Al Doctor Asnan (That's My Arabic for "The Dentist")

One of the best parts about living in Riyadh is drinking tea. The tea doesn't burst with interesting and exotic flavors like you'll find in Miss Tammy's Tea House in Boise. It isn't served by a shy, whispering girl who pours it from a charmingly crafted tea pot like you would find in Hong Kong. The tea itself isn't the the part I like, but the act of drinking it. Drinking tea means I'm sitting down with someone worth talking to, enjoying something warm in an overly air-conditioned building. I drink it with my work friends when our patients are tucked away snugly in their beds. I drink it with my patients when they offer, and we attempt a conversation in Arabic. I drink it with my Syrian family when I hang out at their house, laughing with the three guys as we watch YouTube videos on our iPhones while we listen to the news about the Syrian civil war in the background.

The tea does good things for my mood, but bad things to my teeth. After going nine months without seeing a dentist, the tea stains on my teeth were grossing me out. My teeth were starting to look like those found in the men working in the Riyadh souks who have feet covered in callouses and deep yellow armpit stains on their thobes. I'm too vain to let that look go for long, so I faced my fear of having my mouth ruined by an incompetent dental hygienist and called up the dentist recommended by the hospital. I had heard about the clunky van that picks you up and drops you off half an hour away, but it was going to be worth it to have a recommended dentist change my pearly browns back to pearly whites without accidentally knocking out an incisor in the process.

I stood outside my apartment complex waiting for the hunk of junk to pick me up, and after about five minutes an acquaintance stopped for a second to say hi to me. We chatted for a minute about dentists, then she said that she was also on her way to the dentist. As luck would have it, she had been to the one I planned on seeing, but she preferred the one within walking distance. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is. I told her I would join her, then cancelled my appointment as we walked through the beige labyrinth of walls that separates the hospital's massive construction site from the footpath taking us to the compound's main road.

The two of us chatted away as we hurriedly walked along Riyadh's sidewalks, otherwise known as the pedestrian death-zone. After we made it to the dentist's office miraculously unharmed, we approached the niqab-clad receptionist. My day really couldn't have gone any better because they had an opening for a cleaning right away. I stepped into a room that didn't do much to instill confidence. In fact, I don't think I had seen a dental chair and spit basin that old since...well, maybe ever. That didn't stop me. It was my lucky day and those tea stains needed to come off.

The hygienist came in and said in the classic Philippino sing-song fashion, "Helloooo maaaaaa'aaaam. How are youuuuuu?" She placed a pink napkin on my upper chest, then wrapped the chain around the back of my neck to clip it into place. She handed me some goggles. I've never needed safety equipment at a dentist's office before, but since there isn't much safety equipment on the numerous construction sites, I figure the universe has a way of balancing out. I put my goggles on and hoped for the best. She took about the same length of time as my hygeinist, Marcie, takes in Arizona. Then she left the room to find the dentist. While she was gone, I hopped out of the chair and took a peek in the mirror. She did an amazing job! They looked like my teeth would look if I hadn't sipped my weight in tea over the past few months.

I climbed back in the old-school dental chair, then ran my tongue over my smooth teeth and wondered why I had been so hesitant to go to a dentist in a foreign country. At that moment a man in his late 30's entered and completely justified my fears. He raised his aviator glasses with the air of someone who just stepped out of a leased red Ferrari. His oversized wrist watch looked heavier than my purse, and he was wrapping up a conversation on his Bluetooth.

The dentist traded eye contact for eye-mouth contact, then asked me to show off my choppers. I opened. I closed. I made no objection to the round mirror being inserted. As he had me in the "open wide" position with a mirror in my mouth, he did what all dentists like to do and asked me a question. Why do they do that? They know we can't answer properly with something preventing us from naturally moving our lips, tongue and jaws. It seems that they all like to show off their ability to understand a language known only to other dentists. Whatever the reason, he understood when I answered the question of where I'm from by telling him "A-air-a-ha." He proudly announced that he went to dental school in Arkansas. That did little to dispel my fears.

He took his fingers and tools out of my mouth, then had me bite one more time for a better inspection. He said, "Mashallah! If everyone had teeth like you, I wouldn't have a job. You are starting to have a few cavities forming near the back, but if you brush them a little more they'll be fine. Really, your teeth look beautiful."

I don't know why I always find myself doing this, but for some reason I need to let everyone who compliments my teeth know that they cost a lot of pain and my parents' money. I told him that I had braces for a couple years, and before the braces I had to have a surgery to expand my upper palate. He put the gloves back on, then took a look at the handiwork of the oral surgeon who separated the roof of my mouth 18 years ago. He complimented the surgeon, then again complimented my teeth. This time he said something about my teeth making my face, and especially my eyes, look pretty. I love how flattering Arab men are, but sometimes it makes me wonder the degree of innocence in their sweet words.

He left the room, presumably to do something dentisty. The sweet Philippina applied a fluoride treatment, then unclipped my bib. I wondered how much my bill came to as I walked towards the niqab-clad receptionist, wondering if my 700 riyals (roughly $185) would be enough. I asked her how much I owed, and she answered, "150 riyals." A hundred and fifty riyals! Forty bucks!!! Holy crap, am I in Mexico? I guess the answer to that question is, "Yeah, kind of."

I felt like I got a great deal on my lucky day as I walked out of the dental office. As I walked on the dusty marble stairs leading to the dusty streets, I noticed the dentist smoking near the door. I cheerfully waved and thanked him again. He flashed a smile, then said something that would have surprised me if I hadn't spent the past two years surrounded by Arab men. He said, "You know, you really should come back soon. Your upper molar is completely black and needs a filling." Yeah, I know that trick. I'll stick with the original, pre-flirtatious suggestion and just brush a little more. He wasn't an unattractive man, and he certainly liked spending money. Maybe if I meet a cute girl who has a thing for flashy dentists, I'll send her over for a cleaning. Who knows? If things go well he might ask her out for tea.