Having successfully avoided being hospitalized for my first 10 months here in Spain, you can imagine my surprise when I suddenly found myself in the Barcelona Hospital not once but twice in the same week! The first one wasn’t all that serious (for me). I was awoken at an all-too-early 11am by a phone call from my friend Annie from Oregon. I translated her hysterics into something along the lines of “My friend visiting from the US is having an epileptic seizure, the ambulance is on the way, and I need someone to translate for me. How quick can you be here?” I told her eight minutes, groggily, yet quickly, hopped on my bicycle and arrived on the other side of town six minutes later just after the ambulance had gotten there. No one at Annie’s place could speak Spanish all that well so I played translator and explained everything to the men in white before they hopped into the ambulance and I got back on my bike. I actually beat the ambulance to the hospital and helped sort out the details while Annie’s friend was taken care of. He turned out fine – crises averted. Oh yeah, I mentioned a second visit, didn’t I? Well, the next day I was playing volleyball on the beach (surprise surprise) and I was up at the net for a block. I jumped. He jumped on the other side of the net. He hit the ball. I blocked the ball. I landed feet first (as usual). He landed on his knees. The whole thing wouldn’t have been that serious at all if one of his knees hadn’t landed on top of my foot (from eight feet in the air). I could have then simply walked off the minor pain – that is, if there hadn’t been a rock between my foot and his knee when it happened! Ouch. The next day my foot got horribly infected. Twenty four hours later it swelled to twice its normal size. Visions of amputations began to run through my head so I promptly went to the hospital (again). Not being a resident, they wanted me to pay for the visit. I quickly weighed the options of paying $70 or losing a foot. I told them to bill my dad in the US. They gave me all sorts of cool medication and told me I wasn’t allowed to go to the beach until it got better. NOOOO!!! I couldn’t wear shoes or socks for about three weeks and now, about a month after the “incident”, my left foot has two pretty (and probably permanent) pink marks on the top of it that look very much like the Spanish islands of Mallorca and Menorca. Memories.