Early today we went dentist shopping.  Surprisingly there are over 5 dentists in the small town of Concepcion.  We are not odontological connoisseurs so our picking was reduced to who had the most neon on their signs or who had the best magazines in the waiting room.

Yano suggested that the fanciest of dentists may be the least prepared, compensating for mediocre grades in odontology school.  On the other hand, the crummiest of places may indicate either a devoted dentist, a frugal efficient dentist, or just that– a crummy bad dentist with pliers for tools.  In the end we took cousin Dubi’s suggestion of Rosalia Perez, DDS.  Dubi has all his teeth, and I’ve seen him brush his teeth on occasion, so his advice weighed heavily.

Rosalia Perez has a small hole in the wall shop in Concepcion.  The sign advertising her clinic is a white-washed wall with letters apparently painted by her 6 year old dyslexic son.  The waiting room has 2 chairs and looks like the vestibule of an escort service.

Upon entering, an elegant lady asked us what we wanted.  I just showed my tooth impaired smile, and asked the usual questions “where did you go to odontology school and in what percentile where you amongst your peers”.  Sensing my hesitation she explained the procedure in detail and said… “it will be $20”.  Sold!  Who cares what grades you got!  What’s the worst than can happen in a $20 procedure?  Worse comes to worse, I could have it fixed again when I returned– provided I still had nerve endings.  I agreed and she guided us to a small room with the familiar dentistry equipment– torture chair, plier looking tools, and spit faucet– so far so good. The lady sat me down, put on her gloves and went to work.  It turned out, the person I thought was the secretary was actually the dentist.  Talk about a one man show.

She took out her tools and started drilling– “I’m going to try without anesthesia first.  Tell me if it hurts”.  I gripped the chair in fear.  “You can let go of the chair; it’s not going anywhere”.  I tried to hide a nervous smile.  I let her do her thing for about a minute or two– and then she hit a nerve.  I shriveled and started to convulse slightly.  She shook her head, looked at Yano, and said– “your husband is a coward; I hadn’t even started”.  Shaaaa… Yes, I am a coward.  “Bring out the anesthesia, lady!  There are no points for manliness in a dentist chair.”   Yano started to laugh uncontrollably and managed to spit out a “yes, I know”.

All in all, Dr. Perez was amiable, efficient, knowledgeable, and accommodating to cowards.  She did a bang up job and was done in less than 30 minutes.    While she was at it, I asked how much a bi-yearly cleaning would be: $15.  Sold!  In the end I ended up with a fixed tooth, cleanings for both me and Yano, and a fixed cavity: all for $65.  That’s about what my deductible is back home.

• Cleaning: $15
• Chip tooth fix: $20
• Cavity fix: $15
• Calling your husband a coward while he’s strapped defensely to a dentist chair: priceless.

After 15 years of traveling every continent except Antartica, I have come to the conclusion that the inferiority of healthcare outside of the United States is a myth perpetuated by those wanting to charge $500 for a procedure that can clearly be done for $35 plus the price of a Snickers.  Of course, I am not going to complain when Yano makes $200,000 a year as a nurse anesthesist; not any more than Warren Buffet complained that his tax rate last year was 17% while his secretary’s was 28%.  Obviously, I am going to milk the system for all it’s worth, but I’m just pointing out the financial skewdness of the entire system.

Still, happily whole.  I can smile without Yanory jabbing me in the ribs, and as a bonus, I got a cavity fixed for $15.

p.s. Price of a root canal here: $200.

 

Yano and I frequently talk about retirement.  We dream of idillic beaches, room service, and pi~na coladas.  And rarely are we a day over 40 when we visualize ourselves in the post-work era.  How is that going to happen when 40 is creeping up on us at such an unprecedented pace?  No idea.  But it doesn’t hurt to dream.

Lately I’ve become far more realistic, the 401k being more like a 201k these days.  Now our dreams include a 20 minute drive to the beach (on public transport) with a cooler of Ensure.

I’ve been thinking that when one of us passes away, I can cash in Yano’s life insurance and move to Thailand, where I can at least pay for an assisted living facility with re-runs of Baywatch while I sip my cold Ensure.  Unfortunately, these thoughts have all but come to standstill.

Today we went to Camaron to see some more extended family.  We saw acres and acres of pastures full of cattle and  speckled with small wooden huts.  At each relative stop, we ended up with more and more gifts of fruit, until the local buses felt sorry for us and started giving us free rides to our next stops.  The eye opening thing was to realize that there was not a household without a 90 year old– sometimes two.  A great uncle was out tending cows at 92, and when we returned home we were greeted by the grandma taking care of another uncle.  Grandma’s 90.  The great great great great something rather she’s taking care of is 107.  In 5 months he’ll be 108.  His diet of choice?  Fried plantains, fried corn sticks, and an assortment of other fried things.  Something’s wrong with this picture.

Somehow I doubt I’ll be outliving Yano, as all her dead grandparents were over a century old.  (Oh, except the 95 year old who was mugged for $5).  Now what are my chances of a single Thai retirement when my wife runs twice a day and eats only healthy food with a miniscule dose of daily cookies?  Pretty close to zip.  On the upside, I’m pretty much guaranteed a personal nurse in my later years– a nurse who will probably remarry thrice before dying at 115.

Oh yeah, I broke my tooth today eating sugar cane.  Most centurians I’ve met here have a full set of teeth, but they’ve obviously not fallen down face first on a bike.  Stupid me for trying to peel sugar cane with my teeth.  More details and pictures of this fiasco later.  Needless to say, I’m not allowed to smile while meeting new relatives.

 

Nothing says I love you like “let’s run 10 miles”.  I started running 2 months ago because I was burnt out from cycling 3 hours a day.  Running seemed like the logical choice– less time, and no more eating 5000 calories a day (it gets old after a while, not to mention the food bill).

My first week as a runner was everything I hoped.  Run 4-5 miles.  Done by 7am.  Have the whole day to myself.  Now how did that turn into running twice a day and logging 50-60 miles a week?  Mind you, those are miles at an excrutiatingly slow pace.  7 minute miles are still considered a sprint, but still…

Somehow I thought that running with Yano would add quality time to our marriage.  Instead, it’s turned into a monologue in which she tells me all about her day, while I answer with grunts and nods– all for about 20 minutes, after which, she warms up and is gone– never to be seen again until the end of our run.

We’re in Chiriqui, Panama, staying with one of Yano’s 39 cousins (on her dad’s side alone).  Lush green forests, volcanoes, mountains, and rivers.  Quite spectacular!  We met a runner at the track yesterday, and somehow the chance meeting turned into “let’s meet tomorrow at 6am to run 12k in the jungle”.  Me, being the protective husband that I am, decided to tag along to protect my wife from snakes, bears, and sexual running predators.  Big mistake!  Our running partner was a guy whose best 10k time is 30 minutes.

At approximately 10 seconds into our run, I realized I was going to get dropped in about a minute.  Yano and him were chatting away, warming up at sub 8 minute miles (uphill)– and we still hadn’t even started.  Sensing my pain, Echevarria said “we’ll turn here, you keep going until you see a branch… turn right and you’ll complete a 6 mile loop”.  Somehow I misunderstood “keep going” into “turn right”– after all, my brain doesn’t work when my heart is beating past 170 beats a minute.

Within 5 minutes, Yano and Echevarria were gone, and I started soaking in the scenery– river crossings, cows, indians cooking in an open fire.  However, 45 minutes into my run I realized I hadn’t seen any tree branch left as a sign, and I was slowly digging myself into an anaerobic hole.  I started entertaining thoughts of kidnapping a horse and riding back, but tired as I was, I doubted I could catch a sick pregnant mare, let alone a healthy horse.  A few kilometers down the road I saw a donkey, but alas, it slowly outwalked me.  I looked around, panting in despair, but all that was left were cows– with horns.

There is no shame in walking– indians have been doing it for millenia.  So, I turned around and walked until my heart rate returned to something less than a hummingbird’s.  After a few minutes, the walk turned into an injured trot, and I managed to limp back to the open road and turn around.  By the time I got back, Yano had run, stretched, had a Coke, swapped stories, and asked Echevarria for his phone number so we can do the same thing again tomorrow.  

Isn’t life grand?  Good thing I’m on vacation…

I’m going to crush the injured walking category on Sunday.

A few months ago Yano got this strange idea that we should go on vacation (again).  I reminded her that our backpacks still had a few smelly items from the last adventure, but  my comments fell on deaf ears once again (as is usual in the best of marriages).

My lack of interest was part of a sophisticated con to make her think it was her idea.  It obviously worked because three weeks ago Yano found a multi-city ticket to Panama and Costa Rica for $298 a piece.  It didn’t take long to hit BUY NOW.

So here we are.  E-tickets in hand, and a beat up old copy of Lonely Planet’s Central America on a Shoestring (bought on ebay for $6.04 including shipping).  No idea what we’ll do there, but I hear there’s this big marina in Panama and a few volcanoes in Costa Rica.

As a bonus I’ve been suckered into running the half-marathon at the Panama City Marathon on the 9th.  This marathon is one of the top 26 marathons of the world and the world’s 162nd longest running marathon.  How’s that for made up categories!

Yano wants to get on the podium for the Panamanian women, but hopefully overall.  It all depends on how many Kenyans show up.  Me, on the other hand– there’s a wheelchair category which I’m hoping to crash.

So we’re back on the saddle so to speak.  Anxious to get on a plane, and curious to find out who we’ll sucker into driving us at 3am to the airport tomorrow morning.

Expect more updates throughout the next 3 weeks.

We’ve finally uploaded, labeled, and rotated (hi Doel) all our photos, and I’ve included links on the link section on the right of this page.

If you’re too lazy to move your mouse, here they are:

India, NYC, and Finland: the beginning of our trip
Nepal: the middle
Estonia: the end

Now is the time when I get quiet, and start getting back into the swing of things at work; so expect very few updates, unless I fall off the bike, Yano finishes school, or our dog finally learns how to roll over.

Call us; we’re back.  Better yet, come visit us!