A 5 day layover in Belgrade was unexpected, unwanted, and evolved from a lack of direct flights from Paris to Tirana, Albania (our destination). The only choice of a next day flight was Paris/Vienna at ridiculously early departure or Paris/Belgrade mid-day. Either choice would connect to Tirana. Sleep mattered (also breakfast at Paris hotel) so Belgrade’s Mother Teresa Airport chosen. There a bus at next departure gate was loading. I walked quickly towards the waiting bus, my eyes fixed on its open doors, totally unaware of the curb to step down from. My forward motion propelled me to fall hard, face down onto the concrete. An immediate reaction came from husband a few steps behind me, the loading station manager, and a platform worker, all of whom rushed to help me stand. Still grasping my boarding pass and passport I was immobilized, literally stunned by the fall and subsequent pain.
Helped onto the bus, a seat was procured. Offered sugar in case I was diabetic, and repeatedly asked if I was nauseated, dizzy, able to stand, or felt well enough to continue to the departing flight. My answers were “no, yes, no, no” to those questions. I disembarked the bus and was placed on a gurney to the first-aid shack where a doctor took details, bandaged my knee and ankle and tried to distract me from crying. She determined I needed X-rays, brain scan, and checkup at public hospital where I was driven in an ambulance—1st ever ride and hopefully not repeated. The vehicle bumped along on rough roads thru’ narrow streets while my ankle screamed at the slightest movement.
The public hospital emergency department was crowded with mostly elderly people from what I could glimpse from my prone position. Indeed was enough to see that I was definitely a foreigner in their midst. Advised by an English speaking male nurse to wait for a doctor (as if I had another choice) I lay in the ward as workers swished by, listening by not comprehending a word spoken.
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