How over-the-counter European antibiotics led to a wild hospital visit in Serbia | Emily Olle

This story began with tonsillitis. It ended with a full-body rash and an injection in the backside in a Serbian hospital, writes Emily Olle.

Emily's holiday gone-wrong involved a rash, a Serbian hospital and the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen.

One of the great joys of a not-so perfect holiday is the story you return with – a mysterious lover, a near-arrest outside St Petersburg’s Church of the Saviour on Blood, a bout of Bali belly or a pub meal gone-wrong on the Limestone Coast.

This story began with tonsillitis. It ended with a full-body rash, a $10 hospital visit in a non-English-speaking country and an injection in the backside by what can only be described as an eastern-European Victoria’s Secret model-turned nurse.

It was during the European summer of 2016, as I took to the continent ahead of a nine-month stint on university exchange in the Netherlands.

As all unoriginal 20-something Australian travellers do, I had spent a week island-hopping and slushy-sipping on a budget trip across Greece with one of my dearest uni mates.

We danced, we cried, we laughed – and I contracted a serious fever and a swollen throat.

As it wasn’t my first rodeo with the illness, I, a woman of small brain and large tonsils, decided not to indulge the Greek medical system and instead headed to the nearest pharmacy for a quick dose of over-the-counter antibiotics.

“Any allergies?” the lovely pharmacist asked.

“None whatsoever,” I replied, relishing in my medical genius and blissfully unaware of the disaster that awaited me.

I took my antibiotics back to our shabby hostel, downed a couple and partied the night away – not a second thought given to the chemical concoction I had chosen to ingest.

After a week on the Greek isles, we made our way via overnight bus to our next destination – the capital of Serbia, Belgrade.

Unlike the tourist-packed streets of Ios, spoken English in Belgrade was a rarity.

As we sat like stinky little Ouzo-soaked sardines in the FlixBus, I realised my tonsillitis had cleared – hoorah!

Emily later enjoying the Serbian sights – rash-free. Picture: Supplied

But a mysterious tingle was also beginning to crawl its way up my arms.

“How bizarre,” I thought, giving it no further consideration as I nodded off to sleep.

When I woke, I realised something was awry. I was sweaty – nothing out of the ordinary from the past week – but also very itchy.

I turned to my travel partner, asking if I looked unwell. She responded with a gasp, which never feels like a good sign.

Turns out, my entire body was covered – from eyelid to pinky toe – in a red, blotchy rash.

I sent this photo to my mother, accompanied by a text message saying my goodbyes. Picture: Supplied

At this point I had accepted my itchy, blotchy fate. Picture: Supplied

“Don’t stress,” I said, despite indeed having some stress.

With just a couple of hours’ sleep and delirium setting in, I opened Google Maps with a horrific roaming fee and marched through the historic streets to the nearest hospital.

When we arrived, I asked to see a doctor. I was greeted with a blank stare and a response in Serbian.

Unfortunately, I had not brushed up on my Cyrillic languages before heading to their beautiful country. Back to Google Translate.

“? (doktore molim vas?)” I asked, which was met with a nod.

Success.

I left my friend in the lobby and was whisked into a hospital ward, which looked like a Chernobyl disaster site that had been given an upgrade by way of brown drapes and eau de acetone.

I met the doctor. I pointed to my rashy face and held out the packet of antibiotics.

He nodded, his frown and “tutting” an unspoken agreement that I had definitely made a big mistake in my choice of medicine. He gave me a piece of paper and whisked me into another room.

There, I waited for 15 minutes before a woman walked in. I am not exaggerating when I say it was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.

Victoria’s Secret model Romee Strijd, who is a dead ringer for the Serbian nurse who was responsible for one of the more embarrassing moments of my adult life. Picture: Getty Images

She had kind eyes, a big smile and a needle half the length of my forearm.

Too stunned by her beauty, I didn’t quite process what she said next before answering, “Yes”.

What she had said was, “Bottom, OK?”.

With no further words, she pulled down my denim shorts and shoved said needle right into the meatiest part of my poor, vulnerable backside.

I yelped, she popped a Band Aid on with a gentle smack and handed me a lollipop and another piece of paper.

“Medicine!” my beautiful Serbian nurse goddess said, before taking me to the front counter to pay my hospital fee of exactly 740 Serbian dinars ($10).

The “medicine” turned out to be a “recipe” – according to the similarly non-English speaking chemist, but I walked out with an unlabelled lotion which, when smothered all over my body for three days’ straight, cured me of my antibiotics-inflicted ailment.

It was a wild, itchy journey with lessons learnt.

Leave medicine to the doctors – and if you’re looking for the love of your life, you’ll find her in a Serbian hospital.