A travel insurer sent me to
Koreatown, an older area of Los
Angeles, home to a mixture of Koreans and Hispanics.
It’s a colorful neighborhood, and like all colorful neighborhoods, parking is a
chore. I found a spot several blocks away from the apartment.
Travel insurance patients are
subletting or visiting friends, so searching the directory near the locked
entrance never reveals their name. Phoning her number, I heard a voicemail
message. That was not bad news because insurance services pay for no-shows, but
I had to make an effort. I phoned the agency to explain. The dispatcher urged
me to wait while she tried to contact the client. I waited. After five minutes,
a resident entered the building; I followed and knocked on apartment 1D. The lady who answered
denied that anyone needed a doctor.
After another ten minutes, I
decided I’d done my duty and returned to my car. My phone rang as I arrived.
The client was taking a shower,
said the dispatcher. She was now ready to receive me. I recounted my experience
at apartment 1D,
but 1B turned out to be the correct number. In my defense, during the original
call I confirmed that the patient was in 1D as in “dog.” But English was not
the first language for both guest and dispatcher.
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