Settle down, children; I have a tale to tell:
When I landed in Rhodes, I was certain that I was becoming sick. I was indefatigably fatigued, it hurt to swallow, and of the Top 5 (food, water, sleep, exercise, breathing), the only one that I had been successfully taking care of is exercise, by virtue of walking everywhere every day. So when I started getting red dots on my face, I figured it must be some kind of stress acne. I hadn't shaved in a few days, so this morning I decided to shave so as to avoid trapping additional bacteria in my stubble.
That didn't help. The acne broke out like hives. I was embarrassed and disgusted, knowing that tomorrow I would have to say goodbye to Eυγενία, blemishing her last memory of me, not to mention the final pictures of my time in Greece (I'm not particularly vain, but every picture I took of myself today looked like my face was melting, hence my concern). Besides, I spent 5 months on Acutane. 5 months of HELL. My skin was beaten into submission -- it should know better than to get acne again.
This evening, Dr. Ihssen pointed out that my neck was looking "angry," and decided that I should go to a hospital.
It was at this point that I began to suspect that this wasn't acne, but rather a genuine rash: some allergic reaction to some unknown plant or animal that I had touched and then stupidly transferred to my neck. Marvelous.
Megan said that if I had shaved, that would make it much worse. Marvelous.
Dr. Finitsis asked the hotel receptionist about a hospital. The man took one look at me and asked if I had used a razor. Yes, I shaved. "That probably made it worse." Marvelous.
The professors took me to the hospital, where I was promptly asked if I had shaved. Good lord, I thought, Am I really that stupid?
My mother is quick to express her loathing for Athens. Her single experience there was being airlifted away from her family to a hospital to get her appendix removed. At least I was fortunate enough to have Dr. Finitsis around to toss out the word, "Αγγλικά" whenever someone assumed I spoke Greek. After all my complaining about not blending in, having people finally think I'm Greek is really more frustrating than anything. Think about how many times I would've had to tell them that I don't speak Greek, and how many times that would've broken my heart. I just felt useless. Such a typical tourist. With control issues.
So now I have an ointment and some pills, as well as newfound humility and a sense of submissive acceptance with which I must trudge home.
On a brighter note, we'll be flying back to Athens tomorrow morning, arriving around noon, and then departing for the States at 3:30 the following morning. Those 15 hours are crucial. Crooooooshul. But not really -- I just mean that in the sense that they must be maximized.
Eυγενία and I are making elaborate plans for these hours. The plans will probably be discarded in favor of something simpler, but either way, it will be a night befitting the occasion (the occasion being, of course, our last night together in Athens, which is kind of special). Then again, it is 2am here, and we leave the hotel at 9am. These plans may end abruptly in Kyle passing out on the floor of the Plaka.
When I landed in Rhodes, I was certain that I was becoming sick. I was indefatigably fatigued, it hurt to swallow, and of the Top 5 (food, water, sleep, exercise, breathing), the only one that I had been successfully taking care of is exercise, by virtue of walking everywhere every day. So when I started getting red dots on my face, I figured it must be some kind of stress acne. I hadn't shaved in a few days, so this morning I decided to shave so as to avoid trapping additional bacteria in my stubble.
That didn't help. The acne broke out like hives. I was embarrassed and disgusted, knowing that tomorrow I would have to say goodbye to Eυγενία, blemishing her last memory of me, not to mention the final pictures of my time in Greece (I'm not particularly vain, but every picture I took of myself today looked like my face was melting, hence my concern). Besides, I spent 5 months on Acutane. 5 months of HELL. My skin was beaten into submission -- it should know better than to get acne again.
This evening, Dr. Ihssen pointed out that my neck was looking "angry," and decided that I should go to a hospital.
 |
| Yes. Yes I am. |
Megan said that if I had shaved, that would make it much worse. Marvelous.
Dr. Finitsis asked the hotel receptionist about a hospital. The man took one look at me and asked if I had used a razor. Yes, I shaved. "That probably made it worse." Marvelous.
The professors took me to the hospital, where I was promptly asked if I had shaved. Good lord, I thought, Am I really that stupid?
My mother is quick to express her loathing for Athens. Her single experience there was being airlifted away from her family to a hospital to get her appendix removed. At least I was fortunate enough to have Dr. Finitsis around to toss out the word, "Αγγλικά" whenever someone assumed I spoke Greek. After all my complaining about not blending in, having people finally think I'm Greek is really more frustrating than anything. Think about how many times I would've had to tell them that I don't speak Greek, and how many times that would've broken my heart. I just felt useless. Such a typical tourist. With control issues.
So now I have an ointment and some pills, as well as newfound humility and a sense of submissive acceptance with which I must trudge home.
On a brighter note, we'll be flying back to Athens tomorrow morning, arriving around noon, and then departing for the States at 3:30 the following morning. Those 15 hours are crucial. Crooooooshul. But not really -- I just mean that in the sense that they must be maximized.
Eυγενία and I are making elaborate plans for these hours. The plans will probably be discarded in favor of something simpler, but either way, it will be a night befitting the occasion (the occasion being, of course, our last night together in Athens, which is kind of special). Then again, it is 2am here, and we leave the hotel at 9am. These plans may end abruptly in Kyle passing out on the floor of the Plaka.
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