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!

My First "F"

"The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." ~ Nelson Mandela

I had no intention of diving when I arrived in Cairns.  I figured I might snorkel, but would see the Great Barrier Reef via a glass bottom boat.  I have a fear of deep water that prevented me from ever having the desire to dive.  Yes, I can swim in a pool, but I usually stay in the shallow end.  There's something about not being able to touch the bottom that freaks me out.

Several days passed in Cairns before I could muster up the courage to investigate a diving trip.  I compared different companies, and settled on Reef Experience.  For $185, the shuttle picks you up at your accommodation, drops you off at the marina, you are served breakfast, lunch, and happy hour, as well as a choice of diving or snorkeling, equipment included.  I consulted with one of the agents at their office at length.  "Do you think my eyes will pop out?"  "What if my eardrums burst?"  "May I switch to snorkeling if I don't like diving?"  After a lengthy incredulous gaze, she answered, "You will complete an introductory course that will teach you everything you need to know about diving.  If you still don't like it, you can snorkel instead."  I was sold on the trip.  I didn't want to spend a large sum of money on an activity if I didn't even know if I'd like it.  The trip was booked, and then my anxiety began to rise.  Luckily, in the span of time between booking the trip and the actual day, I rented a car and took a road trip.  That project took my mind off the impending dive trip.

The day of the trip arrived, and I was remarkably calm. I would say I felt more excitement than consternation.  The transfer shuttle picked me up near my Airbnb location, we picked up several more people, and arrived at the marina.  I was met by some young, friendly girls and guys in their 20s who checked me in, fitted me for fins, and handed me a medical release form.  "You only really need a wetsuit if you're a poor swimmer, but it also helps with sun protection," said one of the instructors.  "I'm a good swimmer," I replied.  I found a table on the lower, indoor level of the catamaran.  I began reading the medical release form, which stated that the wetsuit would facilitate buoyancy in the water and protect against jellyfish (stinger) wounds.  I returned to the equipment station aft of the boat, and was promptly fitted for a wetsuit.

We were welcomed by the crew, departed for Hastings Reef, fed breakfast, and the divers were called over for an introductory talk.  Lucy was a young, enthusiastic presenter who I thought would make a fascinating primary school teacher.  "Diving is easy if you remember three things!"  Oh no, where's a pen and paper?  I really have no short term memory.  "First, you need to remember to breathe normally.  In...and out...."  That sounds easy enough.  Several people had told me to take long breaths and relax while diving.  "Second, pop your ears as you descend."  Lucy showed us how to pop our ears by plugging our nose and blowing.  I prefer to pop my ears by moving my jaw around, and she said that would work as well.  You just have to find an ear popping technique that works for you and that you can employ every few feet, or you cannot descend to the ocean floor.  "Third, communicate with your instructor."  She showed us some hand signals such as the a-okay and the thumbs up to return to the surface.  I was relieved and encouraged that it wasn't more complicated.  Lucy counted off at least eight groups of 4-5 divers and said to listen for your group to be called.  I was group five, so I had some time to snorkel before my introductory lesson.

I descended the narrow, metal, port side staircase to the metal platform where the snorkelers were launching.  Lucy had instructed us to clean our goggles by spitting into each lens, rubbing the saliva into the corners, rinsing with sea water, and putting on the mask immediately to prevent fogging.  I sat down on the buoyant platform, put on my fins, and properly cleaned my mask.  I glanced back at the attendant standing there.  "Do you need a noodle?" he asked me.  "No, I'm fine," I replied, and launched off the platform.  Whoa!  They said the water was choppy today, but this was incredible.  I felt like a shipwreck victim being thrashed around in an ocean storm.  I swam back to the platform and yelled, "I think I need a noodle!"

That was better.  Now, to get some shots of Nemo and Crush for my niece and nephew.  I practiced the breathing that I knew would be imperative for my diving lesson.  I didn't like not being able to breathe through my nose, but I was told it took a while to adjust.  I floated for a while, face down.  I didn't see anything but cloudy, aquamarine water.  Where was all this amazing sea life?  I swam out a bit further, where I noticed most of the snorkelers were concentrated.  It looked like the aftermath of the Titanic, with everyone floating face down in the ocean.  I started getting nervous at the fact that I was tired.  It was fatiguing to fight the waves and breathe through my nose simultaneously.  I snapped a few blurry photos with my iPhone in its pink protective case.  It was exhausting to keep track of my phone as well, even with the cord around my neck.  I swam back to the boat, removed my fins, climbed up the ladder back to the platform, then the ladder back up to the deck.

My diving group was checking in, so I went over to the instructor and told him my name and number (12).  We were all assigned numbers for the day to help keep track of the passengers, which is probably a good idea for a tour at sea.  "You might want to leave your phone here," the instructor said as he looked at the case around my neck.  "It's not a good idea for the phones to be underwater at great depths."  We were diving fifty feet, and the girl at the shop where I bought the $30 case said it would be fine.  I recalled a few minutes earlier, at how fatigued I was from trying to manage the phone in the water, and left it in my backpack at the table.

I climbed down the ladder to the diving platform aft of the boat and sat down.  Three other girls sat down next to me, comprising my group.  My mask wasn't fitting correctly, so I kept adjusting it and blowing through my nose to empty the sea water.  The girl next to me asked, "Did you snorkel earlier?"  She was probably wondering if I had any idea what I was doing.  "Yes, but I really didn't like the feeling of not being able to breathe through my nose."  She said, "It's kind of like you have a cold, all stuffed up."  Perfect!  That relaxed me, and I tried to pretend as if I were congested.  A large tank was affixed to my back, like a backpack, but the instructor had to make some adjustments to my equipment.  Our group's diving instructor was already in the water and was beginning the lesson!  I started getting nervous.  I was already behind in the course, as I couldn't hear what she was saying.  The instructor on the platform finished the adjustments just as Lucy swam up in front of me.  I guess I needed one on one intervention and she was finished with her group.  "Are you ready?  Just lean forward and put your face in the water."  I tried to move, but it was as if I had ten tons of bricks on my back.  What was going on?  I tried again and couldn't budge an inch.  To Lucy's surprise, I began rocking back and forth to work up some momentum and eventually, ungracefully, splashed face first into the water.  Okay, I just had to remember those three things:  breathe, ears, communicate.  "I have to see you keep your face in the water for five minutes," Lucy instructed.  I put my face in the water, breathing long, deep breaths through the regulator.  I glanced down and noticed the rest of my group holding onto a metal bar attached to the boat about ten feet below the surface.  They were already on the next step!  Then I glanced down to the ocean floor.  That did it.  I lifted my face out of the water.  Lucy looked surprised, "You need to keep your face in the water for a full five minutes."  I think I had interrupted her timer.  "I know.  I'm sorry.  I just needed to come up for a second."

We moved farther from the boat, as the next diving group was preparing to launch.  The water was much more buoyant at this distance.  At this point, sea water had crept into my mask and was stinging my eyes.  I had ingested a fair amount of it as well.  It was difficult to hear Lucy as the water slapped our faces and thrashed us around.  I put the regulator in my mouth and she pulled me under a couple of feet.  I was feeling good and getting the hang of it.  Then I looked down.  I panicked and looked up to swim back up to the surface.  I couldn't remember how to communicate to Lucy that I needed to go up, so I just started swimming.  At the surface, I ripped the regulator out of my mouth, lifted my mask so my nose was exposed, and gasped for air greedily.  Lucy appeared, "You need to communicate with me!"  Were we in a relationship?  "I'm sorry.  I don't think I can do this," I told her reluctantly.  "Yes, you can.  Once more, but signal to me what you need."  I tried it once more, and we descended about twenty feet this time.  My ears started to hurt.  I tried to plug my nose and blow, but that didn't work.  Moving my jaw didn't work.  Then I couldn't breathe.  I thought I was successfully breathing through the regulator, but suddenly I couldn't remember what to do.  I looked at Lucy, who was smiling and trying to gauge my concern.  My survival instinct kicked in and I bolted for the surface, possibly kicking Lucy on the way up.  I emerged, panting, and she was right behind me.  What patience!  She reviewed the instructions again, but I said, "I want to get out.  I don't want to go down again."  She actually tried to convince me to try it again.  What persistence!  I thought for a moment.  Do I really want to get out?  If I do, I won't have another chance to dive.  When I'm faced with obstacles, I usually try and try again until the task is finished.  I couldn't believe I was actually contemplating failure.  However, most situations don't involve breathing impairment and survival skills.  Ironically, and in retrospect, I think I would have been more apt to continue if I didn't have snorkeling as an option.  I was so disappointed in myself, but I was exhausted and needed to sit down and breathe as nature intended.

I took off the wetsuit and returned it.  Then I went back to the table to put my clothes on over my swimsuit.  A couple from South Africa was sitting at the next table, Betsie and Nardus.  "How was it?" Betsie asked.  "I couldn't do it," I replied sadly, trying not to cry.  Betsie told me the story of how Nardus had always wanted to dive, and was finally doing it, at age 70.  She was just along for the ride, not intending to dive or snorkel.  "The glass bottom boat is ready.  Are you coming?" she enquired.  We boarded the glass bottom boat, which took us far away from the catamaran to get a clear view of the reef, while staying dry.  The water hadn't calmed down, and I began to feel seasick.  What a day!

After lunch back on the catamaran, we travelled to Breaking Patches Reef, named for the waves that break directly over the reef that looks like patches from above.  Aptly named.  I donned my fins and mask again from the port side snorkeling platform, and set out with my noodle, without my wetsuit, for more snorkeling.  I swam farther out to try to get some photos with my iPhone, suspended around my neck again.  It was still hard to manage, so I gave up on the photos and just concentrated on the breathing.  It was getting easier, and I wondered if I could have handled diving in the afternoon.  However, to dive in the afternoon, passing the morning course was a requirement.  I looked around for something interesting, but really couldn't see much so I got out.  I mentioned to one of the crew members that I didn't see what all the fuss was about.  I couldn't really see anything spectacular.  She pointed to where the waves were breaking over the reef that was visible from the boat.  "You need to swim out there.  That's where you will have the best view while snorkeling."  Ugh, that means suiting up and launching again!

Once more, I found myself on the snorkeling platform, donning my equipment, and launching off.  I swam far out to the reef the crew member had indicated, but noticed no one else was out there.  I looked back to the boat and saw that the instructors and crew members had their eyes on me.  Well, I thought, they told me to try this area.  This time, I left my phone in my backpack, as I didn't want to wrestle with it.  What a mistake!  I put my face in the water and floated.  It was Finding Nemo Live, with fish swimming in schools, in and out of the coral.  Fish of all colors and sizes were performing their daily duties.  I thought if someone were just deranged enough or on enough drugs, they could write an entire story about reef life! I think it's been done.  I swam around a bit until I had my fill of views and of ingesting sea water, then returned to the boat for our afternoon Happy Hour.  It turned out to be a wonderful day.

So, I failed the introductory diving course, signifying my first "F" in a course.  Instead of "failure", I'll replace it with "focus".  The next day, I was so focused on diving that I looked up private lessons, where I would have more personalized attention and not be so rushed through the steps.  Unfortunately, the cost prohibited me from making a booking.  I'll just shelve it for now, and the next opportunity that comes, I'll try again.  The positive outcomes of the day:  I improved my snorkeling skills, acquainted myself with the required breathing technique, viewed the Great Barrier Reef, and made some new friends.

View of Hastings Reef from the glass bottom boat

Breaking Patches Reef, snorkelers in the foreground

Posing in front of Breaking Patches Reef.  You can see how close the reef is to the surface.

Tales from the Bus

I've grown quite fond of public transport on this trip.  I sold my car to finance part of the trip, so I'd better learn to love it when I return home.  Sydney has many public transport options such as trains, buses, and ferries.  Up in Cairns, the main mode of public transport is the bus.

The Cairns bus confuses me.  The website is cryptic, I can never find timetables posted at the stops, and you must have your route memorized to alert the driver when you want to alight.  In Sydney, I learned to at least memorize the stop prior to mine, but even that took some trial and error.  One night I alighted too soon, and another night too late.  Obviously, I always got to my destination. 

On my first day in Cairns, I thought I would check out the downtown area (Central Business District or CBD).  I walked to the closest bus stop, noticed no timetable posted, but did see a map.  As I was studying the map to determine which bus to board, a bus arrived and stopped for me without even my hailing it.  Well, I thought, if anyone knows the answers to my bus related questions, it's this guy.  I said to the bus driver, "I'm not sure if this is the bus I need."  He smiled and said, "Where are you going?"  I told him I wanted to go to the Esplanade.  "Cairns," he said.  I thought we were in Cairns.  I guess not.

I quickly learned that I would ride from Zone 5 to Zone 20 and it would cost $2.80 each way.  Finally, I could use these coins that were weighting down my bag.  I dutifully presented exact change to the driver almost every time I boarded the bus.  In Cairns, the bus driver deals with all the finances, which is time consuming, but offers an actual interaction with the driver.  In both Sydney and Melbourne, you must purchase your ticket or pass at a convenience store.  Melbourne is even further advanced.  You may use the same ticket/pass for all public transport:  buses, trains, and trams.  Genius!

The next day, I was waiting patiently at the same bus stop.  I still hadn't figured out the timetable.  A woman sat down next to me on the bench and enquired, "Do ya know what time this bus comes?  Damn city council...can't even post the times!"  I replied, "No, I have no idea.  I just wait here until a bus shows up."  She looked at me quizzically, "Don't ya have anything else to do?"  "Actually, I don't have anything else to do.  I'm on holiday here."  Her eyes widened, "Whaddaya a millionaire or somethin'?  Holiday in Australia...nothing else to do?"  Her tone was a bit insulting, so I countered with, "If I were a millionaire, I wouldn't be taking the bus.  I'd take a taxi."  We shared a hearty laugh at that, and I felt like we were back on equal ground.  The funny thing about chatting at the bus stop is the temporary relationship you develop.  The bus comes, your conversation is over, and you're on your way.  I wonder if people who take the same bus every day have "bus friendships" or even "bus affairs".

One day, an older, indigenous gentleman boarded a bus I was already riding.  As he paid his fare, he saw a man he knew seated on the bus.  He bellowed in a Louis Armstrong like voice, "Hey you....f**k you!!!"  At least that's what I thought he said as he reached into his pants pocket.  Oh no, I thought, I'm right in the middle of this altercation, and if he's pulling a gun from his pocket it'll be difficult to escape his line of fire.  The next thing I knew, he sat down next to the man and they began a jovial conversation.  Quick geopolitical interlude: I never begin political discussions in foreign countries.  It's sort of like the first date rule for inappropriate conversation topics.  Never mention politics, sex, or religion on a first date.  However, as I travel, if I'm asked my opinion, I try to feel out the situation and the other person's affiliations before I answer.  Someone asked me point blank, in reference to gun control, "What's wrong with your country?"  In Australia, the gun control laws are strict and the penalties severe.  Needless to say, my fear is incrementally quelled the longer I'm in this country.

When I took the bus back to the house where I was staying each evening, I tried to begin the ride around twilight.  The neighborhood was pitch black with only a few street lights.  To attest to the safety of the neighborhood, all you need to know is that my hostess never closed her doors, even at night.  She kept the thick security screens locked at all times, but the humid climate and the lack of central air conditioning demanded the cross ventilation.  I was lucky enough to have an AC wall unit in my room.

One night on my return trip, two brothers were riding at the back of the bus.  One boy was about eleven years old and barefoot, and his brother was about eight and wore flip flops.  I heard the older boy cussing up a storm in the back of the bus.  At one point, I sneaked a glance to confirm it was a child speaking so graphically.  The boys signaled for their stop, and the older boy alighted first, popping a plastic bag at a deafening decibel as he exited.  He jumped off, hurried down the street, leaned against a picket fence, and snickered.  His brother wasn't so lucky.  Before he could exit, the thirtysomething bus driver caught his attention and quietly admonished him.  All I could hear was something about telling his mother what happened and how he should be ashamed.  The younger boy apologized quickly and sincerely, then fled off the bus.  The older boy was still smirking and exuding a nonchalant air.  The bus driver crept the bus forward, level with the older boy on the sidewalk, whose expression had now changed to petrification.  The driver beckoned with his finger for the boy to board the bus.  This time, the chastising was audible.  "You think you're funny, do ya?" Dead silence from the boy and from the passengers watching this scene.  I felt like one of my former students, observing me doling out a consequence to an offending student.  I could empathize with the bus driver completely.  After at least a full minute of the boy's motionless expression and the passengers patiently waiting, the driver shouted, "GET OFF!!!" The boy leaped off the bus and scurried down the street toward his destination.  I thought maybe a slow clap was in order, but the expressions on the other passengers' faces discouraged me.  We continued on our journey as if it was a daily occurrence. 

This last incident confirmed my prior observations that bus drivers are revered members of society in Australia.  When I first arrived, back in September, I noticed that people would wave to and thank the bus driver as they disembarked at their stop.  I recalled stories from a former bus driver friend in the US who was given many different hand gestures, but never a grateful wave.  Just by observing the way the public treats their country's transit employees, much is revealed about the character of that country. 

Longest Travel Day

In a tropical climate, you are constantly transitioning between humidity and air conditioning.  I think that's what saddled me with a head cold the day I was supposed to travel from Thailand to Australia.  I woke up congested, but had to shower and pack to be ready for my 9 am taxi to the Phuket airport.  I had already checked in for both flights online and my Airbnb hosts in Australia were expecting me.  I had to pull it together.  I thought, "I've gotten ready for work and taught all day in worse condition than this!"

I powered through, got all packed and ready, and went downstairs to bid my hostesses at the hotel farewell.  I had become acquainted with them over the past three weeks, and wanted to give them a nice tip.  I slipped a bill that was larger than all the others into the clear plastic tip box, and they were abundantly appreciative.  They presented me with a brown gift bag.  Inside was a frangipani soap and a photo they had taken of me for their guest wall.  They have a huge transparent glass map on their wall and said they would post the photo there, affixed to my hometown in California.  I looked at the map, and there had been no other guests from the US, or even from the Western Hemisphere.  It looked like Australia, Asia, and Russia were the most populated.  We said our goodbyes and I was off to the airport.

Online, I had secured the window seat in the last row of the plane, hoping I would have the row to myself, as I did on the flight down to Phuket.  No such luck this time.  Next to me was a woman who thought she was the one in the window seat, leaning over me, and gesturing across my face as she described the scenery to her husband.  I gave her a dirty look, she apologized, but continued the behavior.  I just thought to myself, "If I am contagious, there's her retribution."

After the short flight to Bangkok came the next hurdle of the day.  I had to navigate my way to the main airport in Bangkok, Suvarnabhumi International.  I flew an economy airline, Nok Air, to Phuket, but that meant utilizing Don Mueang Airport.  In my online research of Phuket activities, I noticed a mention of a free shuttle between the two airports.  I had booked an early flight out of Phuket so I would have plenty of time to investigate and then find a taxi if the shuttle myth was untrue.

I disembarked the plane, retrieved my checked bag, and followed the public transport signs downstairs.  I didn't see any signs about a free shuttle, so I asked at the information desk. Sure enough, just outside was a desk and a completely empty, full size bus waiting.  I asked if the bus really was free.  The guys at the desk, who were all wearing the same type of sunglasses for some reason, replied yes.  All they needed to see was my boarding pass.  Good thing I hadn't trashed it in the restroom.  I boarded the bus, along with a young couple, but that was it.  We took off with three passengers on the entire bus. 

I arrived at Suvarnabhumi with two hours to spare before check in for my flight even opened.  I wanted to get past security to eat and rest, as I was still feeling under the weather.  I found a spot near some monks, careful not to accidentally touch them as I walked to a seat in their row.  Vit, my Thai tour guide, is a former monk, so we were schooled about proper, respectful behavior.  I worked on my journal and people watched until it was time to check in.

I approached the counter once I saw on the screen that check in had begun.  I really just needed my boarding pass and to check my bag.  I had booked the flight through Qantas and flew Qantas on the way up to Bangkok, but for some reason Emirates was operating this flight.  The agent ran my passport and asked, "Do you have a ticket back to the US?"  I'm sure Australia asks them to confirm that information before issuing boarding passes.  I didn't have a printer to print a boarding pass anyway, but at the end of online check in, a message popped up that told me to see a ticket agent for my boarding pass.  That message gave me an uncomfortable feeling.  "Yes. It's on January 8th." "May I see it?" asked the agent. "I don't have a paper copy, but I have the email on my phone. Would you like to see that?" I asked, nervously.  I can usually pull up emails without wifi, but of course it wasn't working at that moment.  I couldn't get on the airport wifi until I was past security.  I said, "I'm sorry, but it's not working.  If I can use a computer, I'll find it for you.  Or, you could possibly look up my flight with my frequent flyer number.  Or, maybe you could run my passport.  I have an electronic Australian multiple entry tourist visa that will pop up for you."  She stared at me for several seconds.  I don't know if she didn't understand what I said, took my word for it, or felt sorry for me, but she said, "It's okay" and printed the boarding pass.  What relief I felt!  I had read an article about a man who had been detained at the Bangkok airport and just imagined myself stuck there.  I thanked her profusely and proceeded to security.

I'd anticipated this Emirates flight ever since I booked it back in August.  I'd heard nothing but praise for the airline, and it's all valid.  I'm referring to the amenities rather than the service, which was rather bland.  I was dazzled by the large personal TV screen, the plethora of film choices, the personal electrical outlet and USB port, and the complimentary travel kit.  When it was time to sleep, the ceiling transformed into an astronomical wonder of twinkle lights.  I had chosen the last row of the plane, with the hope of having extra room.  My hopes were met, with practically a foot of space between my seat and the window, plus ample room to recline my seat.  I felt like the personal guest of the Emir.  Highly recommended!

After a stunning sunrise over the Australian Outback, we landed in Sydney.  I disembarked, retrieved my checked bag, and queued for passport control.  As I stood in line, an immigration officer approached me from the side. "Where are you coming from today?" he asked sternly. "Bangkok," I replied.  He looked at me for a moment, then asked, "Were you in any rural areas? Any farms?"  I thought for a moment, breaking eye contact with him.  I tried to recall all of my destinations over the past six weeks.  Was the elephant camp considered a farm?  What about the rice field we briefly walked through?  I wasn't sure, and I was taking a long time to answer his question.  Hadn't I just answered this question on the customs form?  I know he was concerned about soil, and my shoes had been thoroughly washed.  "Um...no," I said.  "Any wooden souvenirs?  Food?"  I looked away again to think, shifting my eyes.  Did I buy that wooden Buddha I was contemplating?  Did he say any souvenir or just wooden souvenirs?  I'm standing here wearing a Singha beer T-shirt.  Is that what he means?  My head was still congested and my processing was faulty due to lack of sleep.  "Um...no." He stamped my customs form and wrote a secret code near the stamp.  That hadn't ever happened before.

I proceeded through passport control, and was nearing the final exit.  The officer there looked at my form, looked at me, and said, "Row 5."  I figured I would exit with everyone else, but I followed the barricades to another station.  There was a large carpet area in front of me.  A female officer appeared...with the DRUG DOG in tow!  Oh come on, I thought.  I knew I didn't have anything contraband, but was nervous nonetheless.  I guess I did take too long to answer the customs officer's questions.  I was ordered to spread my two pieces of luggage out on the carpet and step back.  The cute beagle sniffed my suitcase quickly, but then lingered on my shoulder bag that had accompanied me wherever I went in Thailand.  What is he doing?  Why is he taking so long?  Do I still have a cookie in there from the first flight?  I recalled my arrival to LAX from China several years ago.  The drug dog went crazy over some beef jerky a man had in his bag.

"Okay, thank you," the officer said.  I was clear!  I grabbed my bags and hightailed it out of the airport.  I understand that it's their job to exercise caution and be thorough.  I guess that's the chance you take when travelling to a country known for its contraband.  I finally arrived at my Airbnb location in Newtown, took a rest, and felt an immense sense of relief.

Farewell, Thailand

NOTE:  Direct quotes are used in this blog entry, as best as my memory serves.  These direct quotes, especially from non-English speakers, are not meant to offend.  They are only meant to preserve the authenticity of the interaction.

I only stayed in Patong for three weeks, but it felt like an eternity. I'd made some friends and wanted to bid all of them farewell. My first stop of the day was my usual beach spot. Nora, my favorite foot masseuse, saw me coming and ran over. "Victoria from America!" I was settled into my beach chair by my favorite servers. "Chair, towel, and Singha."

Nora and I chatted as she worked her magic. "Victoria, I see you around. You always happy and smiling. That make you beautiful." What a sweet compliment! Because it's Thailand, I know she's sincere. Nora's worked as a masseuse for over 30 years and was born in Patong. Her sister works with her, and they are two of eleven children. Her daughter works at a hotel nearby and her son works in IT on Phuket Island. "He helps me on the computer," she said. "When you come back, Victoria? Next year?" I wondered if people really did return year after year, or if it was a saying that was passed around. "I hope next year," I told her. "Don't forget me," she warned. "I could never forget you, Nora!"

Even though I saw a rat at 1-2-3 Restaurant, I decided to return. The people were so friendly and I hadn't suffered any ill effects from my previous visit. Plus, they prepare the best papaya salad. During my first visit, I was afraid 1-2-3 might represent Eat-Toilet-Die. The Los Angeles County Health Inspector would probably grade it with an "F", but it's those secret ingredients that make a dish so tasty. Americans are obsessed with cleanliness, too. I always tell people that's what they will notice about America. As I approached, the servers waved and smiled. I sat outside this time, decreasing the likelihood I'd see another rat. I ordered the papaya salad again, one of their veggie dishes, and a large, commemorative Singha. "Large?" the server asked, aghast. Why does this surprise everyone? You get a better value for your money and you don't have to bother the server if you want seconds. In Thailand, every beer is served in a coozie anyway, so there's no risk of warm beer. They brought me a complimentary, traditional Thai dessert of watermelon and pineapple, and we parted ways. "When you come back? Next year?" Once again. Maybe they all want ME to return next year?

Much of my journal writing and blog prep was completed at Segafredo at Banana Walk, located right on Beach Road. I also liked going there because they play Rhianna's Greatest Hits every single day. Most of her songs really are catchy! I walked in, ordered my favorite Iced Mezzo Mezzo, and told the girls it was my last night in Patong. "Oh no!" said the barista. After making my drink, we took a photo, and she came over to sit on the sofa opposite from me. I love Thailand for this reason exactly: everyone treats you like you're an old friend. We chatted, but her accent was so strong and Rhianna was so blaring that it was difficult to piece together the conversation. I showed her some of my photos from Bangkok and northern Thailand. She said she loves Chiang Mai, as most people do, and was shocked at my photos with the lady boys in Bangkok. "They were really nice people," I said. She gave me a big hug and asked if I would return next year. I'm not kidding. They all asked me that. "I hope I can return next year," I assured her. Just then a torrential downpour commenced. "You cannot leave now!" she chided.

I strolled slowly along Bangla Road and Rat-U-Thit Road, purchasing a few souvenirs along the way. I took in every sight of luring restaurant hosts, every smell of fish water in the gutter, and every sound of competing tuk tuk drivers' music, as I knew I probably wouldn't hear them again "next year". I'll return as soon as I am financially able, and hopefully my new friends will remember me.

Nora, my favorite foot masseuse

My last meal in Thailand

Coffee buddies

Rat-U-Thit Road

Phi Phi La La

In my scrambling to fit in everything I wanted to do on Phuket, and because of weather delays, I finally booked a tour to Ko Phi Phi (pronounced pee-pee...I worked with sixth graders for way too long!) I noticed that my hotel had some brochures on day trips to the islands, so I asked the concierge about Phi Phi Island. It is supposed to be breathtaking, with turquoise waters, and it's where The Beach was filmed, one of my favorite movies. The concierge said, "You want to go to Pee Pee?" A million responses ran through my mind. (Okay, I'll stop now with the pee pee jokes.) The flyer said 2900 baht, but she said the hotel gets a discounted price of 1400 baht. That discount seemed a little extreme, but I trusted her. The day includes a pickup at the hotel, transport to the port in Phuket, ferry service to the islands, lunch, snorkeling, drinking water, then transport back to your doorstep. Great deal! I gave her my 1400 baht and she booked the trip for the next day.

The next morning, the driver picked me up and I joined a van full of other tourists. I was the last pick up since my hotel is the furthest away from the beach. It was dark inside the van, so I couldn't see the others too well. A group of guys in the back yelled, "Good morning!!!" I returned the greeting, a little less exuberantly. In the front seat next to the driver sat a tall guy in his late 20s, with his head shaved except for the top, which was pulled back in a rubber band. In the next row, there was an amorous couple of Asian descent and a woman who was leaning against the window, taking her morning nap and mumbling in her sleep. I sat in the next row, next to an oblivious girl who was listening to her noise canceling headphones. The two rows behind me held the guys who had greeted me.

We set off on our drive to Phuket Town, about 30 minutes away. The guys were talking loudly, though pleasantly. I'm usually adept at identifying languages, but this one I couldn't place. I didn't want to turn around and look at them. That would have made it too easy. Russian? I've encountered many Russians here in Thailand, but it didn't sound quite right. Arabic? It contained some guttural sounds. French? I thought I heard the word "travaille", and you would think after a major in French I'd have the skills to detect that one. Italian? They were stressing certain words that reminded me of an Italian accent. One of them turned on some music and started clapping and singing. I thought, "These guys are fun. I must hang out with them today!"

We arrived at Phuket Town port, where several bus loads of tourists were corralled into one area to wait for the boat. We were handed a ribbon to tie on our wrist, so our group could be identified by color. Mine was turquoise. I was impressed that I could tie the ribbon on independently. I looked around, as others were tying the ribbons for each other. I thought, "Wow! I really can do anything!"

One of the group leaders introduced himself as "LaLa" and told us to gather round for a few instructions. "Hallo ladies, gentlemen, lady boys!!!! Listen to me!" This was going to be a fun day! We dispersed into our groups and turquoise went first. One of the pink group members got mixed up in our group. LaLa took his rented snorkeling fin, smacked him on the behind with it, and told him to find his own group!

Boarding the boat, I realized that the guys from the bus were in my group. Yes! About 50 people boarded onto a speed boat with a sun tarp on top, two long benches at the sides, and small rows in the middle. LaLa gave us a few more instructions on safety, but the guys were chatting and playing music on their phone. "You five! I can leave you here! So...SHUT UP!" LaLa would make an excellent teacher. At this point, I was disenchanted with the guys and abandoned the idea of hanging out with them.

After about an hour, we arrived at our first stop, Maya Bay, where most of The Beach was filmed. It was crowded and inundated with tourists, so much that you couldn't get a clear shot of the bay. LaLa said it only became popular after the movie was released. I tried to imagine what it would look like deserted. We had 35 minutes to explore and take photos. 

We made a couple more stops to view the "emerald water", that definitely lived up to its name. Then it was time for lunch at "Long Beach". We all sat together in a large hall and quickly ate from a buffet that had Thai food as well as spaghetti! After lunch, I walked around and ran into two of the guys. They asked me to take their photo, and they took mine for me. I asked them where they were from. Israel, they replied. Hebrew! That's why I couldn't understand their language in the van. I don't hear Hebrew very often. "You are...with...someone....or...you..." one of the guys struggled in English. "Alone?" I said. "Yes, I'm alone." They seemed perplexed by this notion.

Again, we boarded the boat, and finally reached our last stop at Khai Nai Island. It had been a long journey, and some people had fallen asleep after lunch. LaLa said, "Wake up! Wake up! Or I will kiss you! If you like to drink, this island is for you! Beer...whiskey...Mai Thais...not free! I give you Coca Cola, water, and fruit for free at my table. If you want beer or whiskey for free, you come to my room tonight. Men only...no lady!!!" What a character! I was laughing hysterically.

Some people swam, some people snorkeled, but I chose to stay on the beach in the shade since I had a headache. LaLa started rounding us up just before 4:30. Everyone had boarded the boat...except the five Israeli guys! LaLa said, "I said 4:30. It's 4:34 now. You not here, I leave you," and the boat driver took off. I couldn't believe it. Go, LaLa!

As we arrived at the port at Phuket, LaLa said, "I know some of you worry about those five guys we leave behind. They are very rich. They have private boat come pick them up on the island." Dammit! I knew I should have hung out with them. I could have some new rich Israeli friends.

Reasons why I liked LaLa:

1) He didn't care what other people thought.

2) He kept his word.

3) He was the most entertaining part of the trip!