Sunday Regretz: Uuuum.... none?

I guess that's how you know you're getting older. No real regrets for this weekend, other than maybe that I fell asleep during "Afghan Superstar" and missed most of the movie. I'd wake up whenever the audience was laughing at something but was too dopey to figure out what had just happened.

I suppose Wednesday night's mixing of wine, beer and becherovka and about a pack of cigarettes and dancing in the Lucerna Kino Bar with my friends (we were the only ones on the "dancefloor") could qualify as a regret, but it was damn fun.

Until the next morning, when I took the metro out to the parliament (to go to a press conference) and found myself still kind of drunk but with the hangover kicking in. The security staff seemed deeply suspicious of me and looked at my press pass twice, for a very long time.
And interacting with people in any kind of formal or semi-formal way really ain't no fun when you're in such a vulnerable state, people.

I try so hard to be a "real person" but at the end of the day, me at work still comes down to my clumsy messing my sweater up with a yoghurt stain, failing to properly remove it, giving up, rushing to meet someone and trying to mask my lack of being a true professional by being really friendly. Can anyone relate to that? Things like "business attire" and "networking" will never be part of my active vocabulary, I think.

That's all. I'll try to get really drunk and make an ass out of myself so the next column will feature some colorful, crazy shit.

Sunday Regretz: What's worse than a hangover?

Answer: Waking up in a Czech hospital on Sunday morning with a saline drip. I won't go into details of why I was there. It was not a result of any bad decisions or accidents. Sometimes things just screw up inside us, even if you're only 26 years old. And here I thought I was invincible!

But alas, Sunday, March 1 was a unique realization of two of my worst fears; a sudden and uncontrollable decline in health (lifelong hypochondriac here), and being at the mercy of the Czech medical system. I don't say that to disparage this country's particular health system, I mean it only in the sense that the human body and its malfunctions can be mysterious, and a language and cultural difference between doctor and patient can only confuse things further.

If you haven't done it by now, memorize the number for the emergency dispatcher. For English speakers, calling 112 will direct you to where you need to go. You might be scoffing at this, but I didn't know. If my boyfriend hadn't been there, I don't know how long it would have taken me to figure that out, or if I'd even been able to.

If you're here legally, you have insurance. If somehow you don't have insurance, GET IT. After a cursory examination, the ambulance drivers, who didn't speak a lick of English, asked for my passport and insurance card. I'm not sure what would have happened if I hadn't had either. I doubt it would mean they wouldn't treat me, but frankly, I just don't know what would have happened. Thanks to being insured, an ambulance ride, innumerable tests and four nights in a hospital with three squares a day came to the grand total of 290 Kc.

I could write a funny rant about how godawful Czech hospital food is, my WWII era cot and the surrealism of being utterly vulnerable in a room of strangers with whom you can't communicate beyond sympathetic smiles. I was weak, scared and naked under a scratchy white shift, the logo of which was the only way I figured out exactly where the hell I was. Thankfully, I'm just not that cynical, yet.

The sestry (Czech word for nurses that means "sister") seemed a bit confounded that an American had landed there (this was not a fancy foreigner's clinic) but were nevertheless comforting and concerned. The staff didn't impose strict visiting hours or demand identification, and so my boyfriend, the most important person I have here, could sit with me on my cot and read next to me.

My roommates scrunched their faces and laughed with me each time a dubious looking meal was delivered. When I returned from exams and visits, they asked me hopefully if I was going home, and congratulated me when I was finally able to answer yes. For all the times I've generalized about any aspect of Czech culture I find cold or unpleasant, I'm sorry. I was scared and sick in the Czech Republic and the only comfort my mom and dad could offer me was through daily phone calls. This old, foreign hospital soothed any fears I had and made absolutely sure I was ok before I was finally released. I am so, so thankful for that.