I never truly understood the term "squeaky clean" until then. There wasn't a lick of dead skin or oil left. I felt like a piece of Tupperware pulled from a hot dishwasher. I couldn't help but laugh at how much it...hurt!
After all was said and done, we emerged into the daylight dehydrated, physically exhausted, and still dripping dry. We leaned against a wall to catch our breath. As we rested, we watched hardy, working-class men walking out with a spring in their step, invigorated by the same scrub that had almost killed me. Humble old ladies proudly protected their new hairdos with bright silk scarfs. What a sorry sight we must have been to these well-groomed regulars!
That day I realized Tbilisi's famous "spas" aren't spas at all. They are bath houses...places for people without hot running water at home to bathe. The experience gave me a treasured insight into real working-class Georgian life and culture. And that was worth every inch of red skin.
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