Illness
Like an abbreviated version of Latin America's lost decade, I fall into a week of stagnation and inaction. In my case, it's not foreign debt that is the culprit, but foreign bacterial culture, gross domestic byproduct. Yes: I develop gastroenteritis. Also known, less politely, as something less polite. I'm still not sure whether I should admit this publicly, however it makes for a good story. It also makes spending more than an hour in the company of other people unpleasantly awkward. Still, I keep going to classes, keep hoping that I'll be fine the next day. After four days I start to feel delusional from dehydration and go to a nearby pharmacy to get some electrolyte powder; they have none.
As I wobble down the street to another pharmacy, I can see two barely presentable young men with beer bottles coming towards me with unmistakeable purpose. My heart sinks. Somehow this inevitably happens when I'm at my very worst. What exactly is so attractive about the undead zombie look? I'll never understand men. When they speak to me, I act brusque and disinterested, which only seems to encourage them. They notice my slight accent, and ask where I'm from. This is exactly the scenario I was warned about by my mother: don't say Canada, they'll want to take advantage, say the Baltics. Say the Baltics. I say “Canada”.
“Ohhhhh we've never seen a Canadian before!”
It's strange to be treated like some kind of exotic creature when normally, with typical Canuck self-deprecation, I feel as though I come from the most boring country in the world, whose citizens' greatest claim to fame is that they are...inoffensive. And bleed trees to make maple syrup. My suitors offer to go for a beer, I answer that I'm sick.
“But beer is the best medicine!”
Thankfully, the fact that I don't believe in the curative benefits of alcohol finally convinces them that I'm a lost cause. They leave me alone, no doubt convinced that Canadians are the most boring people in the world. I shakily make it to the pharmacy, where I have the following exchange:
ME: Have you got any rehydration powder?
LADY: You mean Regidrom?
(Vigorous hopeful nodding on my part) Yes. Have you got it?
LADY: No. We have not.
ME: Have you got anything like it?
LADY: No.
After a few moments of awkward silence, yielding to my pathetic appearance, she condescends to elaborate:
"There is no Regidrom in ALL OF MOSCOW. There is a problem with the supply."
ME: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGHHHHHHHH
So either everyone in Moscow has diar--gastroenteritis simultaneously and bought all the Regidrom, or there is some kind of hostile blockade by Finland and it's the beginning of World War III. You couldn't make it up if you tried.
Finally, on the sixth day, exhausted from having hardly eaten anything for a week, and out of consideration for the hapless colleague who would shortly be spending 48 hours sharing a tiny ship's cabin with me, I decide to go to a private clinic. There, an affable doctor spent all of two minutes palpating my stomach and taking my pulse, upon which he solemnly pronounced "you have gastroenteritis". This exercise in stating the obvious was mine for the bargain price of 120 Euros. However, in fairness, he did prescribe some medication which helped me return to normality within an hour.
