Adventures in Mexico

No Fingers! Encounters with the medical community

A few weeks ago, fed up with living with permanently clogged pores and adolescent pimples, I ventured into the world of Mexican dermatology. I was given a list of three professionals at the hospital and tried in vain to visit their offices between the expansive hours of 3-7 when business stops and people relax over multi-course meals. Finally, I was able to secure an appointment with Dr. V-, a French dermatologist. The next day I appeared for my appointment.

Dr. V- welcomed me into his office with great gusto. Entering his office was like going into a time warp. I began my journey in a typical 1970s D.F. office building, largely grey and non-descript, but Dr. V's office was a capsule of early 1900s France. His shelves were lined with ancient apothecary jars, his walls adorned with medals of honors from wars past and sepia ed photos, and his office furnished with finely oiled, lovingly-cared for antiques. The only way I knew that I was still in Mexico City was a large window that faced out to the endless, smoggy expanse of the city.

Dr. V- began our session by looking over his thick, yellowed glasses and asking me to spell my full name. As I complied, he pulled out a quill pen and dipped it in his ink wel and wrote my name on a lush piece of card stock stationery. He proceeded to ask me a series of other questions that had little to do with my skin problems, if I was Mormon (hailing from Utah), if I needed a French boyfriend, what I thought of the upcoming elections in France. After our question and answer session, he summoned me into a dimly lit examination room.

He took a 5-second look at my skin and proclaimed loudly, with great zeal, in the Pepe le Peu accent for which the French are renowned, "Yeu ave ac-neeeeee!!" which he shouted not once, but at least three or four times. This was followed by "Yeu ave ac-neee but yeu ahr tu auld!!!"
The novelty of the declarations eclipsed my own frustration with the current state of my derma and when Dr. V- asked me to weigh myself on his ancient bathroom scale, I again did so willingly. When I told him my weight, another round of expletives issued forth, "Yeu ahr sooo eavy!!! Good ting yeu ahr soooo toll!" and "But rrreally, yeu ahr tu auld for ac-neeeee and yeu ahr seu eavy!"

We returned to the consulting room and Dr. V- penned prescriptions for me: a revolutionary alcohol solution which he simply called his "formule" and an antibiotic which makes me spin with dizziness and nausea every morning when I take it. He also laid some ground rules. Most importantly, he said was "Rrrrrruuuule numberrrr one: No fingerrrrs!!!" meaning that I could no longer pick or touch my face.

I have concluded that in addition to suffering the smog in my lungs, the pollution, stress and fumes from streetside deepfrying have all taken a toll on my skin. I will see Dr. V- in a few weeks to check my progress minding "rrrulle numberrr one!"

QUITTA HUEVOS

This week Desi went under the knife to be neutered. He has been sentenced to wear an e-collar, which he finds humiliating and disconcerting. He skulks around, runs into things and sometimes simply collapses in pure resignation.
I can't wait to have my lively kitty back. que le mejore!

GIGANTE HUEVOS

Today while shopping in mega supah-mercado Gigante, I noticed an inordinate number of my fellow shoppers were octogenarians. While contemplating which apples to buy in the produce, an older man approached me and summoned me over to him, I thought to ask for help. In a raspy, barely audible voice he asked "Are you from Russia." To which I replied with all earnestness, "No, I am from the United States." He then told me that someone as tall and beautiful had to be Russian, to which I responded by trying to make a quick exit. But I wasn't quick enough. His next question "Are you an athlete?" "No, but I am swimmer and to run," I said in my mangled, embarrassed Spanish. As I again tried to "despedirme" or get away, he grabbed my hand and kissed me squarely on the neck.

I ran off, my face the color of a red delicious apple, wondering if the other octogenarians shoppers thought I was the harlot of produce or that they could approach me similarly. I finished the rest of my shopping, both slightly shamed and highly amused. I have to give it to the guy, he had some huevos!