A Barcelona Fairytale

I tried to hide my smile behind my glass of kava sangria, but the smile turned into a grin, which metamorphosed into a chuckle, leading to an inhalation of air and sangria, culminating in an awkward spray of citrus and alcohol. Ow.
The distraction was welcomed by at least one of us at the bar. For while my table manners left something to be desired, the conversation foisted upon us by the Frumpy Intruder was clearly horrifying my friend. K was pallid and hunched over, feverishly hitting buttons on her cell phone. For all intents and purposes, she was sending an important email; but I knew she didn’t get reception in Geneva, let alone Spain. Cell phone reception (or lack thereof) is one of the many reasons why life in Switzerland resembles a prolonged camping trip.
As a doctor, I am used to all kinds of uncomfortable conversations, usually without the benefit of alcohol, so I was more than prepared to carry on. Truth be told, Frumpy’s tale was really pretty PG for me, but I knew it would be otherwise for my friend. I cast a careful glance at my intrepid travelling companion to see how she was holding up under the strain. K is a good friend and an absolute doll. As evidence of her basic niceness, I submit to you that she completed law school without learning how to brush off morons or handle large amounts of alcohol. Truly, it takes an amazingly kind person to be able to handle the level of douche encountered in graduate school without some of the basic coping mechanisms. We all have our weaknesses however, and K’s revolve around all things medical. She’s been known to become faint at the sight of a nose bleed, and indisposed if I describe my day at work in detail. How was she handling Frumpy? Pale, but alert and oriented times four. A thready pulse was visible at her temple as she swilled the last of her sangria and feverishly motioned to the waiter for another round.
I decided to play devil’s advocate. I’d mentioned to K several times previously that no one had explained to me that part of the Hippocratic Oath would involve a lifetime of complete strangers revealing intimate details about their lady bidness in a variety of social situations. Social is the lynchpin in this sentence. Clearly, as a gynecologist, I am more than happy to talk with anyone about their bits whilst in clinic. In clinic, mind you. Gynecology is a profession, not a hobby, and errant details about genitalia aren’t of any interest on my own time. This is a fact that the non-medical public is slow to acknowledge.
But let me back up and try to explain how it is that we came about to find ourselves in a fairytale bar in Barcelona listening to a frowsy American talk about her vulva in cinematic detail.
An Easy Jet ticket sale and a steady forecast of grey skies in Geneva have me fleeing town as often as possible, and this weekend K and I flew to Barcelona to celebrate her birthday with sangria, Gaudi, tapas and aimless wandering through Guell Park and along the water. Barcelona was everything I wanted it to be. Sunny, gorgeous, vivid, delicious and Spanish speaking; I was tempted to go AWOL from Switzerland and never leave.
K’s sense of direction is almost as bad as mine, so we were lost most of the time, but it didn’t really matter; all roads lead to chorizo. We did find our way to La Sagrada Familia where we successfully avoided pickpockets, gawked at the beauty, and shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversations of the people in line around us. I couldn’t help it, it’s an absolute pleasure to be able to understand and speak the language that surrounded me. Spain’s elderly are among the cutest, and the three abuelitas in line ahead of us were in fine form that morning. Carefully coiffed, crimson curls, assorted fur fashions with beady eyes and grasping paws draped over aged shoulders, scarlet lips; these ladies were done up. “Mira los chinos!” one cackled. All three ladies turned to stare and laugh at a group of Japanese tourists flashing peace signs and flashbulbs while awkwardly posing by a street sign. I blushed a little with embarrassment, but also grinned, was reminded of my own Abuela.
Helpful text messages from a sister in the United States (fortunately working night shift, blessed with navigational skills, and a semester in Barcelona) directed us to the Bosc de les Fades, or the “Dwarf Bar” as she called it. Attached to the Wax Museum, it drips atmosphere, of the fairy tale variety. I was pleased to note that the wait staff was not forced to dress up as hobbits or the like; I can’t abide cruelty.
“Dos sangrias por favor.” I ordered us a first round as we settled in at a table. Reading maps upside down always makes us thirsty.
The waiter looked over the top of his glasses at us, and responded in perfect English. “Would you like a pitcher, or two glasses?” he enquired.
“Oui!” responded K enthusiastically.
I countered with, “Pues, quizas dos tazas para empezar.”
As he poured our drinks, El Mesero asked, “Where in the United States are you from?”
K happily and politely replied in English, “I’m from Georgia.” I was feeling obstinate however, dammit, I speak this language, and quite well thank you.
“Soy de Oregon pero ahorita nos vivimos en Suiza.”
El Mesero sniffed as he placed a goblet of sangria in front of each of us. “You speak Spanish like a Mexican.”
I smiled sweetly and replied, “Gracias senor!”
Enter Frumpy Intruder, stage left. I am beginning to suspect that Americans speak too loudly when abroad, because it is a siren call to their own kind. Hearing our accents, Frumpy leaned over and eagerly made our acquaintance. I’m all for polite small talk and new friends, but Frumpy had warning signs written all over her, not the least of which was the Mc Donalds take away bag she had stowed on the counter. Who comes to Spain and eats at Mc Donald’s?
Remember what I said about K being too polite? Three minutes later we were all bff*, and the conversation had evolved past where we were from, how we liked Spain, and what we did.
“You’re a gynecologist?!” Frumpy exclaimed as she leaned over the bar to get a better look at me. I’m not sure what she was looking for exactly (Wrinkles? Wise expression? A speculum in my pocket?) but after a careful survey she accepted my stated profession as fact. “Well then, I just have to tell you this! I wouldn’t normally tell this story to just anybody, but since you’re a doctor, I know you’ll find this real interesting.”
I glanced at K meaningfully. See what I mean? People tell me crazy stuff all the time! I don’t make the stories up! I telegraphed with my eyes. K’s eyes widened and she grasped her sangria nervously. Validation was at hand.
“Well, the only doctor my crappy insurance would let me see was this guy whose English wasn’t any too good, but you know I needed my pap, now that I’m in my thirties, so fine. The absolutely unbelievable part though was his nerve! So he’s examining my um, genitalata, and he actually ASKED me if intercourse was painful for me!” Frumpy paused breathlessly for my reaction.
I’m nonplussed. My first thought is, “Well, IS sex painful?” but six weeks of a psych rotation in medical school, and four years of customer service at Kinko’s have taught me to not say the first thing that comes to mind. I do however have an active differential diagnosis running through my head though (Herpes, lichen sclerosus, lichen planus, apthous ulcers, endometriosis, vestibulitis, myalgias…). K looks horrified, perhaps at Frumpy’s mangling of the word genitalia, more likely because she, along with the rest of the bar is actively imagining Frumpy’s vulva.
“Um, I don’t know,” I eventually ventured. “I ask all my patients if they have any sexual concerns. A lot of women suffer needlessly from painful intercourse because they’re too embarrassed to talk to their doctor about it.”
Frumpy was clearly disappointed in my response. “Well fine, but this doctor was OLD!”
Fortunately for K, a gentleman clad in an American flag tshirt sidled up to Frumpy at the bar, and forestalled my response.
Frumpy and Flag happily transitioned instead into a discussion about Mc Donalds fries, I bit my cheeks to keep from laughing, and K’s color slowly returned to normal.


*Madre, that means “best friends forever.”