I am in a foreign country.
It is ten minutes to eight, and people are standing in line as if waiting to buy concert tickets. Some are in shirts and t-shirts, carrying backpacks. Others are dressed for business, staring at scrolling through their phones or furiously typing out email responses to kill time.
The street below stirs to life as the early commuters start their morning routines.
8am. Doors open. People file in. I take note of tension in my ribs. My American aversion to health care has provided logic for avoiding setting foot in a doctor's office since moving more than a year ago.
The form is a page, front and back, asking for the basic information. The last time I filled out a form, it was seven pages and asked for everything but blood. Oh. Wait. It asked for blood, too. Just not the first born.
Waiting. More waiting. First come first serve. How social health care works.
My name is called, and I'm directed to a small room three doors down the hall. I look around. The contents are the same. Small desk. Sink. Rubber gloves. Instruments for checking blood pressure, looking inside your ears, listening for your heart. The room is small. The size of a hall closet. There is little space to maneuver, nerves make it impossible to sit.
She comes in, friendly, introduces herself and gets down to business. Ten minutes later, I'm out, carrying a requisition for an X-Ray. No co-pay. No mention of insurance. No additional paperwork to fill out and sign.
I am in a foreign country.