Budapest: Pedicure, please?

I had never had a pedicure before.

I decided that if any place, price, or time was good for one--it had to be Budapest's beautiful Gellart Spa, 1,300 Florints ($6.00) and 8:00am on a Saturday morning.

Ready to come out with pink little piggies whose cobblestone woes had been massaged away--I was not prepared for the cultural experience to come.

Robin and I walked in the bathtiled room in all our sweet ignorance, beaming with excitement. Donning a white apron and too-tight knee highs, a large Hungarian woman that would have passed the thermal spa weight requirement was already hard at work. The unsuspecting middle aged woman in what looked like a 1980s dentist chair looked relatively calm--so we sat down confidently. The pedicurist, let's call her Magda, called out her instructions to soak our feet harshly in Hungarian--after pantomining a bit, we go the point and soaked. Side by side, Robin and I waited patiently for our feet to raisin, and exchanged periodic glances through the large mirror before us.

I cringed as Mad Magda pulled out what looked like a surgery tray and began scraping her victim's foot. It started out innocent enough, as a little dry skin was sloughed off. But when ribbons of callouses started piling on the floor, nervous glances were exchanged. When the woman in the chair gave a pinched squeal and blood was drawn, they became stares of terror. There was no turning back now, that unwavering Hungarian woman kept scraping and I would keep soaking. I looked at my precious calluses, beloved trophies of my barefootedness, as I sat in peace for several more moments.

I wasn't really sure if getting a pedicure from a woman who couldn't even see her own feet was a good idea, but I decided that she would be like my large, and very Hungarian, grandma and I should trust her. If anything, it was in the name of a cultural experience.

It was my turn, I looked at my trembling roommate and headed barefoot to Magda's chair, stepping over the pile of calluses on the way. She brandished the same knife. Breathing in, "cultural experience" I reminded myself--and offered her my foot.

No questions asked, she began peeling my foot like a potato. My poor Pocahontas feet (what I call my weather-worn tootsies) quivered a bit as she scraped away. It wasn't so bad, actually, her skilled hands left me unscathed. I smiled as she grabbed the lotion and fleetingly rubbed my feet.

And that was it.

I looked down at my still-chipped pink toenail polish, and wriggled my still-tense feet into my flip-flops. They slide a little as I put them on, apparently a result of smoothness. Sighing a bit, I tipped the woman and walked out of the operation room. I feared my intense day of walking ahead of me with my exposed footsies.

Despite the residue of month-old polish and an abbreviated massage, I don't regret my Hungarian foot treatment. Pedicure means different things to different cultures--the American type that comes with those adorable purple flower toe separators?--they don't do those in Eastern Europe. Maybe I will book a pedicure ala Americana when I get back to the states.

What color?

Definitely pink.