When helicopters hover above central Tel Aviv, occasionally it signals something joyful: the release of hostages. After macabre handovers by masked militia, Israeli captives freed by Hamas are airlifted to the city, where they receive specialist care at some of the best hospitals on Earth.
The tale of how I too ended up in one of these medical facilities does not, unfortunately, feature any war reporting heroics. Embarrassingly, it involves falling off an e-scooter – a nasty accident that nonetheless provided a taste of world-leading healthcare.
Quite why I suddenly hit the deck as I was cruising along Tel Aviv beach promenade at 15mph, I will never be sure. What I do know is that I have only myself to blame for what happened while I was busy admiring the view. On the shores of the Mediterranean, bronzed twentysomethings played beach volleyball, while athletic types jogged along the boardwalk. The vista was all golden sand and golden bodies. As the sun set, the sky slowly turned the colour of a pale pink English rose. Speeding along alone, I felt at one with the world. Suddenly, the wind whipped off my cap, sending it sailing into the sky like a little beige kite. Next thing I knew, I was spread-eagled on the pavement, seeing stars.
Perhaps I hit a bump as I turned to look at my disappearing hat, or just somehow lost my balance. Either way, I flew over the handlebars, landing hard. While my jaw and chin hit the pavement, the rest of me smacked onto the scooter’s jack-knifed chassis.
Two kind passers-by helped me stagger to a bench, where I sat in a daze, trying to work out whether I had broken bones or chipped teeth. I had cut my chin and it wouldn’t stop bleeding, but everything else seemed broadly present and correct. I certainly didn’t think I was a hospital job.
Back at my hotel, I was in a better position to assess the damage. I was ghostly white, and developing a splitting headache. By now night had fallen and I was alone in a city I do not know with only a handful of shekels in my pocket and not a word of Hebrew. I really, really didn’t want to go to hospital, but the more I Googled, the more frightened I became.
Staring at my waxen face in the bathroom mirror, I tried to figure out whether my pupils were dilated, a potential red flag with head injuries. I could not stop thinking about poor Natasha Richardson, the actress who tragically died after an apparently minor fall on an easy ski slope. For several hours after hitting her head, she had seemed OK. In reality, she had suffered a fatal brain injury. What if I too was having what doctors call a “lucid interval” – a brief period without any symptoms of a life threatening head injury? How could I risk falling asleep?
And so it was that I found myself at the Sylvan Adams Emergency Hospital, a state-of-the-art facility designed to deal with casualties of war. When air raid sirens sound and locals take cover in bomb shelters, doctors and nurses at this hospital continue their work underground. It is all set up for electricity blackouts and flying missiles.
As for idiots like me? They can be assessed and treated in the blink of an eye. No wretched NHS-style 12-hour waits here. Just expert attention in literally minutes.
When helicopters hover above central Tel Aviv, occasionally it signals something joyful: the release of hostages. After macabre handovers by masked militia, Israeli captives freed by Hamas are airlifted to the city, where they receive specialist care at some of the best hospitals on Earth.
The tale of how I too ended up in one of these medical facilities does not, unfortunately, feature any war reporting heroics. Embarrassingly, it involves falling off an e-scooter – a nasty accident that nonetheless provided a taste of world-leading healthcare.
Quite why I suddenly hit the deck as I was cruising along Tel Aviv beach promenade at 15mph, I will never be sure. What I do know is that I have only myself to blame for what happened while I was busy admiring the view. On the shores of the Mediterranean, bronzed twentysomethings played beach volleyball, while athletic types jogged along the boardwalk. The vista was all golden sand and golden bodies. As the sun set, the sky slowly turned the colour of a pale pink English rose. Speeding along alone, I felt at one with the world. Suddenly, the wind whipped off my cap, sending it sailing into the sky like a little beige kite. Next thing I knew, I was spread-eagled on the pavement, seeing stars.
Perhaps I hit a bump as I turned to look at my disappearing hat, or just somehow lost my balance. Either way, I flew over the handlebars, landing hard. While my jaw and chin hit the pavement, the rest of me smacked onto the scooter’s jack-knifed chassis.
Two kind passers-by helped me stagger to a bench, where I sat in a daze, trying to work out whether I had broken bones or chipped teeth. I had cut my chin and it wouldn’t stop bleeding, but everything else seemed broadly present and correct. I certainly didn’t think I was a hospital job.
Back at my hotel, I was in a better position to assess the damage. I was ghostly white, and developing a splitting headache. By now night had fallen and I was alone in a city I do not know with only a handful of shekels in my pocket and not a word of Hebrew. I really, really didn’t want to go to hospital, but the more I Googled, the more frightened I became.
Staring at my waxen face in the bathroom mirror, I tried to figure out whether my pupils were dilated, a potential red flag with head injuries. I could not stop thinking about poor Natasha Richardson, the actress who tragically died after an apparently minor fall on an easy ski slope. For several hours after hitting her head, she had seemed OK. In reality, she had suffered a fatal brain injury. What if I too was having what doctors call a “lucid interval” – a brief period without any symptoms of a life threatening head injury? How could I risk falling asleep?
And so it was that I found myself at the Sylvan Adams Emergency Hospital, a state-of-the-art facility designed to deal with casualties of war. When air raid sirens sound and locals take cover in bomb shelters, doctors and nurses at this hospital continue their work underground. It is all set up for electricity blackouts and flying missiles.
As for idiots like me? They can be assessed and treated in the blink of an eye. No wretched NHS-style 12-hour waits here. Just expert attention in literally minutes.