When I got on the plane and found there was no passenger on either side of me, I thought it was a good omen. That’s right, God himself must have been rewarding me for so selflessly traveling to the second annual Greek Youth Conference to learn more about my Greek culture. Being a first generation Greek American, I’ve always felt unfortunately estranged from the place I like to call my homeland, Greece. Even though I am as American as a Star-spangled Twinkie at a PTA meeting, my entire youth was filled with the cultural experiences that endow any young Greekling with a sense of pride — all the Greek festivals I danced in, all the kourambiethes I scarfed down, all the yiayias I reluctantly kissed — they had caught up with me. And now, I was heading to Istanbul to reunite with my religion, my culture, and myself. For legal reasons, I’m not at liberty to divulge the airline I was flying with — but rest assured — they are from France, and their planes fly in the Air.

Being the naive Greek that I am, I was always taught to eat what was put in front of me. That was smart; and on this particular flight, I was served a shrimp-style entree that smelled so bad, I suspected that it jumped onto the plane and into the flight attendant’s cart only minutes earlier. The shrimp were still swimming in what seemed to be the amniotic fluid they had been born in. Even the vegetables seemed so dehydrated, they were initially intended for a NASA astronaut now without his dinner. If that wasn’t enough, the rice it was served in had the sort of crunch I usually associate with my unwashed gym socks. Despite my suspicions, I did what any decent Greek had been trained to do- hold your nose and shove it down your gullet. It was only an hour later that I felt a warm sensation in my stomach; like my intestines had gone on strike, and each and every inch was being set on fire in a bodily revolt against my gastrointestinal lining. Was this an omen? The good news is that it wasn’t a figurative fire. The bad news: A very tangible and real rash was spread clear across my stomach; and this wasn’t the sort of rash a kindergartener might receive from a rough day on the monkey bars mind you, but the sort of rash you would see on a gullible moron at the beginning of any given zombie invasion film. I could already see my mom bent over my coffin, with mascara running down its burled maple exterior, and her shouting into the summer sky, “I still love you, zombie child of mine.” Another conclusion I reached: Accepting your own mortality is much harder in an airplane bathroom, because there’s hardly enough room to have an emotional breakdown.

I landed in Istanbul. I was excited to recover my baggage, because I knew inside it was a bottle of Benadryl which had my name all over it. As luck would have it, my luggage never came. I’d never felt so stood up; like a oily dweeb in the corner of a prom’s dance floor, I waited for that suitcase as if it were a dance with the homecoming queen herself, but she never came. To this date, I know not where that suitcase is.

I had no time to spare. The rash was getting redder, and I could already hear the alien sacks in my stomach filling with offspring. I clutched my now useless bag of entertainment paraphernalia to my chest and headed toward the nearest taxi. It wasn’t all that easy, because I would soon learn that English is not the most popular language in Istanbul. How dare they? Didn’t they know that an estranged and now diseased Greek American was coming to their country? Didn’t they know that America was founded on a premise that all other countries should blindlessly accommodate American culture?

As soon as I got over my egocentrism, I jumped into a taxi; “Take me to the hospital, or the doctor, or your finest zombie-removal clinic… and step on it.” The entrance of the Istanbul hospital was welcoming enough, that is if I was being welcomed into a dungeon for war prisoners. One story tall, and covered in tiles the color of faded periwinkle and lighting as dingy as an abandoned pawn shop’s, the professionalism of this establishment was not confidence inspiring. Surely, a sign would give me the go ahead to enter this hospital.

At that moment, a small boy came running out of the emergency entrance, shoeless and with tears streaming down his rounded ruddy cheeks. I assured myself that he was only crying because the pediatrician refused to give him the cherry lollipop and was forced to settle for lime. I hobbled over to the receptionist and asked, “Can I see someone for a rash?” She did not understand this, and at that moment, I realized that I was going to have to use a weapon that I did not fit in my carry on. I would have to use a tool that I reserved for only the most dire of situation. I would have to use my little-kid Greek. A ritual reserved for only the most authentic of Greek functions: baptisms, weddings, and unexpected phone calls from Greece.

“Meelas ellinika?”

“Nee, nee, pes mou”

“Signomi…alla… nomizo pos… exo… kati kako.”

“Den katalaveno, ti exeis?” the Turkish nurse responded with total puzzlement.

“Exo… den eimai kala- kai thello voiitheia”

I was, so, so mad at myself; mad that I never answered my parents in Greek, mad that I never listened in Greek class, and mad that I wasn’t the Greek that I thought I was deep down.

“Ti exeis… ti exeis agori mou?”

Not even the lyrics of my favorite Greek artists could help me now. I mean — Sarbel had only taught me enough Greek to do one of two things: 1) dote on a loved one, 2) destroy a loved one… and neither of those could help me.

So instead, I lifted my shirt.

“Thee mou!” the nurse jumped back. She came back from behind the counter and guided me into another doctor’s office. Her name was Doctor Dilenemer. She was a brunette; she was kind; and she was my only salvation from the plague that was taking my body over. Her office looked like something out of the Brady Bunch — ostensibly inviting, but filled with too many yellows to make it feel even slightly contemporary. She put me on the table and took my shirt off.

“Exo… allergia… den xero ti einai apano mou”

“No Greek, signomi;” She didn’t speak Greek it turned out, and that was fine. When a French-food based alien is growing in your stomach during your first twenty-four out of the country, accepting medical advice from someone who doesn’t speak your language seems perfectly fine.

She looked bored by my rash, as if it was a headline on CNN warning of the threat of rabid field mice. I felt calm, that was until she grabbed me by the arm and pushed me into the corner of her doctor’s office. She pulled back a dusty privacy sheet and confined me to the darkest corner of her office.

She said “gururumdun”

“What?” I said.

“Gururumdun,” she repeated as she pointed to her back.

“I’m sorry;” I stood there as puzzled as an insect the millisecond before his brains splatter across the grille of an oncoming Pickup.

With all of the strength in her body, she mustered up enough English and said three words I didn’t want to hear: “Lay… on… bed.” I relented. I took in a deep breath of hospital pillow, and worried that it might be the last thing I smelled before dying. How poetic? A Greek American as ignorant as me finally being punished for all of the things I didn’t learn as a child. I understand now, God. Spare me. Spare my ignorance, and I will spend the rest of my life pursuing my Greek culture like James Bond chasing after the world’s greatest diamond thief. “Ouch,” I yelled. Turns out that the doctor had just what I needed to cure my illness… nothing like a shot in the behind to cure your own stupidity. From that day on, I took every second of the trip as a moment spent bettering myself. Whether the shot I received was a cure for my rash or my ignorance — we may never know — but whatever it was, I’ve never felt more proud to be a diseased Greek American.