I went to renew my visa today and after having found my way outside, I had to stand with my head against a tree.
My boyfriend, noticing that I was very pale and probably not having some Silvan Elf moment, bought me a can of Sprite from a cornershop presided over by a young woman who looked like she was wondering why I was lurching up the sidewalk like Frankenstein’s monster so early in the day.
The truth was – I was slain by a bout of nausea and dizziness that could make a grown man weep (or so I would imagine, anyway), but didn’t know enough Arabic to explain it to anyone. I barely tasted the Sprite in my mouth, what for all the bile. I tried to discreetly spit it out, and came face-to-face with a little girl who was standing by her apartment window, transfixed at the scene below.
I tried putting on the “I’m not a weirdo” grin. It didn’t work. It never does.
“If you weren’t here,” I asked boyfriend, “and I were to keel over on this very sidewalk, do you think anyone would call an ambulance?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t imagine that they would in Kiev. They’d probably think I was drunk.”
“Maybe.”
“You know what I’m always terrified of? I used to pass out a lot when I was younger, due to being underweight, I guess, and I’ve always been afraid that one day – someone will grope me when that happens, or worse.”
“You’re morbid.”
That’s not the worst of it, even. Continue reading “The Fainting Couch: Lessons in Public Humiliation”