You don't need it

Last November I went to the dentist downstairs in our building with symptoms very similar to what one feels when chewing on a bit of aluminum foil.

"Oh, that tooth has to come out," said my dentist in German.

I didn't doubt it, but still asked why.

Blah blah blah, she replied. And then, "Very expensive and painful."

Well, that sounded like something to avoid. But I wanted to keep my tooth, y'know?

When I told her I wanted to keep it, she stood and walked over to a poster of a refrigerator-sized human tooth and showed me how much of my last molar was gone. It seemed only the salad crisper section remained.

"The root is in danger," she said.

"Just fill it," I said.

She shook her head at me and said a lot of stuff I didn't understand, but the gist was, "I'll fill it, but you'll probably be back in a day or two and we'll have to pull it anyways…"

"Just fill it," I repeated.

She filled it, and for five months I had no problems.

Until her stupid filling came out last week.

I made another appointment.

"Oh, it's that same tooth, isn't it, Herr Curtiss?"

"The tooth is fine. It's your filling that's coming out," I replied in the sentence I'd practiced ten times in front of the door.

"Hmph," she said, and sat me down.

Of course it was stupid of me to piss someone off who's got license to jab me in the mouth with sharp objects, but there you go.

She asked to drill without Novocain.

"What!? Why," I asked.

"It's just the filling. Not your tooth."

I remembered how strange it is recovering from a numb mouth, and said ok.

She drilled.

And drilled.

And then it wasn't the filling anymore. I writhed around, kicking and almost scattering her tray of instruments.

"Oh, did that hurt, Herr Curtiss" she asked.

No, it felt good smartass.

"Well, Herr Curtiss. The hole is bigger. That tooth should come out. Blah blah blah."

"How big is my hole," I asked.

I guess that's a funny question in German too, because she giggled and then went over to her wall chart again.

Blah blah blah, she said.

All I caught was that a root canal was very expensive and painful, and that I didn't need that last molar anyways.

But I wasn't really listening.

"Just fill it," I repeated.

"But Herr Curtiss, blah blah blah… and with private insurance it will be very expensive."

"Money isn't a problem. I want my tooth."

She harangued me further, and finally, I don't know why, I just relented. It was the very last one, after all. And I don't eat much meat anyways.

"Ok, take it," I said.

Boy did she light up! It was like Christmas morning for her, the little sickie.

She gave me a shot, wrestled it out, and stole it away. It was surprisingly quick and simple.

After, as she was hustling me out, I asked if I could have the tooth and she seemed a bit disappointed as she put it in a little baggie for me.

We had a party later that night and after I was half-drunk I broke it out as a party favor.

Strangely, though, I seemed to be the only one laughing.

To see a photo of it, click here: http://66.116.193.17./jimspulledtooth.htm

Don't wave for me, Argentina...

The Golden Rule of living abroad is to keep quiet about your host country's drawbacks (especially when speaking to its natives).

But sometimes one just can't help it.

The seed of my discontent was planted two months ago when I was grocery shopping. Near the checkout line I recognized the video store guy who I've rented videos from pretty much weekly for the last two years and who's always ready to give me a good-natured German lesson. We're not buddies, but we're definitely friendly.

Back to the checkout line: when video man looked my way I waved and damned if he didn't jerk his head the other way! He did it so quick I was worried he'd hurt himself.

His turn of the head was a clear shun, and when I asked him about it the next week, he said he hadn't recognized me. Yeah, right, I thought, and lined his pockets some more.

The shun would be no biggie if it were just an isolated case. He's just a provincial-town video store man, right?

But then, last month on my way to the institute where I teach, I was waiting at a red light when a young researcher (who I've taught and even partied with) walked by with a group of his colleagues.

He looked in my car, this kid, we made eye contact, and I waved at him.

But guess what? He gave me the sourpuss face and kept walking.

I honestly don't know what prompted his reaction, because when I later asked him about it, he said he didn't remember the situation. Yeah, right, I thought, and gave him extra homework.

And then last week as Jarmila and I were walking home after work, one of her colleagues was coming the other direction on his bike. When we were about 20 feet away, I said his name and hello, and he looked right at me as he rode by without greeting.

So what the hell is it about this country's social customs?

Three possible explanations for my shunnings:

1. Germans don't wave to strangers.

2. Germans don't wave to foreigners.

or

3. Germans don't wave to Jim.

Frankly, none of them sit quite right with me.

Gang problem

Halle, a very livable German provincial town, has developed a gang problem. I'm not talking Bloods v. Crips with drive-by shootings and Thuglife tattoos, although the Vietnamese, Russian and Ukrainian mafia are every bit as nasty and prevalent in the larger cities. No, I'm talking about bullyism. Kids can be horrible in a pinch, and German kids are no different.

What's specifically gotten my dander up regards the family in the building next to ours.

Admittedly, they're something of a social case. They have 8 children, each obese, and half of them require coke-bottle glasses. The father yells a lot but doesn't seem to work (not that there's anything wrong with that) and the mother doesn't speak much, although she's always got a smile and wave for Jarmila and me.

The kids seem relatively nice, if a bit dim. The youngest girl, about 10, has taken to calling me "Kumpel," (buddy) when she sights me from their balcony. One of the teenage boys, say 15, has duck-feet and watching him run is a bit painful, but his legs are stout and he forces his help on me whenever he sees me carrying groceries. The others are all quietly odd, and will give you either a crooked grin or a stare when you pass.

In short, the neighbors are a bit odd, but they probably think that about us, so...

Anyhow, two weeks ago I was scribbling away one afternoon when I heard yelling from the street. I went to the rotunda thinking, what are those kids up to now?

Looking down, I saw no less than 30 teenagers milling around across the street from our neighbors' balcony. There were obvious gang dynamics to the group: the curious but far removed bystanders, the thrilled girls edging closer to the action, the reluctant followers who seemed uncomfortable with all the goings-on, and then the most vocal and brash of the boys who were yelling and throwing snowballs and water balloons at the neighbors' windows.

I watched for a moment in anger and wondered if I should call the police, decided yes, went for the phone, and returned to the window.

(Background: there's a corner tower room in our apartment, so we can see 180 degrees from the five windows there, including a busy intersection and a park.)

But when I returned to the rotunda, I saw most of the kids running away because of the police van that had parked in front of the neighbors. Wow, I mused. All I had to do was think of the cops and they showed up. Wonder what kinda German technology they're employing?

I kept watching as the core of the group went around the corner and into the park. There were still about 20 of them milling around and no doubt plotting something ornery.

Their leader was easy to pick out and the remarkable thing about him was absolutely nothing. He wasn't big, good-looking or fashionable, and he didn't seem outstanding in any way, but the other kids sure listened to what he had to say.

I watched them in the park for spells, then watched the police interviewing our neighbors around the corner for spells, and counted myself lucky to have such a cool watchtower. The police hung out in the park until the stragglers broke up, and the day ended without incident.

But since that first time, the gang returned nearly every day after school to harass our slightly strange neighbors – sometimes they'd just hang out and yell, sometimes they'd throw things, but they always harassed somehow and the police became a constant neighborhood fixture in the late afternoons.

But there were no coppers around last week when I was on the phone with Jarmila, pacing around the rotunda just cuz I like to. And then I spotted them – the feistiest group of the kids were coming up the street with water balloons. I watched as they threw the balloons and scattered, and decided I couldn't take it anymore.

I flung open one of the windows and started yelling. "Hey! Hey you! Hey!" (I hung up on Jarmila in the process.)

Now, when I was young and happened to be in flight after having done something wrong, the voice of a screaming adult would have only made me run faster. But these kids actually stopped and looked around, trying to find the source of the continued yelling.

Finally, up to the tower they looked. I hollered again.

They flashed me the peace sign.

"I saw you all," I yelled, and held the phone up to my ear. "Hello, Poliezi!" I screamed.

Then I pulled my head back in so they won't be able to recognize my face. You can't be too sure.

I didn't call the police, of course. My German just ain't up to it. And anyway, since that day the gatherings have kinda petered out. I don't know if my yelling in pidgin German had anything to do with it, but I'm just happy that my neighbor family can go about their monkey business in peace once more.

Paranoid? Who me?

My preferred Sunday routine is simple, really: it consists of coffee,
The Economist and brunch with Jarmila.

Last Sunday we were on the third leg of this triad and I was feeling good. The sun was shining and the fresh bread I'd bought at the bakery was almost too warm to eat, even.

And then the doorbell buzzed.

I made no move to get up, so Jarmila went. No one was outside the door, meaning someone was ringing from the street.

Jarmila spoke German to someone through the intercom and then I saw her put on her shoes in the hallway.

"Where are you going," I asked with mild surprise.

"Someone is taking a survey. I couldn't say no to him, so I'm going downstairs."

I blinked. "We're eating."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I couldn't say no."

"But you're not bringing him in, right?"

"I'll just go down and see what he wants."

"Hmph."

I'm normally not a grumpus when it comes to such things, but I had just read an article in The Economist about identity theft.

It seems that more than 10 million (!) people have problems with it every year, and two big personal data firms recently had major breaches of security during which, among many other details, their clients' social security numbers were leaked. Hundreds of thousands of the people who had been compromised had to take precautions against the suddenly huge problem they faced.

Down the stairs went Jarmila, leaving me to scarf my bread alone before I got the idea that we were alone in the building. There are just three apartments in the old villa we live in, and I knew our neighbors weren't there.

What if the man thumped her?

I hustled out and eavesdropped from atop the stairwell.

I couldn't hear their words, but everything seemed fine and, relaxing, I started walking back to the apartment. Then I thought I heard them coming up the stairs. I returned and leaned over the rail and there they were, just one flight below.

"Why are you bringing him up here," I demanded in English, banking on the fellow not understanding my words.

"It's a survey for the UN," said Jarmila, somewhat taken aback by my aggressive paranoia.

"Why not do it out here, on these chairs?" (We have a couple of decorative chairs on the landing). She suggested this to him in German.

"But I need a tabletop for the computer," he said in German.

I turned on my heels and said, "I don't want him in our flat."

My paranoia was churning. I remembered the news article about the Iraqi man living here in our provincial town of Halle. He's wanted by the police and the army because he knifed a man and a woman.

We all came into the apartment, Jarmila trying not to look at me, and took off our shoes. The man was in his late 50s and had brought a pair of slippers with him. He stood up after putting them on and said to me in German, "I'm sorry. I don't want to cause a problem."

"Ok," I said.

I wasn't being a very good host.

Jarmila asked him if he wanted to have some tea and, disgusted, I went into the living room to park on the couch with a couple of mundane tasks. I eyed the man suspiciously as he came into the room and set up his notebook computer on our dining room table.

Jarmila came in with the tea and they sat down to work. I read the identity theft article again, then listened intently to the questions he was asking.

Some foreign organization now has the following information about us:

Names
Ages
Address
Education
Nationality
Marital status (how long together?)
Employment history
Renting or buying
Where we plan on moving next
Which language is spoken at home?
Do we plan on having children?
Can we be happy without children?
When did we arrive in Germany?
Who cooks?
Who does the dishes?
Who does the shopping?
The chores?
Pays the bills?
How often do we argue?
How often do we argue about money?
How often do we discuss decisions?
How satisfied are we with our home life?

And so on.

It went on for an hour and a half. By the end, I had calmed down and realized there was no reason to be meanly paranoid.

But still, I don't like that Jarmila let a stranger into the house. I thought her momma taught her better than that.

We talked about it after the man left because I wanted to know what she had been thinking. She said that after conducting her scientific survey last year in which she spoke to dozens of farmers for hours at a time, she felt obliged to help out other peoples' surveys.

It's a karma thing, she was implying, and just didn't agree with me about the dangers of an organization having so much information about us. Myself, the more anonymous I am, the better.

Sunday evening as she was preparing for the work week, she asked me where her wallet was.

"That surveyor took it, I bet."

"Stop it," she said. "Haven't you seen it?"

"It was by the door last time I saw it…"

I knew it was a mistake letting that guy in our apartment, I thought to myself.

The wallet wasn't by the door. We stood in the hallway, facing each other.

"You really don't know where it is," Jarmila asked, looking troubled.

"No, I haven't seen it," I said.

And then came her epiphany – "Oh, you know what? It's in my jacket pocket," she said, and happily fished it out from the coats.

Like a freak, I was half-disappointed it was there.