zoom in on the public university hospital, a nervous Greek immigrant is waiting for the doctor, reading one of the 9879863645 pamphlets available about any condition imaginable. When the doctor comes in, she announces that there’s a Greek interpreter in case the immigrant needs help with medical terms. The immigrant rolls her eyes– you must be kidding me! No country can be THAT organized, you’re just staging these ridiculous scenes to mess with me, you must have heard the news about the camps and the nationalists beating up immigrants in Athens and you want to make me feel bad, WE INVENTED HOSPITALITY I want to scream –seriously now whoever heard of an interpreter in hospitals! Not that it doesn’t make sense, thinking how important it is to understand exactly what the doctor says, a matter of life and death I’d admit. “No, thank you, I have an accent, but I understand the language just fine” I answer and get the interpreter’s card, in case I need it in the future (when my parents decide to come and join us here). I turn the card around. There’s a handwritten note about a Greek festival at the local church.