Sitting in the humid, open air waiting room with a broken snack machine and a small assemblage of healthfully vocal Italians, I felt little but lost and suckered.  I had been suckered into thinking a summer as a private English teacher in Italy would be all fun and sun.  I had been suckered into thinking than living on a boat as an private teacher, oh and nanny, would be all glamour and port [wine, that is].  They would love me and listen to me because I am so wonderful and full of fresh, new ideas.

But no.  I found myself tied to Italian traditions and being called “Tata Somi” against my will.  Lessons were not scheduled on a daily basis, precisely at 10am.  And hitting the teacher was totally allowed.  On top of it all, I was sick with a strange skin infection.  I was covered hand, foot, knees, and elbows with tiny blisters and pocs.  I was in Italy, at the sea, and limping in knife-like pain through each day.  Inside and out.

So I finally made it to a hospital.

One room, curtained off into 6 sections, and no one but the patient was allowed in.  Even my dear employer, who so graciously paid for whatever sort of treatment I was in for, was not allowed into the examining room with me.  I was left with my “I’m just gonna buck up and handle this” Italian and my aching body.

I was escorted by a nurse and set on a gurney across from the dottore’s large, oak office desk.  Never mind the fact that there really was no office to be seen, everything but this exceptional desk was on wheely carts.  There were no other patients left in the concrete room and the only light was from tall lamps and one fluorescent bulb above my gurney.  Whatever the case was with this community health plan, it seemed to work on a basis of everybody understanding what was really going on and not telling anyone about it.

After a brief looksee, the doctor determined I had some left over streptococci from my time at sea.  I had apparently spent too much time secluding myself in a stuffy cabin and contracted a good sore throat, fever, and when that was gone, army of blisters.  He knew just the thing, as he was, of course, the best doctor in Italy.  (Everyone in Italy is the best at what they do.  That’s why people love Italy.)

And then came the Italian code of going forth.  I had no codice fiscale, not being Italian and all, and no means to pay for anything more than 100 euros.  I had no idea what I was getting into or how he was even going to legally prescribe me anything.  I gave a little information here and there and when he asked me where I came from, I said, “via Roma.”  And he responded, “Oh, Principessa del Mundo!  Perfetto!”

He typed on his computer for a minute, wrote a prescription and that was it.  I stared at him for a moment, head pulled back and eyes slanted down at the paper on his desk.  “Is that it?  Really?  I’m not going to get any trouble or lecture for this?”

I was free and within another week, so were my hands, feet, knees, and elbows.  And little by little, the summer got better too.  I got better at playing with my charges and slid in a couple days of good old American discipline.  (No you will not go swimming if you hit me, refuse to take a nap, and bite your brother.)

When it comes down to it, if you really want to be the princess of the world, just be it.