Dim Sum Is For Niños, Part One

Yesterday I again sought relief from nagging pertussions keeping me awake at night. I returned to Gorgonia’s for another try at a cure. Something other than the pastillas (pills) she gave me last time out. But that was all she had, so I was out of luck there.

The Clinic: waiting room, far right

I asked about the clinic I pass on my daily constitutional to the puente (bridge) and back. Modern tropical-looking design all in a sanitary white. Surrounded by a well-tended fence to keep the jungle out.

“But I’m a gringo,” I said in gringo lingo, “they can to help me?”

Gorgonia nodded her head affirmatively. “Si, si!” But the clinic would be closing soon so I would have to book.

I paused before the clinic gate, below immaculately terraced steps, looked at the handful of locals glancing down at me, and managed to swallow my momentary unease. In for a centavo, in for a kilo.

I struck up a conversation with Rodrigo, a friendly local man in his early forties. I posed the same question I had to Gorgonia. “Si, claro,” he replied, “the clinic is for everyone!” I commented with what might have passed as wryness that this is much more better than in Los Estados Unidos.  

The bedroom-sized waiting room was all in blanco, clean, polished concrete, tiles. Doors and window frames that lightweight steel you see in warmer climates. The door to el doctor’s consultorio was open and an older man and his family were quietly consulting. Nobody else around.

Although it was a sunlit day and the room seemed pleasant enough on the surface, I was made uneasy by the view out the north wall’s two screened windows--a damp and shadowy, sheer face of crumbly rock not three feet away. Whatever. It wasn’t too long a wait.

Never able to remember the name,
we took to calling this dim sum.

The doctor was about the age of my youngest daughter. He introduced himself by first name-- ”Cesario”--as we shook hands, and let me know he was comfortable in English. After confirming that, indeed, even gringos are allowed free access to his expertise, Cesario accomplished the examination protocol with great sincerity using old-school implements. 

Then, explaining his prescription, he told me that my infirm wife and I both had a virus--so antibiotics would be no help-- but that two different pills, taken as directed, would relieve our symptoms. 

“What about cough syrup?” I asked hopefully, thinking about the orange-flavored Delsym we take at home.

I've got the prescription,
now where to fill it?

“No, no,” he corrected, with his first hint of pedantry, “Syrup is for los niños.”

Chastened, I waited while he went to get the medication, heard him conversing with a hitherto unseen and unheard female. “Lo siento,” he said with a rueful smile, as he returned, “The medication is only for the locals.” Ah, there’s the rub.

And then I remembered that the local farmecia is no longer, because the pharmacist just had a heart attack and died.

To be continued...