Today, one week and one day after arriving in this fair city, I went to the dentist. I have a great fear of dentists to begin with, but I'd made the foolish (or very wise, one or the other) decision to tell my program director that I thought my brand-new, attached-with-epoxy-the-day-I-left-home crown was loose. I later contacted my dentist from home and was reassured that there was no way that sucker was shifting around, and that what I had felt disrupting my bite at 4AM a few nights earlier had been some other substance and I had merely thought it was the crown due to sleepy panic. I relayed this to my program leader, but in their desire to keep me safe and sound, they sent me straightaway to the dentist. The dentist’s office that I went to in East Amsterdam was nothing like the one at home. There was no receptionist, just a TV showing infomercials. Part of one infomercial, for a face cream made from snail oil, was partially in English, and I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. It did help me with my Dutch, though, as I matched the Dutch subtitles to the English explanations of snails and their regenerative properties. When I was admitted into the dentist’s office, located behind a door, up a flight of stairs and behind another door, some of the equipment was familiar and some of it frighteningly novel. There were all sorts of nozzles and whole rows of short sharp needle tips that had no apparent purpose other than scaring fresh young international students. The dentist himself, however, was very friendly and comforting. After poking around in my mouth with a handful of familiar tools (the rows of needle points stayed far away), he told me my crown was securely attached to my tooth and that I shouldn’t worry about it moving. After another handshake, he sent me happily on my way, grateful to escape without enduring any surgery. For a cultural experience I was dying to avoid, it turned out quite well.