Yesterday, on Valentine’s Day, Santiago packed me a lunch to eat between classes. “Here’s your bocadillo, your apple, your juice box, and… your chocolate.” Marry me now, Santiago, my heart cried. The 50-year age difference doesn’t matter! I gave him a kiss on the cheek and he grinned, showing me his lovely capped, crooked teeth. I lazily thought of the dentures that sit on the bathroom counter each night. They must be Manuela’s.
I recently finished The Anglo Files: A Field Guide to the British, perhaps a product of missing the British Embassy (more likely its duty-free chocolate shop). Its humor is unparalleled, and of course there is a chapter dedicated to the subject of, obviously, British dentition. What I have yet to understand is the literary void of satire regarding Spanish teeth. Or, the lack thereof.
Kate got sick, went to the doctor, and paid all of 8 dollars or so for her prescription. Santiago decided one morning to go to the doctor and was home an hour later. What madness is this healthcare system? Well, it’s universal… it’s decentralized so each of the autonomous communities controls their own public health programs… and its focus is on disease prevention. If you work, you pay taxes that go towards the system. If you don’t work, well, you still get access to healthcare in the spirit of solidaridad. Coverage covers virtually everything except the extra frills: pills, glasses, dental work…
Hence the teeth. I had most definitely wondered why some of the, let’s call them, “Spanish male friends” of girls in the CIEE program have braces at the age of 26. Mystery solved. They have to wait until they themselves can afford to fix those not-so-pearly whites.
I’m not going to pass any judgment on the system. I hear there are long lines, too much bureaucracy, misappropriation of funds… but where is this not the case? I will say this. I cannot walk to the university or along Avenida de la Constitución without seeing the most intense advertisement for organ donations possibly in existence. And there is frankly something to be said about that, seeing as the only one I’ve ever seen is not so much an ad as a miniscule box to check on the back of my driver’s license (which I’ve conveniently never looked at seeing as the essential information is on the front). The only person I actually know who is an organ donor is my roommate Jenine.
The point is… it is incredibly strange seeing how healthcare here manifests itself in everyday life. There are warnings, advertisements, promotions to better educate and prevent ill health. I don’t see daily signs of obesity, although they should do something about the smoking. All I know is I find those organ donor signs very nifty, and were I to actually see them in the United States, I’d consider checking that box on my license.
And Dr. Moore will be happy to know I am flossing more than ever out of pure fear.
