Finding the right prescription

It’s no fun getting sick while traveling abroad. In only few weeks time since traveling to Argentina to live for a year, I've had opportunity to experience this unfortunate reality twice.

On this occasion I developed a severe cold, which I am guessing was a either a direct result of my classmates sneezing and not covering their mouths (which is not considered impolite here) or from the cold, dry air that falls upon Corrientes at night. Either way, I needed medicine.

With my host parents off to work, I was left to my own means secure a cure. With a map of the streets of Corrientes in hand and the vague memory of the pharmacy I had previously visited, I set out in search of the right prescription.

But before leaving I did what any ill, independent young person would do: I called my (real) Mom. I had flipped through my survival guide of Spanish phrases and was unsure of what to ask the pharmacist for. I figured explaining that I had a cold was a safe bet, but asking for an antihistamine sounded appealing as well. After my mom explained that antihistamines were for allergies only, I settled on the cold—“but tell them you’re congested as well, honey,” she told me, “just to be sure.”

Thirty minutes, and many blocks later, I arrived on foot at what I recognized to be the pharmacy I had previously been treated at.

I took a number and waited in line, this time there were not 20 people in front of me, and when a pharmacist called my number I approached the front.

When I discovered who my pharmacist was I could not help but laugh: It was the same woman who had given me the humiliating inyección. I only recognized her because her long blonde ponytail was such a shade of yellow it could have only come from a bottle (not many women are natural blondes in Argentina).

I pulled out the Spanish phrase book and told her I needed medicine for a cold. This time, it was her turn to not understand me and she gave me a blank stared: I had to resort to another description.

Luckily, I knew how to say that my throat hurt and she nodded and after momentarily disappearing, returned with a small box and pointed to her throat. I now had the throat issue covered but still needed medicine for my other symptoms.

At this point, I’d like to add a disclaimer: If you have a weak stomach please consult your doctor before reading on.

I reached the point in this journey where my survival phrase guide was no longer of use and I quickly resorted to my English to Spanish dictionary. As I flipped through the pages, I thought of what words to tell pharmacist that would not further humiliate me (as this woman was already familiar with another part of me) but after a few failed attempts at communicating my symptoms, I was forced to pull out the big guns.

I found that the word phlegm is pretty similar in Spanish and I already knew the words for yellow and green, so the pharmacist finally seemed to understand what was ailing me. I also added that I felt congested as well, though I am not sure what exactly I told her, as there are two different entries for the word congested. It is quite possible that I told her my nose was as congested as a pile of cars in traffic, but either way, after giving me a curious look, she returned with another box and pointed to her nose—I finally had the right medicine.

The 30 minute walk home was anything but glamorous: I chewed on the disgusting antibiotic mint that was supposed to help my throat, I was wearing no makeup, had on a baseball cap to hide my unruly hair, and was sweating from the afternoon heat.

And wouldn’t you know, I passed a man in the street who looked me up and down and said, “Que hermosa,” which essentially means, “How beautiful you look.”

I could not help but laugh and while the feminist part of me wanted to turn around and slap him, I have to admit that just then I felt a little bit better.

I guess the right prescription really is different in every culture.

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