Pedicures: An International Comparative Essay

I only have one addiction: pedicures.  When I began planning my four month long sojourn around Australia and Southeast Asia, one of my first concerns was "What will I do about my monthly pedicure?"  Seriously.  Not "What will I do if I need to see a doctor?"  Not "What if I lose my passport?"  Pedicures.  It certainly would have been too easy to pack some nail clippers and polish/remover.  I searched "nail salons in Sydney" and located several possibilities.  It wasn't that I thought Australia was an uncivilized land.  I just wasn't sure of the prevalence or popularity of nail salons.

After about a month in the Sydney area, my toenails needed some attention. I had been waiting and preparing for this day.  How would an Australian pedicure compare to my norm?  I was staying in the Clovelly area, so I walked up to Bondi Junction to do some errands.  I was leaving for Thailand the next day.  I had seen the prominent USA Nails all over Sydney, but thought I would try an inconspicuous little shop, tucked in a corridor off Oxford Street.  Maybe a smaller, non franchised shop would offer lower prices or more personalized service.

I walked into Sydney Professional Nails and asked the cost of a pedicure.  One of the two pedicurists working answered, "30 dollars."  That's about 28 USD.  I thought it sounded like a great deal for Australia, so I chose a bright pink color and sat down in the massage chair.  This salon was small, with no more than four or five spa pedicure chairs.  Without overture or pleasantries, the pedicurist removed my old polish, cut down my nails, pushed back and trimmed my cuticles, slapped a few strokes of lotion on my legs, applied the new polish, and was done.  This process took all of about 20 minutes.  For anyone unfamiliar with pedicure protocol, she skipped an essential step: the foot and leg massage!  I had spent the past month canvassing practically every square mile of Sydney on foot, and was hoping for some relief.  I was in such shock that I didn't ask if the massage cost extra or if she had forgotten that step.  She replaced my flips flops on my feet, and I was beckoned to the cash register.  The place certainly lived up to its name.  The pedicurist was a professional.  I must admit that the polish did not chip at all, so the cost was worth it in that respect. 

When I arrived in Thailand I had planned to return to Sydney after three weeks, but ended up extending my trip by three additional weeks.  Thus, the pedicure issue arose once again.  In Patong Beach, I observed that one could receive a pedicure at many massage parlors, or even at the beach.  I'm quite picky about the sanitary conditions of my nail salon.  During my exploring, I found Nail Club, located in the Banana Walk shopping center, opposite the beach.  I had discovered the shopping center's clean, western toilets within the complex and usually stopped there on my way to the beach.  One of my favorite restaurants, Sizzler, is also located in the complex.  I approached Nail Club and was struck by its similarity to the salon I frequent at home.  It looked brand new, and I later read that the Banana Walk complex was built after the devastating 2004 tsunami.  The spa chairs are purple, each one readied for a customer with a fresh towel and lotus flower on the footrest.  I entered the salon and was greeted by several exuberant Thai women.  "Hello!  How much for a pedicure?" I enquired.  "800 baht," the receptionist replied as she handed me a menu of the salon services.  $24!  I told them I would return the next day.

The next day's torrential rains provided the perfect excuse for relaxing indoors at a nail salon.  I wore my black Keen sandals, which were soaked and squishy by the time I arrived at the salon.  I wasn't invited to approach the wall and physically pick my polish color.  Rather, I was ushered to my spa chair and handed a palette of acrylic nail samples which displayed the available colors.  I chose a deep, slightly shimmery red in anticipation of December.  I removed my sandals, noticed my dirty feet, and immediately stuck them in the water.  The pedicurist rolled up on her stool and prepared to remove my old polish.  She pulled one foot out of the water and gasped appallingly.  Another pedicurist noticed as well and had the same reaction.  Because of the rain, the dye from my black sandals had bled all over the soles of my feet!  I tried to explain to them what had happened, "From my shoes!" and motioned to my sandals.  The dedicated pedicurist went to work, scrubbing furiously to try to remove the dye.  "It's okay," I reassured her, "Just do the best you can."  The Thais give one hundred percent in whatever they do, so I knew she wouldn't rest until my feet were completely clean.  As the pedicure progressed and my feet soaked longer, the dye eventually disappeared.  How embarrassing!

Throughout the pedicure, I was serenaded by recorded, instrumental versions of Feelings and Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head.  I enjoy watching the pedicure protocol and I was trying to take mental notes of the process in anticipation of a blog entry.  "Madam!  Relax!" encouraged one of the several pedicurists who were gathered around one of the nail stations.  They were chatting as they decorated some acrylic nail samples.  As the pedicurist proceeded with the typical cut down and trimming of the cuticles, I wondered if I would suffer from ingrown toenails since she rounded my big toes instead of filing them straight across.  My worry was squelched by the foot and leg massage that followed.  Since massage is a Thai specialty, I had high expectations for this portion of the pedicure.  Without glancing at my watch too frequently, I estimated that the massage alone lasted almost 30 minutes, the entire pedicure just over an hour.  She carefully applied my polish and put the guilty, soggy sandals back on my feet.  The Thais take immense pride in their work and are attentive to every detail, as evidenced by this pedicure.  I tipped the pedicurist nicely as I walked out the door, hoping she was able to keep the money for herself.

As my December pedicure approached, I kept an eye out for a satisfactory salon while I was in Melbourne.  Since I was back to Australian pedicures, I wanted to do my research and get my money's worth this time.  I was staying in the neighborhood of Coburg and frequently took the tram down Nicholson to Lygon St. for food and coffee.  Conveniently located on a corner, I noticed Tips and Toes as I was walking by one day.  I entered the small, tidy salon, ready to enquire about their services.  "How much are your pedicures?"  "Do you receive a foot and leg massage with the pedicure?"  "Does the massage cost extra?"  I didn't want to be duped again.  The friendly receptionist of Asian descent answered my questions.  "$35" "Yes, massage is part of the pedicure."  "You can pay extra for an extra 15 minutes of massage."  She continued on in an attempt to persuade me that, coupled with a manicure, I would get an even better deal.  I was so enthralled with the prospect of an included foot and leg massage that I wasn't really listening. 

I returned to Tips and Toes the following day, as I was in my sneakers on the day of my enquiry.  I never like to accept the disposable flip flops if I can help it, and I didn't have a strict schedule to adhere to, so I could plan my day around my pedicure.  I was invited to sit in a spa chair near the rear of the salon.  It was Christmas Eve and it appeared that these Melburnians were getting spruced up for the holiday.  From my research, many Australians gather and celebrate the holiday on Christmas Day rather than Christmas Eve.  I chose a bright pink color in honor of the Australian summer.  Plus, the vibrancy complemented my tanned feet.  Mounted televisions featured the Australian news, which always seems to be more cheery than the Southern California news.  I soaked my feet in the spa water as the pedicurist prepared her instruments.  "Pedicure for the holidays?" she asked.  "I'm travelling, so I'm not really celebrating this year," I explained.  "Party tomorrow?" she persisted.  "I'm flying to Sydney tomorrow, so hopefully they'll do something fun on the plane," I answered.  She seemed puzzled as she removed my Thai polish, cut down my nails, and trimmed my cuticles.  "You're on holiday here?" she asked.  I explained to her how I had been travelling since September and I wanted to celebrate the New Year in Sydney, so it was necessary for me to fly on Christmas Day because of the cheap fare.  "Long holiday!" she exclaimed.  I never know whether people are impressed, envious, or shocked that I've been travelling for so long and solo, at that. 

The adept pedicurist continued with the included foot and leg massage, even wrapping my feet in hot towels at one point.  Such a welcome treat for my overworked feet!  My comfortable Vasque sneakers are to thank in preventing my feet from incurring a worse fate.  I thought this pedicure was most similar to my pedicures at home.  She brushed alcohol over my toenails to ensure they were free of lotion.  A base coat, two coats of polish, and a top coat were applied as she finished up the 45 minute process.  Carefully, she put my flip flops on and instructed me to sit for a few minutes.  I contemplated whether I should take the tram home or walk with my wet nails.  I asked if enough time had passed and she gave me permission to leave.  As I was pulling my $35 out of my wallet, she picked up an aerosol can, came around to my side of the counter, and sprayed my toenails with what I can only guess is some type of finishing spray.  Genius!  At press time, almost one month after this pedicure, my toenails are still shiny and the polish is intact.

In my previous travels, I never had the opportunity to investigate the pedicure habits of foreign cultures.  I couldn't afford it when I studied in Salzburg and Paris during college, and my subsequent two week long holidays didn't necessitate it.  I was glad to gather yet another comparative, cultural experience and to try something new.

Should New Acquaintance Be Forgot?

It's always been my dream to celebrate New Year's Eve in a foreign country.  I've celebrated in Las Vegas, colloquially considered by some people to be a foreign country, but that doesn't count.  I carefully planned my flight to depart Australia in January, so I would have the experience of the Sydney Harbour celebration.  I installed the informational app and studied the best locations for viewing the fireworks show.  I announced on Facebook that I was planning on attending this event, and a friend commented, "Anne, do NOT camp out all day!"  She suggested avoiding the crowds and barricaded areas in favor of crossing the Harbour Bridge toward a vantage point near Luna Park.  In true vagabonding fashion, I opted to prepare for anything and decide in the moment where I would watch the show.

The day started with a power outage in the apartment where I was staying, which meant a cold shower.  As I was dressing in my most festive frock, I saw a spider with tiger like stripes on the wall.  It looked like it was rubbing its two front legs together in malice.  I mustered up the courage I'd acquired after living alone for so long, grabbed a magazine, and smacked it.  It fell to the ground, crumpled in death.  Great, I thought, two bad omens, and hopefully not a harbinger of the remainder of the day.  I packed up my backpack according to the photos I'd studied and the information I'd read:  towel, sweater, umbrella for sun, water bottle, snacks, book, camera (iPhone for nighttime shots), and money.  I'd thoroughly applied sunscreen and thought about bringing a hat, but didn't want hat hair for midnight.

10:45 A.M. ~ The day was lovely, about 75F, as I walked to the convenience shop, purchased my bus ticket, and waited at the bus stop.  Bondi Beach didn't even seem too crowded.  If the girls who live in the apartment where I was staying were any indication, many Sydneysiders leave town for the New Year's holiday.

11:45 A.M. ~ The bus trip took about an hour to arrive in the CBD near Circular Quay.  I alighted at Young Street and walked down to the barricades underneath the train station.  I read that all barricaded areas would have bag checks, looking for glass and firearms, I suppose.  I approached the bag checker, he patted my bag as if lightly fluffing a pillow, and I was through.  I noticed some people, a mix of singles, couples, and families, camped out with provisions to last until midnight, if not longer.  This area was denoted as East Circular Quay on the app viewing location map, with a capacity of 8000 people.  I continued towards the Opera House and passed through another bag check.  This time, I was ordered to open my bag, remove some items for clearer inspection, and I was admitted.  If the more thorough bag check was somehow correlated with the safety of the viewing area, I opted for the Opera House, even though its capacity was 4200 people.  I walked around the area, observing hordes of people who had obviously arrived closer to the 6:00 A.M. opening time.  People brought tents, coolers, beach chairs, blankets, shade structures, makeshift shade structures, and umbrellas.  The food stand and bar were already open.  Beach towels were laid out, and people were even wearing swimsuits.  That's one thing I've noticed about Australia.  People seem to be perpetually prepared for the beach.  It's not evident that they are all wearing swimsuits, but they will stop in a park when the mood strikes, remove their shirt and pants, and soak up some rays. 

12:00 P.M. ~ I walked all the way past the Opera House and toward the Botanic Gardens.  The gates were locked and a security guard was standing there.  I turned around and walked up the Opera House steps, discovering the view of the Harbour Bridge, essential for the show, was completely obscured unless you were at the edge of the railing closest to the bridge.  There, early arrivals had already set up their tripods on the steps.  I walked back to the entrance gate, and thought about exiting for a while to possibly return later.  As I passed a security guard, I heard him say they were almost at capacity and would close the gates soon.  People would be able to leave, but not return. 

12:45 P.M. ~  I decided to stay inside the gates, at least for now.  This could be exciting, I thought.  I've never camped out at the Rose Parade, waited in an early morning line for concert tickets, or spent the night outside Best Buy in anticipation of Black Friday.  For the record, I think camping out at the Rose Parade could be fun, we purchase concert tickets online now, and the last example is something that is outside my realm of consideration.  As I was looking for a spot just at the foot of the Opera House steps, the security guards began moving the barricades around and I found myself cornered with a perfect view of the bridge.  A few other people were in the same position.  I asked one of the guards if we could stay in that spot until midnight.  He replied, "It's alright with me."  People were already scrambling to claim their spots.  I quickly pulled my towel out of my backpack, folded it in half to make a square, and my camp was set up for the day.  I estimated that my spot was a little less than nine square feet.  My spot was prime because I could lean back against the barricade.

1:00 P.M. ~ The first three hours were the most painful.  We settled into our respective activities.  Some people were napping, others were eating, giving massages, or applying sunscreen.  I held my umbrella in one hand to shield myself from the sun, and my book in the other hand on my lap, reading intermittently.  My neighbors to the left, two sisters and the older sister's husband from the UK, fully reclined, using their backpacks as pillows.  I was lucky that I was at the edge, up against the barricade, and could use it to lean against when my back began to ache.  The German couple directly in front of me had nothing to lean against, and kept shifting, trying to lean against each other.  A pink "My Little Pony" child's tent was set up to the right of me, with a man resting inside.  I felt relieved when his wife and child arrived to join him.  An eerie silence settled over the area, as we tried to preserve our energy that would be necessary over the next several hours.

4:00 P.M. ~ As the fourth hour commenced, the silence began to subside, our fate was accepted and mutual, so we were more communicative.  "Do you want us to watch your area while you get some more water?  I know it's hard being alone," one of the sisters offered.  I didn't want to contest her comment about being alone, and I knew she was merely being friendly, so I replied, "That would be great.  Do you really think someone would steal my spot?"  I figured if your towel was laid out, that was enough to claim your area.  Maybe she was more familiar with the intricacies of this type of activity.  "I don't know, but I thought I'd offer," she said.  "Thank you.  I'll be back in a few minutes," and I headed to the filtered water station.  The filtered water station was a four sided trough with two spigots and two drinking fountains on each side.  Another fun fact about Australia:  filtered water stations are ubiquitous, though they usually only have one spigot and one drinking fountain.  People carry around their reusable bottles and are never at risk of dehydration.  I approached the line, noticed it was about 20-30 people deep, while no one was at the bar.  I ordered a couple of ciders to pass my time waiting in the water line, then returned to my spot to continue reading and people watching.

7:00 P.M. ~ Once again, my neighbors obliged in watching my spot, and I left to check out the food stand and use the toilet.  This wasn't the first time I used the toilet throughout the day, but I'll take this opportunity to describe its beauty and efficiency.  Four huge blocks of portable, chemical toilets were arranged underneath the Opera House steps.  Smart move, keeping people and the toilets out of the sun.  However, never was I required to wait in a line for these toilets.  Inside each stall was an ample supply of toilet paper, plus a sink with soap!  Attendants were constantly in and out of the stalls, cleaning and replenishing supplies.  Just another example of Australia's efficiency.  I stood in the short line for food, deciding that I would order the fish and chips, but no drink to save money.  As I got closer to the counter, I saw that they had an espresso machine, and my coffee addiction began gnawing.  Marvelous!  Typical Australia.  I can honestly say I've never had a bad cup of coffee here, because it's never brewed in a pot.  Even in the homes where I've stayed, no one has a Mr Coffee.  They always either have an espresso machine or a French press.  Classy!

8:00 P.M. ~ One hour to go until the family fireworks show!  I learned from the sisters that there were three shows scheduled:  9:00, 10:30, midnight.  We were standing in our areas, chatting, when the clouds rolled in.  It wouldn't be a proper Sydney event if it didn't rain.  We hoped the clouds would pass, but the raindrops began in earnest.  Out of the six of us, I was the only one who had brought an umbrella.  My original intention was for sun protection, but I also know that you don't leave the house in Sydney without your umbrella.  I invited the group to huddle under my umbrella, and the six strangers got a little too close for comfort.  We were astonished that so many people packed up their belongings and took shelter under the Opera House steps.  After all this time!  The rain lasted for about 15 minutes, after which we had to reposition our towels and blankets, picked up during the rain.  The sisters, husband, and I reclaimed our spots, but the Germans' spot was overtaken by some people who took the opportunity to move up.  We all invoked our inner territorial animal, and muttered, "We have been here since TWELVE FORTY FIVE!!!" That became our amusing refrain for the evening whenever someone with a hopeful look on their face began to invade our territory or whenever tall people began congregating on the service road, obstructing our view.  I spread out my towel, unfolded this time, and pushed it as far up against the barricade as possible so the Germans would have a seat.

9:00 P.M. ~ The family fireworks show lasted less than ten minutes, and the bridge wasn't involved in this display.  I noticed more fireworks on the east side of the Opera House, so I ran up the steps.  Very few people were up there, which I couldn't believe.  It was an incredibly clear view, even of the moored boats.  After the fireworks, some families left, so the repositioning began again.  "We have been here since TWELVE FORTY FIVE!!!" At this point, we were only saying it for our own amusement, and it indicated a touch of cabin fever.  It was too dark to read, so the six of us compared photos.  The wind started to pick up.  I had my sweater on, and sitting on the towel surrounded by people seemed to block the chill.  

10:30 P.M. ~ The second show delighted us with a fireworks display of about 15 seconds.  I thought they probably did that to keep people on their toes, awake, and interested.  Around 11:30, people started to reposition again, some in front of our view.  "We have been here since TWELVE FORTY FIVE!!!"  The six of us conferred, and decided to move in front of the people, on the service road, in front of a maintenance cart that had been parked there for a while.  The unmarried sister and the husband climbed onto the cart.  I yelled at them, "You're going to be held in an Australian jail cell, deported, and miss the show!"  If any authorities noticed their positions, no one reprimanded them. 

MIDNIGHT ~ The countdown began from ten, projected onto the stone pylons that flanked the bridge, as well as a lighting display in the center of the bridge.  When it hit zero, there was no champagne toast, no kissing, no well wishes, no Auld Lang Syne.  Instead, there was the most brilliant, most spectacular, and most rewarding display of fireworks I've ever seen in my entire lifetime.  To mark the 40th anniversary of the Opera House, fireworks even shot off its roof.  We communally rejoiced with oohs and ahhs, shamelessly.  I'm still not sure if it was so spectacular because of all the anticipation or if it really was that extreme.  I think I'll file it as one of the most breathtaking moments of my life, up there with my first view of Sydney Harbour, my first view of the Pyramids of Giza, and my first view of Machu Picchu.  It really was that great.

12:15 A.M. ~ After the fifteen minute extravaganza, the six of us turned, stunned, and wished each other a Happy New Year.  The unmarried sister said, "Enjoy the rest of your trip!"  I bid her the same.  The three of them immediately headed toward Central Station to catch their 1:00 A.M. train to the Blue Mountains.  The Germans and I said farewell, then they left.  I stood transfixed for a moment, feeling slightly abandoned and realizing that we hadn't exchanged contact information.  I was reminded of that quote about people coming into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.  Except for the people back home whom I wished I had been with on NYE, I couldn't have asked for better random, momentary NYE companions.  I guess they were part of my life for a reason, so I would have someone to share this moment with. 

12:30 A.M. ~ I found my bus, efficiently directed by audio and visual announcements, and arrived safely back at my apartment in Bondi Beach within the hour.

Set up for the long haul

No rain, just sun protection

My spot and provisions

Functional and colorful

Of course it rained.  It's Sydney.

9:00 show, with a prime view

3-2-1...

Happy 2014!