Thursday night, I’m eating this piece of beef that tastes amazing. Like, this cow lived a good life. I’m in that happy, quiet moment where you think, maybe life is fine.

And then—disaster.

A chunk of beef gets wedged so deep between my molars I’m pretty sure it applied for residency. I floss. I dig around like a raccoon with a mission. My gums start bleeding. Bad sign.

By Friday morning, my mouth feels like it lost a bar fight.

Now here’s where this story goes very un-American.

Because instead of doing what we’re trained to do in the U.S.—wait three weeks, argue with insurance, and pay $400 just to be told, “Yeah, that’s irritated”—I said:

“If this still hurts tomorrow, I’m going to a dentist.”

Tomorrow came. I went.

$62.

And that’s when I realized the beef wasn’t the problem.
The U.S. dental system was.

Hi, I’m Matt. Let’s get into it.

In the U.S., going to the dentist isn’t “healthcare.” It’s a billing event.

You don’t ask, “Can you see me?”
You ask:

You’re not booking an appointment—you’re entering a small legal dispute with a mint-flavored ending.

And the worst part? Even if you do have insurance, it still somehow feels like you’re going to get ambushed by a mystery charge that arrives three weeks later like a jump scare.

So yes, deciding to “just go to the dentist” is actually a big decision when you’ve been trained by the American system to treat dental care like an emergency purchase.

But I’ve already had dental work done in Bogotá before, so I knew something most Americans don’t fully believe yet:

It doesn’t have to be like that.

Saturday comes. Still inflamed. Still angry. No improvement.

So I call a dentist—Dr. Christian Sanchez—and I’m fully prepared for the standard script:

“We’re booked for weeks.”
“Do you have insurance?”
“The doctor can see you eventually.”
“Please hold.”

Instead… he answers the phone himself.

Not a receptionist. Not a call center. Not a robotic system asking me to press 4 if I’m currently bleeding.

The dentist.

I explain what happened: the beef, the floss incident, the gum rebellion.

He pauses for about half a second and goes:

“You can come right now.”

Right now.

Not “next available.” Not “we’ll see if someone cancels.” Not “we can squeeze you in three Thursdays from now if Mercury is in retrograde.”

Right now.

I hang up and just sit there for a second like: Did that just happen?

Because in the U.S., a same-day dental appointment usually requires:

Here, it required a phone call and putting on shoes.

Five to ten minutes later I’m walking to the office from my apartment in Santa Bárbara. No driving. No traffic. No parking garage boss fight.

I walk into the office and the vibe is immediately different.

No chaos. No overcrowded waiting room. No clipboard the size of a small novel.

Dr. Sanchez is calm, friendly, relaxed—not rushed.

And this part matters: he listens.

I explain everything and he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t rush to sell me anything, doesn’t act like my gums are inconveniencing his schedule.

He evaluates and says:

“I recommend a very thorough cleaning. Your gums are inflamed.”

Then he adds:

“It would probably be best to use local anesthesia so you’re completely comfortable.”

Not “you need this immediately or else.”
More like: “I want this to be easy for you.”

And then the part that really reset my expectations:

He spent about an hour and a half with me.

Not 15 minutes. Not a drive-by cleaning. An hour and a half. One-on-one care.

In the U.S., an hour and a half is what you spend waiting, signing forms, and trying to remember your insurance login.

Here comes the part where Americans instinctively start doing math and whispering, “No way.”

He tells me the cost:

Not “starting at.”
Not “after insurance.”
Not “we’ll bill you later.”

Just… $62.

For:

In the U.S., $62 gets you a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a lecture.

Here, it got me actual healthcare.

And that’s when it hit me:

It’s not cheaper because it’s worse.

It’s cheaper because it’s not built around paperwork, insurance codes, and billing departments.

First: numbing shots.

I didn’t feel them.

No sharp pinch. No “brace yourself” moment. Just… done.

Then the cleaning is shockingly gentle. No rushing. No yanking. No dentist leaning on your jaw like it owes him money.

He checks in constantly:
“Are you okay?”
“Any discomfort?”

Every time: nope, I’m good.

At no point did I feel pain. At no point did I feel like he was trying to get to the next patient.

It felt unhurried—like I was the only patient who mattered during that window.

When we’re done, my gums feel better, not worse.

And I walk out thinking: Why was I ever scared of dentists?

In the U.S., aftercare is usually: “Floss more. Good luck.”

Here, Dr. Sanchez gives me a specific recovery plan:

And here’s what I appreciated:

He didn’t try to sell me anything from his office.

He just told me what to buy and sent me on my way.

I walk to the pharmacy, pick it all up.

All four items together: $47.13.

For context: that’s less than a single prescription copay can be in the U.S.

Then he says he wants to see me again in 8 days.

Just a quick check. No procedure. Just making sure things healed.

So I ask the most American question possible:

“How much is that visit?”

He goes:

“That one is free.”

Free.

Not free after insurance. Not free if nothing is wrong. Not free with a list of conditions.

Just… free.

And then he gives me his WhatsApp number.

Not the office number. Not a receptionist. Not a call center that plays smooth jazz for 14 minutes.

His number.

“If you have pain, swelling, or any emergency, message me. I offer 24-hour emergency assistance.”

My dentist is reachable, responsive, and available.

In the U.S., if you message your dentist on a Saturday night, you’ll get an auto-reply that says: “Please call 911.”

Here you get: “Text me if you need me.”

This wasn’t even my first great dental experience in Bogotá.

A couple years ago I saw a different dentist in Suba—Dr. Sonsire Villamil—recommended by someone I trust.

She finds old amalgam fillings from the 1980s (which is true—those fillings are older than most TikTok influencers).

She removes four old fillings, cleans a cavity underneath one, and replaces all four with composite.

Here’s the cost:

Not per tooth. Not per surface.

Total.

Different dentist, different neighborhood, same pattern:
calm, professional, unrushed, pain-free, and priced like a normal human service.

And it’s not only Bogotá. I once met another dentist—Dr. Fanny Garcia, based in Medellín—sitting next to her on a flight from Miami to Colombia. She explained how common it is for people to fly here specifically for dental work.

So at a certain point, you stop calling it “luck.”

You start calling it what it is:

A system that’s built around access and care, not billing.

This isn’t just a “cheap dentistry” story.

It’s a quality-of-life story.

Because once you experience healthcare that’s:

…it changes how you think about where you live.

Not just for dentistry—for life.

In one weekend, I got:

This isn’t medical tourism.

This is just what happens when the system isn’t upside down.