“Aaaaaaaaaaah!” I hear in Tate’s voice. I look up, and she’s holding her face, bent over and crumbling in pain. Reed stands next to her, apologizing and worried. We rush over.
“What happened?” Kyle asks, pulling Tate’s hands away from her face. She’s in crying hysterics, unable to answer.
“We were playing tag, and my head bonked her mouth,” explains Reed. “I’m so sorry. Tate, are you okay? I’m so sorry.” He’s holding his head in pain.
Her bottom two teeth have chipped off their tops. We search the grass in vain—they’ve flung who knows where, mingling with pebbles and ancient rubble. There might be teeth a thousand years old here too. We’re near the end of our trip, so close to finishing without needing medical attention, but alas, we did not succeed. My role shifts from explorer to parent; my afternoon’s focus is now how to handle missing teeth bits. I am awakened from the dreamlike state that comes from wandering ancient ruins.
We find a dentist in Izmir who speaks English and can see a new patient at a moment’s notice. The next morning, we’re at his office, filling out medical forms and answering dental history questions.
A man in jeans and a white doctor’s jacket walks into the waiting room, hand out to shake ours. “Hi—my name’s Trent. Come on back.”
Tate, Kyle, and I follow him, and the front receptionist promises to entertain the boys with toys. Tate settles into the dentist’s chair, and he peers into her mouth.
“You guys traveling?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “But we used to live here.”
“Where are you from?”
“The States. Oregon, mostly.”
“I’m from Washington!” he says. “Been here for a few years now, though.”
He raises the dental chair and stands up for a better look.
“What brings you to Turkey?” Kyle asks.
“My wife’s Turkish,” Trent says, “and she missed home. We lived in Spokane for a while, but American culture just got too hectic for her.”
He presses a button on a phone. “Hey, babe, mind bringing back some ?ay?” He looks at us. “Want some ?ay?”
“Uh, sure,” I answer.
A few minutes later, a woman comes in with a tray holding four tulip glasses of ?ay and introduces herself as Trent’s wife.
“She’s filling in for my assistant,” he says, as he slides over a tray of tools to begin work in Tate’s mouth. “She’s out again somewhere. Where is she, honey?” “She’s protesting something downtown,” his wife says. “She says she’ll be in tomorrow.”
He laughs. “She’s always protesting something.” He takes a sip of ?ay and continues working.
“Do you want Kyle and me to . . . leave?” I ask.
“Oh no, you’re fine,” Trent says. “It’s way more laid-back here. Just hang out, keep me company. Tell me about your travels.”
We tell him about our family, our work, where we’ve been.
“So great. What a great experience.” He lights up a screen above Tate’s head and shows us a photo of her teeth, before and after. “Almost done.”
“Wow, you’re quick,” Kyle says.
“Well, I have a light day, so you caught me at a good time.”
He cleans up, gives us a card for his brother, a dentist in Washington, and tells us to call him if we ever need dental work in his area.
“Do you miss working in the States?” Kyle asks him. Trent laughs.
“Nah, no way. It’s so much easier being a dentist here. Almost no red tape. My work is straightforward. I get paid less, but it means I don’t have to charge patients out the wazoo for my work. Means I sleep better at night.”
We thank him for his pristine work on Tate’s teeth and for his astoundingly low rates.
“Anytime,” he says. “Hey—I got a question. Has the tooth fairy visited your family on the trip? What kind of money did she bring you?”
We laugh, and we tell him how often she’s visited us. Between Tate and Reed, she’s brought Chinese quai, Thai baht twice, Australian dollars, South African rand, euros from France, and, as of yesterday morning, Turkish lira.
“That’s amazing. And amazing she knew where to find your teeth. I guess she knows home is wherever you are.”
Five years ago, we made a home in Turkey. It’s not home now, but I like to think she’s somewhere in the mix—together with my twenty-two other homes. She is a part of the foundation, a stud, perhaps a rafter. She is a small part of the sticks and bricks of home, a home taking shape somewhere in the world. Home—impossible to locate on a map.
20
GERMANY
Like many Americans, Kyle and I have German blood running thick through our veins. Oxenreider means more or less what you’d think it means: someone who clears fields with oxen. I’m told my maiden name, Henegar, evolved long ago from Heineken, and it finds its origins in a keg of German beer (there’s a Henninger lager, another derivative of the name). My father is full-blooded German, and my grandfather’s mother’s maiden name was even the word German. Sausage and sauerkraut are coded into our DNA.
We land in Munich after a quick flight from Izmir, pick up a new rental car, then pick up Kyle’s parents, who have jumped the pond for a visit.
It’s our first morning in Bavaria, and five seconds after gathering my things out of the car to head down the squeaky-clean streets of Munich, Finn has disappeared. Panic sets in. He was just here; he can’t have gone far. I find him ten feet down the road, standing on a windowsill four feet off the ground.
“Dude! How on earth did you get up there?” I say. “And get down—you’re not supposed to be staring in people’s windows.” The window’s shutters are open, and he’s peering into the house.
“It’s okay,” I hear in German-accented English from the other side. Four teenage boys are playing foosball. “He’s just watching. We don’t mind.”
They continue playing and pay him no attention. We watch a few more seconds, say Auf Wiedersehen, then head to the science museum with the grandparents.
Bavaria is Germany’s most German province. Lederhosen, glockenspiel, the mammoth clock celebrating the wedding of the duke who founded the nearby famous Hofbrauhaus, Oktoberfest—all these hail from here. We walk Munich’s cobblestone streets, climb church towers, and sample giant pretzels for two days, then leave town for the countryside.
While in Italy, Dan and Bethany recommended a theme park in Bavaria. I balked at the idea, shuddering at the thought of commercialized, concrete-ridden parks full of overstimulating noise and movement. I’m a poor poker player, and my face tipped Bethany off. She smiled, said, “Oh no, it’s not like a regular American theme park. Trust me—this is a good one.”
“Is it worth the money?” I asked her. For much less money, we could have an actual local experience, and not a manicured, prepackaged, branded one trapped in a theme park.
“It’s only like ten euro each,” she said. “Totally reasonable. And the food is really good too. Just trust me.”