Ian has gone to Fuengirola again today. Firstly he has another appointment at Specsavers and secondly he´s having a dental checkup. The dentist, who is apparently half Argentinian, half German, was recommended to us, so I await Ian´s verdict upon his return.
I myself have a bit of a dental tale to tell (try saying that after you´ve just been to the dentist). When we still lived in the Alpujarras, I happened to damage a filling and was in severe discomfort when chewing. We asked around for a good dentist only to discover that most of the villagers didn´t go to the nearest dentist in Cádiar but instead travelled all the way to Órgiva (about an hour´s drive away) which was where Manolo, the dentist, originally from the village of Bérchules (that explains a few things), had his surgery. We phoned in November to make an appointment but the earliest he could fit me in was late January. I was advised though to simply pop in from 10 am onwards any day, if the pain got too much. I bravely chewed on one side for a couple of weeks but then the tooth started to become sensitive to hot and cold food and drink, so I decided enough was enough and consequently found myself in Manolo´s waiting room one fine November morning. I can honestly say that I have never seen so many people in a dental practice. Did he give away free toothbrushes or what? There were at least 20 people either sitting in the waiting room or standing in the corridor and more people kept on coming in. The noise level was almost unbearable as everybody was chatting animatedly. Were we really at the right address or had we ended up at the Órgiva social club for OAPs? (Is it still pc to say this?), we asked ourselves slightly confused. There was a desk in the reception lobby but apart from the appointment book, it was empty. After some time a harassed-looking chap clad in a white gown (who turned out to be el dentista) hurried along the corridor, briefly glanced at the book, entered the waiting room, had a look around, called somebody for their treatment, exchanged a few words with other patients who were waiting in the lobby and finally looked at me and asked me what I wanted. My husband explained why we were there (I felt a little tongue-tied at the time) and Manolo invited us to take a seat in the waiting room but warned us at the same time that we would have to wait for at least one hour and a half. I was in pain, we had no choice. After a while I cottoned on to the fact that not all people sitting in the waiting room were necessarily patients. Somebody would be called for their treatment and then as many as three people (the patient and his or her chaperones) would get up and leave the waiting room together. It soon occurred to me that `Chez Manolo´ seemed to be THE place to be if you wanted a bit of a gossip or a chat. I eventually got called after only an hour and was quite pleasantly surprised. Sitting in the chair rehearsing my lines, I discovered that there was another treatment room beyond the walk-in store cupboard . All doors were wide open, so the patient sitting in the other chair nodded a greeting over to me. I nodded back and then acknowledged other patients who were happily peeking into ´my´ room from the corridor. Different. I explained again what the problem was when Manolo finally appeared, only to tell me, having gazed into my mouth, that I couldn´t possibly be in pain. I was, so determined to make a point, I winced dramatically when he puffed some air onto the surface of my tooth (even though it didn´t hurt one little bit on that occasion). He reluctantly renewed the filling (without anaesthetic; they don´t seem to believe in not experiencing real pain in Spain) and whilst treating me answered a phone call, chatted to the dental nurse who was chewing gum as if her life depended on it and kept popping into the other room to see my fellow sufferer. Treatment completed (I had sunk several inches down in the chair, as you do) he accompanied me out into the corridor and I asked how much I owed him. He reminded me that I still had an appointment booked for January and as I had a tooth which was slightly chipped and needed repairing, he suggested I paid for the lot after appointment number two. At no stage did he or Chewy make any notes about the treatment I had received, nor did they record my particulars. Obviously a trusting chap with a good memory.
Chez Manolo – part two
Funnily enough I actually had to wait longer with a firm appointment than I did when I simply came in on spec. Whilst waiting I was somewhat entertained by an elderly lady who came into the surgery, didn´t fancy waiting for it to be her turn and subsequently decided to become all tearful, begging the dentist to see to her straight away as she was ´in a hurry`. Manolo wasn´t taken in at all – “Señora, we are all in a hurry”, he replied, shrugging his shoulders, and called in the next patient on his list. Eventually my name was called and when I sat down in the chair my heart skipped a beat as I caught sight of the photograph on the screen towering above my head. It depicted a horribly rotten tooth and I only relaxed once it had become apparent that this was in fact the previous patient´s problem, not mine. Phew. Manolo fixed my chipped tooth expertly and a brief discussion with Ms Bubblegum ensued. I didn´t catch the entire conversation but the gist was that she thought she´d spotted something else that needed doing. He asked me to open my mouth again (I had already risen from the chair and was about to escape from the torture chamber), shook his head and told her that she was mistaken. Phew again. Before I left the surgery I paid Manolo some outstanding fees with which a couple of friends and fellow patients from Bérchules had entrusted me (he seems to be quite relaxed about money) plus what I owed him which turned out to be a mere 30 euros.
Sitting in the street café just outside the dentist´s, sipping my café con leche in the sunshine and admiring my ´new` tooth in a compact mirror, doubts started creeping up on me. “I can´t believe how cheap the treatment was. I went to see him twice and it only cost me 30 euros. Do you reckon he´s forgotten to charge me for my first visit?”, I mumbled to Ian. The more I thought about it, the stronger I suspected that Manolo had indeed made a mistake. Ian nobly agreed to pop back up to the surgery to enquire (but mainly as he´d spotted a toilet there earlier which he was desperate to use) and just as I had ordered more coffee, orange juice and a croissant (pronounced in a very Spanish way) for Ian, my hubby – having returned from his mission(s) – informed me that Manolo wanted to see me. Ok, so he had probably realised that he had charged me too little. If only I had known what would be in store for me.
Chez Manolo – part 3
I hopped back upstairs and was quite taken aback when the dental nurse (running out of synonyms for chewing gum) asked me to sit down in the chair again. Hold on, I´m quite happy to stand whilst handing over more dosh - what´s going on now? A neighbour from Bérchules appeared in the doorframe and waved at me – “Hi! Fancy meeting you here.” “Yeah this is my second time today,” I retorted – still pretty flummoxed. It turned out that Manolo really had overlooked the fact that he had merely inserted a temporary filling back in November which needed to be replaced with the real McCoy. Throughout the treatment (I still hadn´t quite recovered from the shock of finding myself in the chair for the second time that morning), whilst I worried about my coffee breath, Hubba Bubba (Ha! I knew I´d be able to come up with another one!) kept saying to Manolo: ”See, told you so, didn´t I? I said you hadn´t finished. See? See?”
I parted with another 30 euros at the end of treatment number three and wondered if anybody had ever explained to Manolo that computers are also useful for recording information on patients and their respective treatments rather than simply enabling you to store photos of rotten teeth. I think it´s pretty unlikely that I´ll have two dental treatments in one morning interspersed by a coffee break ever again in my life. Then again, you should never say never.