’d apparently already been
processed, waiting with a submissive resignation so typical of the Italian
temperament. How long they’d been
waiting, I was afraid to ask.
We were called
30 minutes later. Halleluiah, we thought
we were on our way to getting Maria Elena’s foot issue addressed. Our hopes were dashed, however, when an attendant
rolled Mare inside swinging doors, past a Jesus and Mary corner shrine, and
down a corridor to another room where a rather gruff, middle-aged man, whom at
first, I took to be a doctor, reviewed our information and asked for more. When another attendant arrived whom Titti
knew and who just happened to be from Calitri, it took no time before Titti got
to talking about Calitri, the local pasta dish, “cannazze”, and the Tre Rose Ristorante. It was so typically Italian. She’d apparently struck a nerve or else he was
hungry, for it cropped the mood which seemed to instantly change, laughter
erupted, invitations were exchanged, and now 100% approved, Mare was rolled
back to the waiting room where the faces, now familiar, remained the same. Thank God for Titti.
By this point, I
was having a hard time understanding how Italy was medically ranked so high. Could it be accounted for by their rate of
taxation, among the heaviest in all of Europe, where citizens and corporations
pay around 50%, not counting a VAT tax as high as 22%? We understood that medically they were up
there in the top ten. So far, I wasn’t
impressed but then we really hadn’t seen a doctor or the system in motion. In 2000, the World Health Organization (WHO)
ranked the performance of 191-member states toward achieving health care system
goals. Reading through the report, the
author’s rating criteria are complicated.
The results are hard to swallow when it is common to hear reports of
people from all over the world coming to the USA for medical treatment. The subject, however, was reform, or to the
laymen, improvement. “Reform”, that
helped explain why Italy was ranked #2 just behind France while the good old
USA was listed behind Morocco (29th) and just after 37th placed Costa
Rica. Typically American, throwing money
at the problem seemed to help, for the US placed first in “Per Capita
Expenditure”. The USA spends a whopping
17% of GDP, outstripping all its peers, on a patchwork of medical services and
insurance programs with little to show for it. It ranked 11th in a more recent
Commonwealth Fund report. Returning to
an Italian focus, my suspicion is that as you move northward, away from the
“Africa” of the south, services and facilities greatly improve. Suspicions yes, but we’re not willing to
volunteer to find out for sure.
At 1:00 pm we
were surprised when the office door opened.
We hadn’t thought it was occupied.
A man dressed in scrubs, his head covered in a tight bandanna-like cap,
exited. He could have been a doctor, but
looked awfully young, but then nowadays, everyone seems to look young to me. He passed by without looking or acknowledging
us and said nothing in the process as he walked off. This only added to our feeling of isolation
and insignificance. We continued to
wait. I’d just about gotten that brick
to hatch when over an hour later he returned.
He was the orthopedic doctor on duty.
We were
surprised when next they wanted to take an X-ray. I’d have thought an X-ray, as a sort of
baseline, would have been taken before the cast was crafted but it might have
had to do with positioning after the cast was in place. In any case, we again waited for someone to
come for her. I crouched again outside
in the hallway on my brick perch until eventually someone did come along. I’d describe her as a clone of Nurse Ratched
(remember “One Flew Over the CucKoo’s Nest”?) and Brunhilda (by the way the
name means “Ready for Battle”). As
opposed to the earlier Calitri X-ray unit, this devise did not have a patient reclining
feature. There was no way Mare was going
to be able to get up on the X-ray table herself, especially with the soft cast,
yet that was what she’d been ordered to do. Brunhilda Ratched did not offer to help, so
Titti and I hoisted Mare out of her wheelchair into position. What would have been done it we weren’t there
will forever remain speculation, but I estimate both Mare and the soft cast
would have suffered. Oh, and as for a
protective lead blanket, none was provided.
Later Mare related that when she asked for one, Brun’s response was a
waving of hands and a flurry of “nah”, “nah”, “nah”. OK then, how bad can a little extra radiation
be?
We then
re-entered waiting mode for another hour.
We were in the hall for a while when a cleaning woman tiding up the “cast-a-torium”
brought us across the hallway into a waiting room, with to our surprise,
chairs. Minutes later, we were joined by
5-10 other patients also waiting for the doctor. I thought it was a tour group at first. We apparently needed his sign-off to be
released. I soon gave up waiting and
found my stack of bricks once again, closer to his office, and squatted there. About 45 minutes later he appeared. I quickly got Mare and flat tire rolled her
to his doorway. The others noticed and
quickly joined the line. He waved us
in. He was obliging, maybe he just
wanted to be rid of the aggressive Americans with their many questions. Papers soon signed, stamped, and stapled, we
headed for the emergency room once again. I’d done some reconnoitering earlier ... from
the ER it was a straight shot out the back door to where the ambulances were
parked. Passing through the ER, the
rogue got the better of me and in a breach in civility I said aloud to all the
those waiting, “Buona fortuna a tutti, ci
sono voluti solo sei ore!” (Good luck everyone, it only took us six
hours!) Can’t you see my grin through
the spaces in these words?
From that Rogue Tourist
Paolo
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