Una manzana a day keeps the doctor away

[Recently I wrote to the author of the link above, Sal DeTraglia, who publishes an excellent blog on life in Spain. I e-mailed him in response to his blog entry, "It was a pleasure to disserve you." Here is part of what I wrote... posted here for posterity, and because I'm in a nostalgic mood. Also check out www.expatica.com, which is by far the best English-language roundup of Spanish news that I've encountered online.]

I traveled to Cordoba toward the end of my 3-month visit, and during the last week, I became so ill that the friend I was staying with hauled me off to the emergency room. (It was later established that I had mononucleosis and strep throat.)
The gentleman at the desk asked for my nombre — "Angela" — then my appellidos — "[my Anglo, one-syllable last name]". He couldn't understand. "Just [last name]?" Once we established that I only had one appellido, my computer-generated name tag was handed to me, and it read "Angela [last name] X."
After a typically long wait, we were whisked into an examining room, where a nurse, nonchalantly and without warning, jabbed my arm to draw blood for a test. Then the harried doctor arrived. My Spanish is pretty good, but my throat was swollen, making it hard to speak. I tried to explain my symptoms to him. "Does she speak Spanish?" he asked my Spanish friend, ignoring me. My friend looked puzzled and replied that I did. Even so, he addressed all his questions and comments to her during the entire exam, except to grunt orders at me in Spanish. "Lie down." "Open your mouth."
My favorite part of the exam was when (like the nurse, with no forewarning) Dr. Rude pushed my blouse up to my breasts to check for any swollen organs. Um, nice to meet you, doctor!