Spa Visiting 101

I admit it. I wait until I'm somewhere in Southeast Asia to get as many as a dozen manicure-pedicures--largely because they're so cheap there ($13.50 max), I've got nothing else to do, and I have no dishes or dog care to ruin the job the instant I return home.

Of course, there's more to the mani-pedi experience than just getting one's nails trimmed and painted. As much as an hour and a half of oiling, nipping, pushing, abrading, cleaning, massaging, undercoating, painting, top coating, and bouts of vigorous fanning to dry the polish can be involved. Courtesy cups of water, fishing things out of your purse for you which might ding the manicure, local language lessons, and helping you back into your sandals can also be included. This is your day!

One of my several manicures somehow took place on the beach--
not usually advisable, given how sand adheres.

Bill lacked the patience required for a simple
mani-pedi. Barely able to tolerate
this simple clinical procedure in Pattaya,
he was twitchy as a cat. But his toes
have never looked better.

First (unless you're on the beach), you hop up to the entrance, kick off your sandals outside, and step into an air-conditioned salon where peaceful meditation music is playing. Then you determine whether the salon has the right color for you. Usually it does. Otherwise, you would have to beat an embarrassing retreat.  Because I'm nonconfrontational, I've always managed to find a passable color, though Balinese polish tends toward Halloweenish orange hues.

You are then ushered to your own cushioned seat and invited to soak your feet and hands in warm baths. In some cases, I've had two nail technicians working on me at once; in others, only one efficient one.

Usually, a little hand or foot massage costs extra, but some girls will throw one in for free.

Then begins the whole routine involved in making all twenty of your nails more flawless than you could possibly make them.

In Jamaica, a pedicurist insisted on scraping away at the soles of my feet with a grater until I thought I would scream, and left them nearly raw but softer than a baby's behind.

Here in Bali, my perfectionist pedicurist went to town, scrubbing away at every callus on one of my feet until she was satisfied, then picking up the other. Trouble lay ahead. I have been saving a very special, particularly painful corn on the ball of that foot for a U.S podiatrist. She began scrubbing it; I went "Ow"; and she inquired, with concern, "Pain?"  I nodded, and she began to take things very seriously indeed.  Out came a pair of lobster-like pincers with which she began enthusiastically digging away at the thing.

She worked away for a good while, as I thought: Are pedicurists in Bali also trained as podiatrists? Are these tools sterile? Will I need a Band-Aid? How about antiseptic? I asked all these questions of her, to which she smiled agreeably, continuing to work and chat quietly with her colleague--no doubt about how she had never seen such feet or heard such whining in her entire short career.

Eventually, she proudly presented me with a small granule that she had dug out of my foot. Her colleague admired it. Wow, I'm like an oyster to have created such an object, I thought. I didn't tell her so, lest she dig around for more.

She did anyway, despite my occasional protests that, really, it was fine and we needed to finish up. She paid no heed. This was a mission now. I began to fear that I would have to pay an additional 100,000 rupiah for this excavation. In the midst of it all, she applied alcohol. Shouldn't that have come first?

At length, the word got out. The boss lady and three or four other girls gathered round the operating theater. They goggled as they peered at my foot.

Now truly alarmed, I asked, "Is it bleeding? Can I see? Don't I need an antibiotic now? Is there a podiatrist around here?"

They smiled and went on about their business, while my pedicurist went on about hers.

Finally, I could take no more, made keep-away hand motions, and uttered my safe words: "Ti dahk!" ("No problem!").

The whole process took so long that I was unable to avoid a violent  Balinese thunderstorm that I'd seen approaching. Lightning cracked overhead; the alleys turned into ankle-deep, warm mudbaths filled with rotted offerings, rat droppings, and dog and horse shit. In all this I walked home on the sandal-shod foot that had just been operated on. If I'd had a Band-Aid, it would have washed off.

When I got back to the hotel, I washed my foot more thoroughly than it had ever been washed. I hope Neosporin really works.

The nails look great, though.

News at 11.