There’ll always be Paris

While traveling through Europe, my first spa experience happened in Paris, exactly where I intended it to be. My thoughts were that I would partake in a heavenly rite of passage. As I scoured the streets in search of a nail salon, I realized they are not even called salons, but institutes; a salon is a place where you ordered a sandwich. The first one I ran across, I entered. I wanted the works: a manicure, pedicure, facial and massage.

The woman who greeted me at the door could not speak English; my initial attempt to communicate with her on my bodily needs did not go over so well. Enduring much frustration, we finally made an appointment, and I returned later that day.

I was led to a table and ordered to lie down. Hmmm, I wondered. What was a table to do with a pedicure and manicure, of which I understood, perhaps wrongly, that I would receive first? Maybe I was being chastised for requesting a French manicure while in France. Maybe she didn’t like the pun intended.

A heated table was the point at which the esthetician first waxed my toe hairs. Huh?! This was a first. The massage and facial included no rub down, just globs of assorted creams and lotions applied. The manicure and pedicure was nothing to write home about, but at least I was groomed to go.