Accident Tourist

Senor Colon, show me the way!

There I was on La Rambla in Barcelona, taking an early morning walk. That’s the time to be there, by the way. At midnight it is packed like anchoas and just as hairy. I decided to do some fast walking and reach the beach.

I like to run when I travel.  But in my effort to win the lightest-packer-for-10 day-trip award, I decided not to bring my running shoes.  My Arche sandals and my un-glam but practical Sketchers would be enough. Running shoes in my size are bigger than a breadbox.

I am good at buying shoes

However, it was Saturday, the day my running group meets. I wanted to send them a “running on La Rambla” note. They would think nothing of it. Most of them have all been around the world twice and regularly report in from Istanbul, Berlin, Paris.  As I walked toward the beach it became clear that Barcelona is a runners’ paradise.  And I was seized with a thing called runners’ envy.

People were running along an exquisitely designed bike/pedestrian path that wound from the statue of Senor Colon (Monument a Colom), along the PortVell de Barcelona harbor with the shiny yachts, past the inexplicable statue of a giant lobster standing on its tail, through the wide stretch of street vendors and on along the shore.

Captain Crustacean

All under the glow of the warm Mediterranean sun and glorious breezes that frame the wack factor that is summer in Barcelona.

I decided that I would not be left out the next day. I would buy a pair of shoes from the abundant display of Adidas and Nikes sold on the street. How much could they cost? How long would they last? It didn’t matter, I was running no matter what.

Wave paved Rambla

Invigorated and excited by this plan, I sped up my walking pace to just short of a run.  I was on the way back to the hotel…fast. I was trying to tolerate the strollers, (people, not baby carriages) in front of me. The pavement on La Rambla has an odd wavy pattern that creates a sort of dizzying optical illusion. “Imagine what this is like when you are drunk,” I said to Judy. She said, “If you are drunk it probably looks normal.”

Waviness at the harbor

So I am rambling, I am rolling, I am rapid and revved up and about a block from my hotel when I just stumbled and fell down hard on three points—left knee, right elbow and my chinny, chin, chin. Thud. Or plas, as they say in Spanish, or sord in Catalan.  They are all four-letter words. I popped up like a jack-in-the-box, and a couple stopped and expressed concern in a language other than English. My chin was bleeding and they gave me a Kleenex and moved on quickly. I would need much more than one Kleenex.

I returned to the hotel in a cloud of post exertion high and shock and met Judy in the breakfast room and said calmly, “Don’t be alarmed but…”

Right on the chin

What followed was the best dramatic performance by a hotel staff. At Casa de Camper the elegant staff, a man from Holland and Elena de Miguel from Barcelona got antiseptic and gauze and ibuprofen, and prepared an ice pack in a white cloth napkin.  They called themselves Nurse Jackie and Dr. McDreamy.  They were preternaturally calm.  And Judy was the number one rescue hero.

Rescue Hero Numero Uno

I felt all right but my chin just wouldn’t stop bleeding. On closer inspection it was determined that I needed stitches.  They called the house doctor Dr. Leon and I heard the term mandibulo.

Judy and Dr. Leon decided that because of the delicate location of the injury I needed to go to a plastic surgeon. And, mirabile dictum, they got me an immediate appointment at Centro Medico Teknon, the finest hospital in Barcelona, the place, they assured me, where the princess had given birth.

The hospital was like an art museum and the clinico was immaculate. The darling Dr. Francisco Tamariz was waiting for us with a smile. He was from Ecuador. He had gone to medical school at the University of Richmond, so he was delighted to have two chatty Americans in the office. He and Judy talked about Trump while I was under the needle.

Dr. Tamariz gets the award for best emergency treatment of a tourist.  He was so lovely, had such a nice reassuring bedside manner, told me everything he was doing and why. I became open to the idea of plastic surgery. My chin was very open to the idea too. Ten stitches worth.  By the luck of the jaw, the injury was just below my chin, hard to see. But thanks to Dr. Tamariz, it is damn near invisible.

When I went back to the hotel for siesta rest, I learned that Muhammad Ali had died. On CNN it was Ali All the Time. All afternoon I saw footage of him taking and receiving blows.  And I too I had taken one on the chin that day. Just like the Champ.

The Champ  (Photo by H. Darr Beiser)