At the Tooth Dentist

Like going to the hair schnittery for the first time, an initial visit to a dentist here conjured up fears of being maimed at great expense. Although I imagined going in for a cleaning and emerging with several teeth pulled and dozens of holes bored into others--and being charged 900 euros for the experience--it turned out to be exciting only because I made it so with my anticipation. The dental technology was more advanced than what I had in the States, and, typical for Vienna, the staff was polite, though not friendly, except for the dentist himself.

I phoned the dental clinic for an appointment, expecting I might have to wait a few weeks to get in, but I was given a time just two days away, first thing in the morning. My pulse increased slightly as I wondered why this dental office did not have more patients, and so, before leaving home for the appointment, I checked my bilingual dictionary and memorized translations for "the pain is intense," "no extractions," "no experimental surgery," and "Dear God, stop."

The building, perhaps designed to bring relaxation to an Austrian, was somber: large, gray, plain, and boxy, like a squat mausoleum, with its name over the door in another shade of gray. I entered a dark hallway, where a young woman in a white uniform, wearing a look of mild annoyance, approached me and directed me to the waiting room. It was huge, many times larger than any dental waiting room I have been in. And dark. And empty. The only light came from an aquarium in one corner. Piranha? Some other fish with strong, sharp, white teeth? I thought of the retired dentist in Lake Woebegone, who used to sit in his fishing boat, muttering "Open wide. This will only hurt a little bit." As I sank into a modern-style black vinyl chair and heard my keys and coins clink out from my pockets, I wondered whether my body would ever quit descending, and, if it did, whether I would ever emerge. The chair had arms as high as the back, and I knew I might have to pitch forward onto the floor if I was ever to rise from it. There were a dozen such chairs, all empty, lining the walls, and it occurred to me that there might be patients from years past submerged in them. Then a second young woman in white came in--formal, unsmiling. She led me to the front desk, where I gave my name and filled out a medical history form; then yet a different woman appeared and led me into a dark, round x-ray chamber like a Star Trek transporter. I donned a lead vest and stood in a magic circle, as I was directed, and then closed my mouth around a wire with a red light in the end; the technician disappeared, and I heard the chamber doors slide shut. The room was completely dark and quiet; I stood still. Next, a recorded voice in muffled English said, "Close your eyes" and several other things; I did not understand these additional directions, but I thought they might not matter too much since I am not planning on fathering any more children. A whirring noise commenced. The doors opened and soft white light entered. I followed the light. I was then taken to the dentist.

The examination room was also huge, with a lone dental chair in the center, with space for a dozen more. The dentist was a kind-looking young man though with an intense, wide-eyed stare, as if he were trying to drill into my mind. He invited me to sit and then directed my attention to a computer screen adjacent to the chair. On the screen was a moments-old panoramic x-ray of my teeth smiling down at me like the grin of a death's head. "Open, ja, ja." Using a tooth-cam, a light pen with a camera in it, he slowly moved across each tooth on the screen while he offered a narrative, describing in turn the status of each filling and crown. Although I was beginning to relax, I found myself wishing that, like the woman at the hair schnittery, he would offer me a beer. He noted two fillings that would eventually need to be replaced and said that, if I wished, he would send the x-rays to my dentist in the States or even give me a memory stick to take with me if I wanted to have the work done at home. He seemed to be trying to reassure me that he would not be exploiting my ignorance of the condition of my teeth for unnecessary dental work or expense. "I hope you enjoy your hygiene," he concluded, with lips drawn back in a well-maintained smile. Does anyone enjoy having pointy steel implements plunged below the gum line, I wondered? Was his verb choice a translation issue...or a scary cultural difference?

Yet another woman in white appeared and led me into another room. She was the hygienist--stiff, formal, no chit-chat, and all business. The cleaning was as thorough as any I've gotten before. When she finished, she led me to the business counter, where my bill, 104 euros, was less than what I would have paid at home.

Filler

-- Although Vienna lacks the thick odor of diesel and the heavy blue smell of the two-stroke motor scooter engines so prevalent in other European cities, there is enough exhaust combined with cigarette smoke to keep the city in a haze. The air in the Ring downtown can be overwhelmingly different, in part because of the large number of tourist buses but mainly because of the fiacres, the horse-drawn carriages that cart tourists around. These vehicles sometimes back up in numbers of a dozen or more at certain locations that are like taxi stands, and the acrid, pungent odor of horse urine can almost knock a person over. We refer to Michaelerplatz, one of the most popular squares in the historic center, as Horse Pee Platz.

-- Cigarette vending machines are widely in use here, the product is relatively cheap, and there seem to be no age restrictions on smoking, which is a widespread, popular habit. Since July restaurants, rules varying by size of seating area, have been required to declare themselves smoking or nonsmoking. Some larger ones can designate separate dining areas for smokers and nonsmokers, the one for the latter usually being far smaller than for the former.

-- At the head of the checkout line at the grocery store, among the small packages of candy and gum, are airline-size bottles of vodka and other liquor. Workmen who come in early for breakfast snack food and over the lunch hour to buy prepared sandwiches often pick up a bottle or two as they check out. We saw a sign in one restaurant/bar saying no alcohol sales to anyone under 16.

-- Fire hydrants are painted black. That, however, does not create a visibility problem: firemen could not see them anyway because there are no restrictions on parking in front of them.