It seems as though whenever Lynn and I have been in Naples the Fates or the city of Naples conspires to throw a curveball our way. This time, after a sweaty train ride back from Positano and much debate on the subject of Does This Look Infected? Lynn and I decided it would be wise to maybe take a trip to the hospital. We made our way to the front desk, asking where the closest hospital was. The clerk genuinely sounded concerned, offering to call a taxi. Oh to know what was going through her head 3 hours later when we would stroll through the doors with 2 full pizzas in our hands.
I digress. We are dropped off at the hospital and we are greeted with a scene that is completely unfamiliar and a bit jarring. This is not to say that the hospital was in a state of squalor, but there may or may not have been a stray dog running around the waiting room hiding under chairs, and there may or may not have been a person smoking (first a real cigarette then an e-ciggie). There was no triage to speak of, just a table past a guarded door with a bunch of people gathered around, the nurse randomly choosing people to help. Fortunately after seeing us struggle with an explanation in Italian, a kind gentleman from the area translated everything we needed to say and we found ourselves back in the waiting room with the stray dog, the smoker and eventually a lady being escorted out into the waiting room by guards while screaming something in Italian.
My name was actually promptly called and in I went. The infection was far enough up my leg that I needed to remove my pants. Whatever, we're all professionals here, right? That WAS the case until it was decided the security guard would be the appropriate translator. So in he strode, me lying prostrate, no pants, one dong to the wind, apparently able to translate about as much English as Lynn or I would be able to with Italian. We would've been better off with the guy who helped us in triage. It would've been a lot less awkward too..I mean at least him and I shook hands.
After a diagnosis and a prescription was started, Lynn left with the guard to figure out where we could get the meds before our early morning flight. As I awaited my prescription I started to realize the doctors were having a bit of trouble translating the instructions on how to use the meds. With the security guard gone the next translator was a complete wild card. Waiting with bated breath, I was very happy to see a Danny Devito-esque fellow in hospital garb enter the room. Upon finding out I was Canadian he began regaling me with a story about how he had worked in Canada and the States in shipyards and how in the States his co workers would call him Little Chief. He didn't provide me with an explanation as to why, nor what his real name was. Little chief, whoever you are...wherever you are...thank you.
Meanwhile, Lynn followed the security guard outside the hospital and across the parking lot, at which point she realized he was looking to see if the pharmacy there was open (no). Back they went into the waiting room, where various people shouted out suggestions in Italian and one tried to get Lynn on the phone with the one English person they know. After more consultation including with another guard, Lynn got instructions to give to a taxi driver for a 24 hour pharmacy near our hotel. There was also a lot of emphasis on exactly what to say in the taxi, and who should call it "tell the front desk that Salvadore told them to call". We think this was related to the notorious Naples taxis that drive tourists in circles, and everyone's concern and kindness at the hospital was a striking contrast in the characters of Naples.
Thus ends our Neapolitan adventure. Til next time Naples.
Ciao tutti!
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