Thursday, July 05, 2012

Patatas Bravas

I must add that as I begin this post, I actually have no idea how to structure what I must say over the next few paragraphs. The last 72 hours, since I returned from Istanbul to London, and off to Barcelona again, have been utterly disastrous. To this I must add another, internal factor which only made things worse: I was PMS-ing.

A short overview of unhappy London shit:
- Found wallet missing when I got back to Central London. Last saw it at Luton airport. Was (and still am), utterly distraught, inconsolable. Very, very upset.
- Found small luggage I wanted to bring to Barcelona missing. Ex-upstairs neighbours forgot to return it, but not before I went mad searching tiny Flat 2 for it.
- Mice. Ate my bread when I left it on the kitchen counter in it's plastic packet. Waddled around my room the subsequent morning, making me scream.
- Dismal, rainy London weather.
- Exhaustion from traveling in Turkey.
- Feeling overstretched from crammed in social interaction.
- Disgusting gyudon from Hare and Tortoise, much more horrid than I remember it tasting last time I ordered it a few months ago (ate with Joaquin).
- Bland tori hiya-atsu udon from Koya when I had lunch there with Dexter.
- Clothes still damp, because of the dismal London weather.

And then somehow in between all of that, I managed to pack, get over to Joaquin's temporary abode near Warren Street tube and spend the night. He made a tasty masala potatoes with fishcake and rice. Mmm. But then the next morning, the trouble started again! (WTF.)

Joaquin walked me to the door of his temp flat, as he had yet to get dressed for the day and has his arm still in a cast. I kissed him goodbye, and headed off downstairs by myself. However downstairs, in my distraction and haste, I put my left foot behind the heavy metal door and neglected to remove it in tandem with me opening the door. Cue me falling to the ground in utter agony, tears falling uncontrollably. I ended up lying on the ground for a period of time, because it was that painful and all the strength drained from my body. To my dismay, I noticed the lift in the lobby moving, and soon an Indian lady stepped out, leaving for work. She was utterly horrified to see me lying on the floor. I ended up speaking to her for a while, saying I'll be fine after resting, and she left with an uncertain look on her face. Ironically, UCH was just 1 minute away.

By the time I looked at my foot, I realised to my horror that it was a pretty deep cut. Sort of more like a hole than a gash. And there was no blood yet cause I hadn't hit a vein, so I could see the depth of it. Somehow, I managed to get up (and stop freaking out), and limp my way to Boot's. The pharmacist gave me plasters and antiseptic cream. I hobbled to Warren Street tube, to take a train to Victoria.

The train however, from Warren Street to Oxford Circus was exceptionally crowded. Bodies pressed together sort of crowded. Unpleasant, but ok. It was from Oxford Circus onward that I suddenly started to feel a bit strange. It was when the train finally reached Green Park that I realised I was in trouble, and that I was going to faint. But yet I couldn't faint! 'Cause I needed to go to Victoria. It felt unbearably hot and stuffy. The train stopped twice in the tunnel between Green Park and Victoria. I was stripping off my scarf, my jacket and leaning heavily against anything. I was trying to squeeze my thigh muscles to increase my blood pressure. I wanted to grab the suited man next to me and beg for help, but realised I couldn't talk anyway. I was sweating like mad, and my hearing was starting to go, plus my head was filled with an unbearable feeling. I noticed a guy standing nearby watching me oddly. Yet somehow, I made it to Victoria. The moment I got off the train and walked to the nearest wall however, I finally collapsed. But it was OK, because at least I didn't end up at Brixton by accident or something.

A few moments after I collapsed, the tube staff came running to assist me. A very nice Black lady at the platform called Sandra (which reminds me, I need to write in and thank her) ran towards me. Somehow more staff came, she kept talking, and a bottom of water was procured. I think I was slumped against the spot for a good 5 minutes as Sandra kept me company. After I got a bit better, she supported me and we moved to a nearby bench. She spoke about how women fainting on the tube nowadays was fairly common because it was so hot inside, and how it's usually women cause they're dieting. I lol-ed inwardly at that, despite feeling so utterly wretched. We ended up speaking a bit about the Olympics and all that sort of thing. After resting for another 10 minutes, I managed to persuade her that I was well enough to leave, "well, at least the colour's come back to your face!", and found my way to the Gatwick express.

The rest of my journey to Barcelona went comparatively seamlessly. I made faces at two little boys in front of me in the queue for security check. Was one of the last to board the planes 'cause I was limping everywhere. Changed my plasters a few times 'cause they kept coming off and there was blood and all soaked through. My mother of course, was upset to hear everything when I arrived. She already had to reckon with canceling my credit card from Singapore. This sort of added to the whole 'I'm not old
enough to be responsible for myself' thing. She wanted to bring me to a doctor, but it turned out that there are no GPs and clinics here, but only hospitals.

So, this morning we went to Hospital Clinic Barcelona. It was definitely one of the nicest hospitals I've seen. Managed to get by with pidgin Spanish and the considerably adequate skills of the various Spanish staff there. I got two jabs, one full of globulins or summat on my bum. I was not amused. The other was for Tetanus. The doctors were calling each other to peer at my wound, and my mum kept pestering them by asking silly over-bearing parent things like, 'I think she got a Tetanus jab as a baby!', even though the doctor explained in basic English that the jabs last 10 years only. This prompted the doctor to go, 'You have baby?!' to me because all she understood from my Mum's Singapore accent was the word 'baby'. And repeatedly asking the doctors about stitches, nevermind that the same doctor explained that the only stitching possible was to do a whole new large area around and cover it with new skin, cause the wound had been left open for too long. I was absolutely horrified at even the thought of that.

Spent the afternoon in the La Rambles and Gothic area of town, with a free walking tour. Ended up leaving a shopping bag at the restaurant we ate at for dinner, prompting a 15 minute back-trek. Reinforced my mother's notions that I am utterly incapable of independent existence.

I must add in my defence that none of this shit, or anything close to it, has ever happened to me when I travel alone. PFFFFFFT.