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.
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