If my heart speaks French, my teeth sing Spanish

Went to Edebaye to meet a teacher Wednesday. He was not there yet, but oddly enough a touring Spanish dental organization was. With enthusiastic smiles and hand gestures, underdressed hispanophone women (shorts, tee shirts, uncovered heads) ushered children between makeshift brushing stations in overcrowded classrooms. It was quite the production: brush teeth, up and down, front and back, now pose for the camera, smile, no don't eat the toothpaste, smile… flashbulb, line up for fluoride treatment, fun until the mouth guard feels too big, drool accumulates, now spit but don't drink water, I know it tastes bad but don't rinse out the fluori… ok, ok, go ahead and rinse, now come back for a photo op, flash those scrubbed but still far from pearly whites, take logo-adorned toothbrush, never mind you can't read the Spanish, another photo op, flashbulb and next…

The end of this assembly line was an enormous bus blocking the school gate, a portable practice offering abbreviated dental checkups. My teacher friend Salma – not about to be examined without a chaperone – yanked me toward the bus. Inside we found reclining chairs, oral hygiene tools, and a fetching young Spaniard posing as a dentist. He guided me to a chair, his lack of French counterbalanced by a disarming smile. I gazed into his eyes, he gazed into my mouth, and after two minutes of anonymous and detached intimacy, he shot me a grin that said either, "in my next life I will find you and I will know how to speak French" or "you're from a first world country, of course your teeth are healthy."

Finished, Salma, dressed in a moor veil, and I, sporting a crisp Pulaar complet, descended the bus stairs arm in arm. We chattered happily in Hassaniye and French, while the Spaniards looked from on high in their latex gloves and khaki shorts. Next appointment: six months. Or so.