...hypodermic at least a foot long.
The thing looks like a
NASA rocket. She looks at my rolled up sleeve,
shakes the two up- raised fingers on the other hand, in the universal
gesture of 'no, no, sweetheart, exactly what part of this don't you get?'
flashes a tiny grin that telegraphs ' have I got a surprise for you', and aims
her eyes downward at her preferred landing site on the moon. I unbuckle. She
pulls.down the top of my shorts. And launches the hypo-rocket. I'll say this
for her she has great aim, is quick, and painless. (Maybe I exaggerated the size
of that hypo-rocket?) I buckle up, thank her, and leave thinking that in what
is probably her first interaction with an American she gets mooned.
The reason for this cross-cultural mooning? A few days ago I
woke up with what can most charitably be
described as a breathtakingly bad toothache in my left shoulder. Ibuprofen and
local strong painkillers slipped right off it unnoticed. Ever resourceful
Hossein found us a clinic where an English speaking doctor diagnosed
'neuro-muscular pain', and prescribed more powerful pain killers, topical
cream, the application of heat
patches...and three injections of muscle relaxant. Thus my date with She Who
Must Be Obeyed and her hypo-rocket. Doctor preferrs an MRI but we don't have
the time for the evaluation, etc here inTabriz. If the pills, topical and moon
landings don't work then we can take more action when we get to Shiraz.
The doctor's fee is 500,000 Rials (less than $18), all the
med and the patch were 275,000 Rials ( less than $10). It costs 20,000 (0.75)
to hit the moon with the rocket . Cheap.
Plus, I get to experience the quiet civility of an Iranian
clinic waiting room. People are respectful of others. There is no complaining
about the wait time. Men and.women sit mixed. Some older women are in full black,
but their faces are exposed. A shift in the seat, a twist of cloth and jeans,
slacks, tights, high heels, sneakers appear. The younger women dress as their
sisters anywhere, perhaps more stylishly.
All have some version of the mandatory hijab, usually brightly colored
and patterned and draped in creative lip service to the letter of the law.
Fathers hold and play with kids. Couples commiserate, heads
close, hands clasped. People nod and
smile at us, doubling the wattage when they learn are Americans.
So, once again we churn butter out of s**t. The nurse I
mooned may have another opinion.
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