Travel essay: With a cut finger, traveler takes the pulse of life on a Greek island

What it's like to live as a "native" in a foreign country?

Sustain an injury that is not life-threatening but requires the services of the local health-care system and you'll get to know the country even better than you would staying in a B&B. So I discovered during a weeklong stay in the village of Ia on the Greek island of Santorini. Washing the dishes in a villa we had rented for a week, I cut my finger as a glass broke in my hand. As the blood soaked through hastily-wrapped layers of paper towel, it became obvious I would need stitches.

My husband rushed to the local shop to ask the English-speaking proprietor where to find a doctor. She directed him to the local clinic but warned him that it was likely to be closed for lunch. He ran the half-mile, threading his way among strolling tourists, and arrived in time to ask the attendant to remain open until I could get there.

With my finger wrapped in the improvised bandage, I ran to the clinic. A young woman wearing a T-shirt and jeans took one look and insisted that I needed to be treated immediately, though she could not readily recall the English word "sutures."

I assumed she was a nurse, as she disinfected the wound and prepared the hypodermic needle for the anesthetic. But while she was stitching the wound, she lamented the absence of a nurse to help her with the preparations. It turns out she was the physician, and she did everything there was to do to run the clinic, acting as nurse's aide, nurse and records clerk.

She wrote my name and passport number in the record book (by hand — no computer in sight). When I asked how much I owed, she said the attention I had received cost me nothing.

I needed a tetanus shot and antibiotics, though, both of which I was required to provide. With prescription in hand, I ran to the local pharmacy. It was closed for the long midday break and would not re-open until 5:30 p.m. The clinic would be closed then, but she insisted I return that day. After giving me the shot, she instructed me to return in two days.

When I came back, a woman wearing the ubiquitous black garb of Greek widows was already waiting on the bench outside the clinic door. She smiled a greeting, but spoke no English. Soon another elderly Greek couple came to the waiting room, and we were called by the doctor into the treatment room in the order we had arrived.

As I chatted with the doctor, I learned her name was Vanya, and that she had once wanted to be an English teacher. How she ended up treating elderly residents and the occasional tourist in a village clinic of the Greek national health service, I did not discover.

Our travel plans took us away from Santorini when the stitches were to be removed. In Heraklion on Crete, the hotel clerk directed me to the emergency room of the main hospital just up the road from the ruins of Knossos. After being directed to a hallway filled with waiting patients, one of whom had just fainted, I knew it would be hours before anyone could attend to my minor injury.

The chaos was too much to negotiate without knowing Greek, so we decided my husband would cut the sutures in our hotel room. But the hotel clerk said there was another clinic I could try, but it would not be free. I found it on a main downtown street, between a smart café and a jewelry store. Inside, the receptionist behind the glass window responded to my inquiry by calling over a young woman who spoke English.

She accompanied me to the physician's office — there was no waiting — where a well-dressed female physician, assisted by a nurse, removed the stitches in less than a minute. Back at the reception area, my Visa card was readily accepted, and I left with a receipt that included an English translation of the procedure. "For your insurance," the assistant cheerfully said.

In both the village clinic and the urban private clinic I received kind and competent care, but the striking contrast was between them was a reminder of the advantages of privilege.

Joyce Quiring Erickson lives in Seattle

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