So there I was, laying on a white sterilized bed in suburban Las Vegas. I was not at a hospital, but instead, at the European Wax Center.
I don't know European waxing experience to be the soothing spa treatment that it is in the US. While North American's typically offer soft music and cucumber water, I remember most European salons with plain white walls, bad love songs on the radio, and, of course, some variants between each one.
Let's start with Spain.
I nearly ran when I walked into a waxing room in Salamanca and saw a defibrillator.
(Now how often do you think they use that??) The ladies just happened to take me to the same room every time I got something waxed in Salamanca...I hated seeing the defibrillator (more than the huge poster of the most-tatooted and -pierced woman in the world).
In Barcelona, I asked the lady how business was going. She corrected my gramer and conversation ended. This visit was done on a bed behind a curtain rather than an actual room. Someone came into the shop partway through and they were having a conversation while this lady was waxing me.
My best Spanish experience of this sort must have been in Valencia. She was fast, accurate, and spoke clearly for my level of Spanish at the time. Maybe it was a little pricey, but she was personable and I needed it. Everybody, just go to Valencia. Sometimes I think Madrid and Barcelona are not imperative for a fulfilling tour of Spain.
Never was anything particularly relaxing or "rejuvenating", as North American's have us believe a good wax should be.
Switzerland. Like everything else, the price of waxing was/is/will always be astronomical. Never even thought of doing it.
I waited until I got to Bosnia. The perfect place to get waxed. (???) Across from the hotel was a dark alley. Cars were parked over the sidewalk that wasn't even wide enough for one person to walk on. Ice was everywhere in mid-March and it was slick. But someone had given me a recommendation for a supposed-waxing salon through this alley.
I was dumbfounded looking through the door of where I was suppose to go in. Dust had been piling into a cake. It didn't look like anyone had been in there for months. The buzzer didn't sound when I ringed the doorbell so was really convinced this place was abandoned. Wrong. someone let me in. This was sketchy; I was deterrmined.
Up one flight of stairs and to the right, I didn't touch anything. This could be a post-communist scam I'm walking into, I thought at the time. Alas, I just knocked and was greeted with a smile by a beautiful blond woman and was blinded by how exceptionally white everything was. The floors, walls, the woman's uniform, the desk, the chairs and table. Quite a contrast from the view into the hallway...
Long story short, the blond lady and a young assisstant waxed me. They worked together on each strip. They made faces of pain each time it came to yank one off. It was hilarious. It was slightly painful, but I tipped them well. They hugged me. It was a tough departure for everyone. Conversation was short since we didn't have a common language...
To this day, this Bosnian encounter is probably one of my favorite life stories.