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My family spent yesterday at a spa nestled in the snowy Alps. We swam inside and out(!), rode water slides, and had massages.
Although my mother frequently gets massages in the States, this was her first European massage. She is accustomed to more privacy and a few places being off-limits, so she was surprised when the hot stone masseuse was suddenly massaging her breasts.
I have become somewhat immune to these massage surprises. In Budapest (another town where breasts do not feel neglected), I thought the masseuse might lose a nail in my butt crack. These days, the only thing that would surprise me is if I felt hot massage oil actually being squirted up my butt during the treatment.
I am no longer on high alert during a massage. I no longer find it strange that the masseuse might think for one minute that I *wouldn’t* want paper panties to cover my hoohoo during treatment. I am no longer freaking out when the masseuse does not leave the room when I am undressing–although I do make every attempt to neither make eye contact nor bend over in front of the woman (because no one needs to see that). I no longer wonder where the masseuse’s hands might turn up.
When we move back to the States, my boobs will be disappointed.
Oh, goodness, it is such a culture shock initially, isn’t it? I am (was? I’m slowly going native) very prudish about all that and just about died when another client, who was in the middle of a massage, had to translate for the masseuse so I could set up an appointment. Things have a way of spiraling out of control because of my meager German skills, people trying to be helpful, me trying to not be too needy and making the whole situation worse. It can be hilariously awkward at times but at least people are trying to help, I guess!
Sounds about right! I’m enjoying the ensuing debacles!