Marisa’s abroad in Madrid, Spain, until Dec. 19.

This weekend was a double-holiday in Spain, so we had a four-day weekend. Ally and I met her mom in Lisbon for a last little excursion before hitting the books in preparation for finals. We saw all of the sights: the Tower of Belém, the monastery, the historic Alfama district, Barrio Alto, and the castle. We ate all the famous foods: cod, port wine (ew), lamb, and the most delicious pastries I’ve tasted in my entire life (think filo dough pastry cups filled with crème brulee, served hot with cinnamon and powdered sugar on top). We took a day trip to Sintra, a gorgeous mountain town, and various places on the coast, including the westernmost point in Europe, Cabo de Roca. We even caught a fado show, where we enjoyed a delicious meal to the deep, operatic singing of traditional Portuguese music.

What we did not anticipate enjoying was a trip through Portugal’s healthcare system. I was having some stomach pains that I thought would go away alone, but on the second day I was worse and we decided it would be best to get things checked out. Of course, it was Sunday, meaning that there were no clinics open and the only option was the hospital. The woman at the front desk of the museum we were at pointed us in the direction of the nearest hospital, but when we asked for directions from a security guard, he told us to go to a different hospital because that one was crowded and not very good. So we dodged a bullet, right?

Two hours later, after having waited in three separate waiting rooms, each with fewer seats and more seriously ill people, we realized that we had not. Ally’s mom wasn’t allowed to accompany me back to the waiting area, so she pulled a James Bond and snuck into the room, where she found Ally and I huddled in a corner, standing against a wall trying to get as far as possible from a man on a stretcher with a blood clot, a wailing woman with a broken arm, and a very green-looking girl wearing about five jackets in a hot, stuffy room. It looked like I was going to have to stand around in pain for another two hours at least, based on the number of people crammed into the room, and I was wondering what sort of crazy illnesses I was going to contract simply from breathing the foul air. Luckily, Ally’s mom decided to play dumb American and found an English-speaking doctor who agreed to see me out of line. I got a quick little IV injection of something (finding out what it was from the clueless nurse who checked me out ended up being another process), a bill for $200 and exposure to a whole multitude of diseases.

Now that I’m not being forced to stand up for two hours in a dirty hospital while having stomach pains, I guess it was a way to see Portugal from a much different perspective than most tourists. Lisbon is beautiful, but it certainly is not as clean or well-kept as Madrid (it turns out the entire city of Madrid is run by OCD neat-freaks like my señora, and there really is a cultural obsession with cleanliness). Portugal is definitely much poorer and less economically developed than Spain, even though most people tend to group the two together.

But luckily we had that fourth day to take in the sites we missed in the hospital, and they really were beautiful. We spent time at the castle and then just walked around the historic neighborhoods, popping our heads into antique shops and taking what were generally very charming settings minus the rampant graffiti in Barrio Alto. It was interesting to be in a country that so many people associate with Spain but not understand any of the language. In fact, no one in Portugal even learns Spanish—the people are more likely to speak English or French—which was a bit surprising to me since the two countries share the same peninsula and even some significant common history. I guess they’re competitors to the end, just like in the 16th century. And Portuguese really is a weird language, and it sounded almost Slavic at times. But in the end, language isn’t the only way to communicate. We had a cab driver that didn’t speak any English or Spanish, but he knew we had come from the fado show so he belted out traditional tunes and recited Portuguese poetry for the entire ride home, much to our amusement. I guess if Venice has its gondoliers, Lisbon has its cabbies.

Overall, I enjoyed Lisbon and found it to be a little treasure that just needs a little work. The view of the Christmas lights along Avenida Liberdade from our hotel room were stunning, and the city looked quaint and beautiful from the top of the elevator in Barrio Alto and from the castle on the other side. But the hospital was far from charming, and the city definitely needs some cleaning up, things that will have to wait until there is a bit more money flowing into the historic port city.