I hate going to the doctor. This isn’t an original aversion, I know, but it developed when I was a kid. I was sick with the flu, and my mom asked me if I wanted to go to the doctor. This freedom of decision had never been granted me before, so it warranted the following thoughtful reasoning: change out of my Beauty & the Beast jammies to drive 20 minutes to the pediatrician’s office to sit in the waiting room for 30 minutes to have the doctor with cold hands reeking of sterilization jab me in the stomach and poke coarse wooden sticks down my throat to determine that yes, I did have the flu so I should drive back home to take Tylenol out of Mom’s medicine cabinet.

No sugar-free sucker is worth that.

Since then, I’ve been to the doctor a handful of times. In Boston, a doctor with no ethical qualms about calling in prescriptions for his friends lived in my building, so I only had to schlep myself up the stairs to receive medical attention.

But then we moved here, and my body decided it’s too wussy to adjust to Taiwan’s autumn without an illness. I tried tricking it into feeling better by still going to work, but my manager sent me home because I “wasn’t in my right mind.” Here, however, there is no hassle-free prescription connection. There is no mother to enforce a doctor’s visit. Josh tried, but he lacks the iron fist. He is, however, a gifted nagger, so after a few days, I relented.

I still don’t enjoy going to the doctor, but I love Taiwanese healthcare.

Upon entering Wanfang Hospital, located just a short drive down our mountain, I was greeted by the intrinsically healing aroma of fresh bread and coffee, wafting from the bakery and neighboring Starbucks next to the door. (My initial thought was, “Why can’t they have these installed in US hospitals? Then it wouldn’t be so obnoxious to visit sick friends.” Then my conscience fainted.) I walked up to the registration desk, in clear sight of the entrance, and was asked to fill out one sheet of paperwork. The process took five minutes, despite the fact that I didn’t have a Taiwan ID yet and thus, wasn’t registered for national health insurance.

The clinic was a quick escalator ride upstairs. The doctor saw me after 15 minutes, fluently examined me in English, and diagnosed me with the flu. But instead of offering lame advice I could find on WebMD, he prescribed three different types of medication: an antibiotic, pain killers, and cough medicine. When I reminded him that coughing wasn’t one of my symptoms, he responded, “I know. But you’ll start.” And he was right. I still sound like a chain smoker. Pre-emptive prescriptions—love it.

There was even more to love. The pharmacy was downstairs. Plus the prescriptions were ready by the time I arrived at the desk. Then I simply paid at the cashier’s desk for both the appointment and drugs. Total: $11.54 USD. And that’s without health insurance.

Let’s compare this to the experience a Taiwanese girl I met had with US healthcare. She was in the States with no health insurance, got sick, went to the hospital, was treated rudely by the staff due to her poor English (which I had no difficulty understanding), and was then sent a bill totaling $1,200 USD. She couldn’t afford this astronomical fee and had to leave the country.

If this be socialism, let socialism be served.