The bearded dentist

After a Rangu Silva full toss (i.e: hit in the mouth by a cricket ball) and a stubborn Stockholm metro door, it was now the turn of a goat cheese filled Spanish bocadillo (sandwich) to make my front tooth (this time the left one) drop to the floor in a rather unexpected and unfortunate dental mishap during lunch time yesterday.

Upon sifting the lower half of my tooth from a mushy mix of fine Castillian dairy and dry bread I went immediately to my boss who found the whole incident disturbingly entertaining. However – as a good boss ánd Spaniard – he instantly produced that commonplace and overly useful Iberian tool: the enchufe (literarily a fusebox, but it means to say wheelbarrow). “Ah, I know a place just down the road on Calle Fuencarral. Tell them that you know our doorman José and they’ll probably put it right back in there for free – or at least at a heavy discount. Apparently our portero is a well liked figure in the neighbourhood. Mentioning his name has opened doors for us here at the office on at least one other occasion (a mad rush for folder binders if I remember correctly).

I trotted down to the dentist – not knowing what to expect – with the remnants of my tooth in my sweaty right hand. It was – is – very hot outside, over 40 degrees. I am not sure if this had anything to do with the incident, and I didn’t raise the possibility of a meltdown to the dentist who I was about to meet.

Finding the practice was more difficult than I thought as it was hidden in a residential block of flats on the third floor. I still haven’t quite got used to the fact that many offices, medical practices and hairdressers are situated between Señor Rodriguez on the right and La Familia Suarez Garcia on the left. Business and residence – in my view – should always be separated.

There were no telling signs – except a big red poster reading dentista – what was about to happen when I rang the doorbell 3B and - rather comically - three men in doctor outfits stumbled to open the door as if having been waiting there for over half a century. They looked like they had walked straight out of a strange Chevy Chase Lampoon movie. ¿Dentista? I asked. “Si, sientate por favour,” (Yes, sit down please) was the choired answer.

After sitting in ‘the waiting room’ (i.e. passageway) for about 10 seconds I was summoned by one of the three men – the youngest, who had an odd twitch – to follow him to the dentists’ practice. There a bearded – never trust a bearded medic – dentist was waiting. Without appointment, without introduction, without words, I was ordered to sit down in the chair. At that moment I decided to end this farcical display of dentistry and speak up. This was no Dr.Cats – my posh The Hague dentist with whom a three month reservation had to be made. Where was the funny little elephant-shaped box in the corner where I was still – at 17 years old – invited to choose a little present from after a revision? Where was the clean state-of-the-art machinery (and other bits and bobs which never seem to be used) belonging in a dental practice? Where – for God’s sake – was the dentist’s assistant? Looking around it seemed I was in someone’s living room. Someone who had an odd obsession with 1950’s dental equipment.

I broke the silence by explaining my situation. I didn’t mention cricketballs nor locked Scandinavian metro doors, I decided for the easier ‘bicycle accident when I was 19’. I did show my tooth as if to prove it had actually fallen out. The way the bearded man was looking at me I felt this was necessary. I went on explaining I was from Holland and that I needed a receipt to show my insurer. Upon mentioning this he lightened-up and uttered his first words. “Ah, great, do you want me to charge you more?” Totally innocent and not quite understanding I asked: “¿Pero, porque?” (But why?). “Well, so you can overcharge your Dutch insurer and get some extra cash”. Oh, yes, I remembered, I am in Spain. I quickly replied “no, no hace falta” (no worries, its ok). I was not sure if this act of solidarity was an encouraging sign. However, as we were talking business I decided to ask him for the price of my new tooth. Curiously enough my question was not replied with an answer but with another question. “Euh, how about 35 Euros?”. Oh, shit, a bargaining dentist.

His first step was depressingly comical. He took my sweaty tooth and tried to put it back in, hoping for a quick fix (my God, is he going to use super-glue?). Luckily, he swiftly shook his head, eliminating the possibility. He then started to look tentatively towards a set of tools lying in front of him. Suddenly I noticed the enormous melancholic streak he had about him, reminding me instantly of the 17th century Dutch poet Piet Paaltjens. He was staring alarmingly gloomy at his gear and then back to me as if asking me which one to use. It seemed he was just about to cry.

The bizarre situation was enhanced by the two other men in the apartment who – in the adjourning room – were making a noise which I can only describe as if they were bouncing huge rubber balls. My dentist did not notice, confirming that this was not a strange sound for him as he finally started to fill the gap in my mouth.

Now, I was going through this procedure for the third time in my life so I knew what I should be expecting. Firstly, the colour of your teeth is checked, mine is usually described as ‘Lemon Chiffon’ (I am not kidding). Then you have to bite on some plastic thing after which a cap is brought on which is filled with a type of paste. After this everything is polished-off until it more or less has the shape of a tooth. Obviously, this time my man followed with his trial and error policy, often repeating the words: “and how about now?” (asking if my tooth felt ‘too big’). The strangest moment of the operation was when he took the polishing tool (which also fans water to moisture the mouth) and sprayed it around his head: “¿Puuf, hace mucho calor verdad?” (Puuf, it’s really hot, isn’t it?).

When everything seemed finished the youngest of the three came in – sweating, presumably from the bouncing – and was required to take a look. “Looks fine,” he said. “Well done,” giving the impression that he was the boss (that’s strange, he is at least 15 years younger than my bearded melancholic). I suddenly felt respect for the young guy (great for him, just out of Uni, set up his own dental practice, recruited his DAD and doing well for himself, well done). But the roles were abruptly turned: “it’s the other tooth”, the graduate obviously was fooled by my other fake tooth (he missed out on my story you see).

It was time to leave. I shook the hand of the morose medic, who surprised me by saying “you speak Spanish really well”. I wanted to hug him, but then didn’t. I paid in a cabin which I suspect used to be the apartment’s toilet. “Thirty Euros, wasn’t it?”. I nodded, silently excusing myself for the 5 Euro discount. I deserved it.

Walking down the stairs – the three men all waved me goodbye (was the oldest one weeping?) – I wondered when and how – for it is sure to happen – the next tooth-dropping will take place; a nasty beach tennis accident involving a German tourist; perhaps, a health and safety calamity here at the office? Probably not, most likely – with the miserable result produced – it will be whilst slurping through a bowl of strawberry yoghurt…tomorrow.

The Dylan Smirk

There were some special moments when Bob and I first met this weekend, at the Rock in Rio festival, just outside Madrid. It was a true exhibition of blues mastery coming from a folk legend, absolutely mesmerizing. I had heard some nasty stories about Dylan-live; he would be grumpy, even rude, to his adoring crowd. His voice would be so rough that lyrics would be hard to follow. And above all, you just had to be lucky if he played some of his more famous songs as he does have about 800 to choose from. All was proven wrong on Sunday.

Preparing for this concert I took out my Bob Dylan DVD collection – consisting of the two classic documentaries ‘No direction home’ and ‘Don’t look back’. Now, I wouldn’t consider myself a fan of Dylan, more a distant admirer. I have a feeling he doesn’t like the fans who walk around in Dylan merchandise. He admits it himself in his book ‘Chronicles’. He doesn’t want to be idealized; he doesn’t want to be seen as a messiah of a lost generation. He just wants people to enjoy his music. He has never asked someone to understand it.

Anyway, whilst I was watching the ‘Don’t look back’ documentary – which follows Dylan on his controversial tour of England in 1965 – I bumped into the following scene which I would like you all to take a look at. In this particular part we see British folk singer Donovan (to many a Dylan wannabee, but certainly no schmuck) and Dylan in a Newcastle hotel room, exchanging songs. Note how Dylan observes Donovan’s tune; nervously shaking his leg, waiting for his turn. Notice how quick the Jester snatches the guitar from his British counterpart as soon as he finishes. Although does manage to stammer “That’s a good song man”, but does he mean it?

Dylan and Donovan

However, the most fascinating part comes exactly at 3.00 when Dylan – at the height of his classic song ‘It’s all over now Baby Blue’ – portrays something what I will call ‘the Dylan Smirk’. An arrogant little smile which shows off: there is something what I know, and what none of you know – and certainly not Donovan. He takes the whole room to school.

Observing this spectacle I can’t help but - running the risk of sounding very pretentious indeed - be reminded of Plato’s Symposium. There too a group of young geniuses come together in a room, amongst them Aristophanes – the comic poet, Pausanians – the legal expert, Eryximachus – the physician, and last but not least: Socrates.

After taking the microphone from Agathon, Socrates sweeps the floor with all of them; bouldering a faultless discourse on Love and Desire, leaving the room pretty much speechless, unable to give any dignified answer. At the end of it, Socrates stands alone, hoping for some kind of response which he knows he is not going to get. For he – like Dylan – was such a master of his trade, a King of verbal contest, who stood so high above the rest that even competition seems ridiculous.

Now, back to the Dylan Smirk. I imagine that this could have been Socrates’ face during his speech on Love at the Symposium. With this grin he could be seen answering Agathon’s call. A grin of total and valid arrogance. So, I went to look for this particular facial expression on Sunday. To see if Dylan – our modern day Socrates – still had it. If he still had the power to take an entire audience to school, to show that he knows something we all don’t. Well, I think I saw the smirk twice. They came rather powerfully in the following songs, and exactly during the lines I have inked in black.

During Spirit on the Water

You think I'm over the hill

You think I'm past my prime

Let me see what you got

We can have a whoppin' good time

And during Thunder on the Mountain

Thunder on the mountain, rollin' like a drum

Gonna sleep over there, that's where the music coming from

I don't need any guide, I already know the way

Remember this, I'm your servant both night and day

Both these lines he sang which such spit that I was convinced that he still had it. ‘I don’t need any guide, I already know the way’ – that’s just great.

Historic win

It was the night when Carmen waved the Spanish flag for the first time in her life. Before the match she had even asked me to tuck the tiny ‘bandera’ away because she admitted that it still felt a bit like betraying her principles. She blatantly felt uncomfortable of me – and my parents for whom I had bought España Toro attributes for the occasion – sporting Spanish symbols. It was just something she had never done before.

But after Torres’ great goal she – we – jumped crazily as she grabbed for the yellow and read, waving it high up in the air. By the end of the match she did not want to let go of it and carried it all through the night, up and down Gran Vía where many Spaniards were experiencing the same: for the first time openly being proud of your nation. Much has been said about ‘the two Spains’, and one football match won’t change this a big deal, but it was refreshing for once to see Spaniards rejoice instead of arguing about nationalists, Madrid’s central power or ETA.

Carmen celebrating famous win

Of course, we were in Madrid, the capital, so these scenes could be expected. But news came in from Sanxenxo – a lively summer tourist destination in Galicia where Carmen’s sister was watching the match – that people where also celebrating on the streets. Later, on the news I saw scenes in Barcelona and even Basque country of people jumping up and down in delight.

Yesterday really was something incredible. We decided to watch the match in Fuencarral to be more with the Spanish although our neighbourhood Lavapies – with all its immigrants – was also supporting Spain. In fact, Carmen and I were interviewed by national TV La Sexta, as they did a reportage on foreigners supporting Spain. Unfortunately – although I did my best to act as foreign as possible – we did not make the cut as you can see from the following link: http://www.misexta.tv/home/1_0/0/151901

I guess we were not immigrant enough.

¡Viva España!

The five minute Interview: Jason Opheim

Every once in a while Thomasenmadrid publishes a short interview with one of the Key figures of my life in Spain or people who have taken the trouble of visiting me here in Madrid. This week it's the turn of Jason Opheim (26) from Oklahoma, USA, also known as Jazz. Jason is a Madrid old-timer although he has also spent some considerable time in Granada and has been here a tad longer than me and we were befriended by our mutual friend Tyler. Jazz – a lively and sunny character – is a linguist, never shy to run away from a vocabulary discussion, often winning it. Lately he has put dreads in his hair which – I have to say – have improved his physical aspects remarkably. Such was its success that I am thinking about doing the same myself.

The first time I saw Thomas was: as he snuck up behind Tyler in H&M and tickled him to say hello.

My favorite place in Madrid is: Paco’s Bar on Sunday afternoon.

Something I say too often is: Why yes, you can call me Jazz.

I am not a politician, but: If I were, I would make playing songs out-loud on your mobile phone illegal

People know me from being an English Teacher, but in a truer life I would be: disciplined enough to be doing something else.

If I weren't talking to you right now I would be: looking for someone else to be talking to.

Normally, my breakfast consists of: waiting until lunch

I passionately have confidence in: The people within my inner circle

At the moment the most played on my MP3 player is: Dry the rain by The Beta Band and The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song by The Flaming Lips

In moments of weakness I: want to go back to Oklahoma City

I'm good at: Loving the people I like.

I'm very bad at: Pretending to like people I don’t.

The ideal night out is: Beginning at a chill bar with a small group of friends, and then later connecting with more for drunken dancing

In a nutshell, my philosophy is this: Be who you are and try to liberate others to do the same.

A por ellos

So, “I am, where I am”, I guess it is back to the fold. I honestly was quite affected by the crashing out of Holland, it always does. But, yesterday night has rescued my Euro Cup feeling. Actually, I really believe this has been the best Euro Cup I have ever experienced. Now only the Germans are waiting for us in the final. Indeed, us, I have jumped ship, I am now loudly, proudly singing ‘a por ellos, o-é’ (let’s go after them olé).

Just a couple of days ago I was defending my Dutchness, but I have tossed that away as quick as a circus act juggling hot potatoes. I am an unashamed glory supporter, and last night I was hugged by Spaniards as if I was one of them and I guess now I am.

After the match Carmen and I decided to walk back from ‘Paco’s’ – the bar where we were watching the match – instead of taking the metro, and we witnessed some fantastic scenes of celebrating Spaniards. But there was something strange about seeing so many Spanish flags together. Last time I saw such a collection was at the rightwing/catholic/family-day-values demonstration on Plaza Colon. Today, the flags returned to Plaza Colon but the anti-government protest signs were left at home as the economic crisis was forgotten for at least one more night.

'España, España'

It suddenly occurred to me that Spain hasn’t had such a national celebration for a long time (24 years to be exact) and it seems that the Spaniards are still not quite comfortable waving their red and yellow, proudly shouting ‘España’. For many, it is still too politically charged. I wondered how things were going in Las Ramblas in Barcelona, or in Bilbao, where – I believe – waving the national flag can still result in a good ‘paliza’ – a beat up. Reaching the Euro Cup final must unite a nation, it must bring the people together, but the feeling I had on the street yesterday evening is that not everybody is willing to do so.

The scenes after Real Madrid winning the League were much, much more jubilant and yesterday it was mostly tipsy teenagers dancing around in the city’s fountains. The adults were taking it all in rather subdued, but with a smile nonetheless. I guess it was a bit like Germany in the last world cup where for the first time since the war many people where proud of their flag, posting it on their car windows and on their balconies. For Spain, being so diverse, it will be very interesting to see what happens when they actually win it (they deserve it by the way).

Three Lions and Orange wigs

Will there be a type of national unity like never before? Will people all of a sudden sing the national anthem in the streets of – say – San Sebastian or Tarragona? I very much doubt it and it really doesn’t matter too much. Maybe too much emphasis is always laid on national pride when it comes to football, maybe people should pay more attention to the actual game. I think that is what is happening here. Compared to Holland – where even the cheese seller wears an orange wig – it is very calm here in the Spanish capital, only two days before their biggest match in a quarter of a century. Football comes first here, then later maybe the country. The opposite to, for example England, where the three lions seem to matter more than scoring goals.

In other sports it’s the same. The sportsmen and woman in this country are hailed for their achievements, not for their nationality, and the truth is that they are doing really well. Have a look at the following list:

Alberto Contador (cycling) – Winner of the last Tour de France and the Giro de Italia

Rafa Nadal (tennis) – 4 Time Roland Garos Winner

Fernando Alonso (Formula 1) – 2 Time World Champion

Pau Gasol (basketball) – Key Player for the Los Angeles Lakers

The National Basketball team – World Champions

The National Hockey team – World Champions

Javier Gomez (Triatlon) – World Champion (from Galicia!)

Carlos Perez (Kayak) – World Champion (from Galicia!)

And…..the National Football Team – ?

Midsummer 2008

The Madrid Team had just watched Spain qualify for the semis for the first time in over twenty years as we decided to wander into town (well, village) to celebrate the victory. Although happy with the win, we all were exhausted after three days of Midsummer and there was definitely a post-midsummer feeling in the whole seaside village of Varberg where we had decided to spend the night after three crazy ones in Fröslida.

Whilst sipping on a 7 Euro beer we were quietly reflecting on the past days. For both Jason and David it had been their first MS experience and I was happy to see them enjoying so much. In the bar there were four other people, all well beyond drunk, and it was not long before David – a natural conversation starter, a true machine – had started chatting with one couple who had an impressive collection of empty beverages stalled out in front of them, confirming their physical state – and their wealth.

They asked us what we were doing there. We answered about our long weekend and that we come back every year to celebrate Midsummer on the West Coast of Sweden. They were amazed. “Why come all the way from Madrid to join the nerdy Swedes in this traditional celebration?” A quick answer was impossible so I whipped out my camera and showed the woman the following video: (to be uploaded, for now: http://sites.google.com/site/thomasenmadrid/the-blog/midsummer-2008)

She burst into a great – albeit rather tipsy – bout of laughter. “That’s just fantastic, you have totally integrated into Swedish society within three days,” she said. Luckily it was enough and she forgot about her question on why we were there, no further explanation was needed and we started chatting about the hostel they had bought one Swedish mile (that’s 10 kilometres) away.

It’s just that I can’t really explain the reason why we have so much fun up there. Is it the dancing? Is it they silly games we play? Is it the friends we see every year who make me laugh so much? Or is it the traditional Swedish dinner where I always avoid the raw herring in mustard sauce? Could it be the flower picking? Or the parties? The Saturday Pizza? The beach? Why do we enjoy so much? It’s most probably the Schnapps…

I read somewhere that “the foolish man seeks happiness in the distance, the wise grows it under his feet.” Does this mean we don’t have to go all the way to Sweden to be happy picking flowers in a meadow? Does this mean we have to do it right here in Madrid, erecting the agricultural phallus symbol on Plaza Mayor hopping around it like a frog? Or are we just foolish?

I don’t know, it won’t be the same. Sweden – and it’s people – is just something special. Just to continue churning up quotes, Mark Twain said: “Happiness is a Swedish sunset – it is there for all, but most of us look the other way and lose it.” In a country where in June the difference between sunset and sunrise is minimal, we always manage to see it and that’s why we go to Sweden, every year. (Photos to be found on: http://picasaweb.google.com/reeve.thomas/Midsummer2008)

Holland or Spain: who am I going with?

“I have always honoured the King of Spain,” is one of the more striking lines in the national anthem of - yes, you guessed it - the Netherlands. Yes, rather than the Spanish it is the Dutch who penned this phrase down 4 centuries ago whilst the provinces of the Netherlands where part of the Spanish empire for about 80 years. Nevertheless, it could have easily been slotted into the Spanish one as well. For there is plenty of room in their anthem as theirs is lyric-less. However, it’s great for me as it fits in nicely with my new duel-nationality (conveniently dropping the English).

So, after two convincing wins for Holland and six points for Spain it is time to start thinking who I am really supporting at the Euro Cup - defining my nationality along the way.

Deception

I remember very well throwing my Holland scarf on the floor, two years ago in the truckers lounge of a boat slowly drifting somewhere on the Baltic Sea - swearing that I would never support Holland ever again. We had just played the most shameful game of World Cup history with 16 yellow cards and 4 reds, all resulting in a 0-1 defeat against the thieves of Portugal. It was not so much that we lost but how we lost. There - on deck 7 of the 'Robin Hood' - I morally walked away from my national team and my Dutch nationality altogether.

I have never felt Dutch and I probably never really will. Circumstances in life have made me a bit of an outsider in the country whose passport I hold. Somehow I never really fitted in the Dutch society although I am yet to discover why this is. When I see the groups of well-off Dutch trotting through Madrid I can't help but smile. I do feel some sort of an affection for my countrymen but much more than affection I can't bring up.

Argentinean

When my friend Asaf - himself a beacon of Dutchness - visited me here in Madrid we bumped into a Dutch guy in a very crowded flamenco bar. At first we tried to deny that we were Dutch, both putting on an Argentinean accent to save ourselves from an awkward conversation. The combination of two facts - Asaf's T-Shirt reading 'Holland' and the fact that he heard us speaking Dutch - did us in. I noticed I was very rude to this half-Spaniard half-Dutch who was just very happy to finally find two Dutchies in Madrid - a city where he felt a bit lonely after living nearly all his life in Holland, he confessed.

I had no desire what so ever to speak to him only because of my nationality. "I am, where I am", I tried to explain him. "Huh (a typical Dutch expression)," he said, "So, you think you are from Madrid?" His laugh which followed made me realize that I am fooling myself thinking this. Nationality is just a topic I wish to avoid.

"I am where I am"

But, during the Euro Cup nationality cannot be avoided. So, my “I am where I am,” thesis is being put to the test and I have to admit I am failing my own exam: I am passionately supporting Holland – sweating every second of the matches. I am wearing orange clothes, publicly defending liberal Dutch policies, explaining to all that Holland is the best country in the world to raise your kids.

In other words, I am shamelessly riding the Orange Wave which is currently rumbling through Europe. After two crushing wins people are stopping me in the street offering me drinks and congratulating me on my Dutchness. I accept it all with glory. The exiting playing style of Holland is turning me into some kind of hero here in Madrid. My star has risen considerably, just based on my nationality, something which I was willing to renounce only a short time ago. I am what they call here in Spain a ‘sin vergüenza’ – a person without shame.

My Spanish passport

So, what about Spain? The other day I joined the Facebook group “You know, when you are Spanish when…” and going through the following list I can comfortably say that according to Facebook – that embodiment of social truth – I am Spanish, because I know that:

• ‘The Raul discussion’ is not something to be messed with
• Three of the regions in my country want to secede at any given time.
• Conversation mainly focuses on food
• Spiked mullets have been in fashion for as long as you can remember
• I can always tell who is a tourist by the amount of sunburn they have
• No one eats supper before 10 pm. No one sleeps. Ever.
• My grandmother-in-law has an olive, peach, citrus, or plum tree in her backyard
• It is acceptable to dislike someone solely on the premises that he/she votes PP/PSOE
• Gay marriage is totally okay
• A "Chino" is not a person, but a place to buy alcohol underage.
• There are no Spaniards in Benidorm
• There's a national holiday every other week, and Fiesta Mayor at least three times a year
• It’s not Español, it’s Castellano
• Bable is a real language (from Asturias)
• There are more dialects than people
• There are five construction cranes everywhere you look
• You're cool with living with your parents until you're 30.
• A Three-bedroom apartment seems HUGE
• There are three food groups: ham, bread, and wine
• My prime minister is called “shoemaker”
• Prosciutto is not real ham. It must be Iberian.
• Prostitutes are a vital part of the economy.
• Every drink is a "Cubata". It doesn't matter what is inside as long as it's alcohol.
• Every year someone around you chokes on New Year's Eve because of the damn grapes you have to swallow.
• Only tourists order sangría at a restaurant.
• Everyone is appalled when they meet you because you lean forward to give them two kisses.
• You never drink chocolate milk, just dip things into it
• The exact four or five ingredients to put in a tortilla española can start a fight
• Even though it's just a rock covered in monkeys, I am secretly bitter than Britain owns Gibraltar
• You leave your apartment at 20.45 because you had to be somewhere at 20.30 and you wanted to be early.
• Mixing wine with fruit juice, seltzer or coke is perfectly normal and sometimes expected.
• Nino Bravo is the King.
• What a ‘missing call’ is and am never in the mood to fully explain how it works to a foreigner.

So, there it is. I am also Spanish. I know all these things and act to them appropriately. But it is not enough to fully support their football team. If the two teams meet in the semi’s I will go for Holland – my new country. I am a born-again Dutchmen. After the final I will revert to my ‘I am where I am’ theory. But not just yet, please – with your permission – let me enjoy these moments.