To the doctor! (¡Al medico!)

A Catalan tarjeta sanitaria (health service card)

The other day I went to the doctor in Spain for the first time.

It started off similar to what one would expect in Australia: up to the reception desk to announce oneself, give over the tarjeta sanitaria (health service card), get ushered into the sala de espera (waiting room). From here though, things started to deviate from my normal experience.

As in Australia, Catalan GP surgeries are run by private doctors or campanies who charge the public health system for their services. But you wouldn’t guess that from the look of my local surgery.

It was very clean, tidy and pretty modern, but exuded that typically continental-European public building ambience: austere, heavily utilitarian, devoid of creature comforts like magazines or pictures on the walls and everything- walls, seats, floor - a cool pale blue.

On entering the waiting area, an etiquette quickly became evident. In Spain, when you go into a shop or even get into an elevator, people tend to greet each other, with a “hola” or a “buenas dias”.

It turns out it’s pretty much the same at the doctor’s. And as in a shop or a lift, it’s the new entry who must start this off, which I was quickly prompted to do by the other patients looking me right in the eye as I walked in.

Back in Australia or London, I seem to remember always wanting to avoid eye contact with other patients at the doctor’s – and the feeling seemed mutual. Maybe us anglosajones feel that illness is a very private thing and we are a little embarrassed to be out in public (?) It seems that's not the case with Spaniards.

Not long after giving my greeting and taking a seat, the doctor came out and called my name. Brilliant, I thought, it’s my turn already. But as soon as I said “sí”, she called out another name, and then another. Turns out she was telling us our place in the order of things. I was after the person she named after me, who was after the person she named after them.

This roll call, along with all that eye contact, made me realise that the etiquette of the doctor’s surgery in Spain (or at least Cataluña) is pretty much the same as that of the market, which I wrote about some time back: it’s all about everyone being secure that everyone else knows their place in the queue!

After a while, my first and second queue-mates came and went. I stopped reading the newspaper (on my phone) and anxiously waited for the doctor to emerge once again and call my name. But she didn’t. I was confused. What do I do? Do I get up and walk into the consulting room or do I wait?

As I contemplated this dilemma, my name boomed out of the consulting room, in a tone that could only be described as slightly annoyed. Obviously, it was the former.

This was the first taste of what was to be my last lesson in visiting a Spanish GP: “bedside manner”- it’s all very much straight-down-to-business. I don’t remember a smile or even a “what seems to be the problem?”.  I was just shot a look that seemed to say, “start talking”.  

What followed was lot of banging on the computer keyboard as I rattled off my reason for the visit and, without the raising of even one eye from the computer screen, the barking of questions back at me.  I was a little taken aback.

It was all strikingly akin to scenes depicting visits to the doctor I’d seen in Spanish films, which I never quite believed.  I remember asking a Spanish friend about those depictions once and he told me “it’s always been like that here”. I didn’t quite believe him either. I owe him an apology.

Don’t get me wrong, she was very thorough and she gave me quite a lot of time and barked lots of questions about lots of things at me. I certainly felt that I was getting good care.  

It’s just I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in the principal's office back at school!

Shopping Trolley (Carrito)

This is my carrito (shopping trolley). I'm a big fan.

Of course in Australia (or the UK) I wouldn't have been seen dead with one. There, shopping trolleys are strictly for old ladies. And having said that, my Mum, who would kill me if were to reveal her precise age so I'll just I say you'd find a Seniors' Card if you went rummaging though her purse, still steadfastly refuses to invest in one.

Here in Spain though, it seems just about everyone has one. And they're brilliant.

I use mine especially for a trip to the mercado (market) - and by that I mean the real market, not the SUPERmarket.

I didn't go to the market much when I lived in Madrid. You need to invest a good whack of time to shop there, you see, and I was always too busy. But here in BCN I've had a little more time on my hands.

A trip to the market starts off with a few laps to compare the produce at the different puestos (stalls). If you're new to a market it’s a good idea to use these laps check out which stalls have the most people waiting at them as they're likely to have the best stuff.

Once you've chosen your stall, you need to find your place in the "queue". There's a definite etiquette to this. You must announce your arrival (and your intention not to jump the queue) by clearly asking "¿Quien es la ultima?" ("Who is last in line?").

It's likely you've already worked that out though as that very person will be looking at you with a glare that silently but succinctly says "I'm before you, right?!" This look will not dissolve into a smile until you've asked the question and received the reply "Yo" (me).

¿Quien es la ultima?

This process never fails to give me a chuckle, but it's catching. These days I find myself shooting that same look to whoever joins the throng directly after me as I too wait to hear the reassuring question.

Secure in the knowledge of who is before and who is after you, there's nothing much to do now but wait and then wait some more.

At the carnicería (butcher), it seems everyone has their own particular idea on how they want their meat cut. At the quesería (cheese stall) it’s almost obligatory to try a little of this one or a little of that one before making up one’s mind. And there’s still the frutería (greengrocer) and the charcutería (cold meats stall) to go. Then, for each, you need to factor in time for a quick chat about recent events, the weather or how the grandkids are doing.

Yes, that’s right, the grandkids. You see, generally (and this is where we come back to old ladies), it's me and the abuelas - literally "grandmothers" - at the market.

Not that I mind. I like being amongst the abuelas. You sort of become the centre of attention: a young(ish) MAN shopping at the market is a little novel. Add my thick accent to the mix, and you’ve got a conversation.