Traveling can brainwash us sometimes. Don’t believe us? It’s true! With the allure of new adventures and exciting plans in places unknown, we can forget to use the common sense we usually possess. So, we make mistakes. Some big, some small. Some catastrophic.
But what if we told you we could save you from making a few travel mistakes?
Read on to learn about 4 times when we went wrong (oh, so wrong) and how you can go totally right — and enjoy your time spent traveling.
Mistake #1: The time I accidentally got a Brazilian wax
Experienced by Laurie
The idea of finally getting a bikini wax started an entire year before this incident. I had gone to Mexico and spent most of the time feeling uncomfortable with my bikini line. Razor burn. Bumps. Daily shaving, which I knew would just irritate the area even more.
When we decided to travel to the same resort again the following summer, I decided I would put on my big girl panties and face my fear: I would get a bikini wax. Yes, I would give myself the gift of living out my bikini-wearing, razor-bump-free dreams.
I promptly booked an online appointment with a reputable esthetician, opting for a “first-time client” special that cut the price in half. Score!
Or so I thought. It was actually not a score at all. I did not read the full details of this particular deal, which would ultimately be my first sub-mistake of this larger mistake I made.
I was already nervous as I entered the tiny waxing room. My esthetician — we’ll call her Dee — told me I was welcome to take off everything from the waist down. I undressed and climbed awkwardly onto the bed table contraption and let her situate my legs. I was bare and I was nervous, but I was determined. It would all be fine. Again, I was a grown adult woman; hear me roar!
Dee talked to me in calming ways about things like the morning talk show that hummed in the background, her upcoming trip to Nicaragua, and things that, as planned, got my mind off of the unknown I was heading into. We never once discussed what I was there to do or went over any details. (Note: This is my second sub-mistake of my larger mistake.) I was so nervous; I couldn’t seem to get myself to say the words: “So…this is a bikini wax, right?”
Instead, I remained silent. And my lady parts paid the price.
The hot wax was painted onto my skin in an area that made me go, “Hm. This doesn’t seem right.” It felt deep for a bikini wax — but what did I know?! I was a newbie at this. I let it go, even though my gut told me to speak up and confirm we were on the same page.
The first rip of hardened wax told me all I needed to know: this was not a bikini wax at all. Dee had set out to do a Brazilian on a woman today. And that woman, much to my chagrin, was me.
I cried. Literally. Figuratively. Deep in my soul. Dee seemed genuinely concerned for me and, at one point, asked if I was able to continue. Through tears, I nodded yes and claimed I was totally fine. But I was going bare, and all I could think about was an episode on Sex and the City when Carrie accidentally got a Brazilian and said, “I’ve been robbed!” to Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda afterward like it was somewhat comical that it had happened.
I could be like Carrie. I could have a funny quip about it after this theft was done.
So, for the next twenty minutes or so, I tried to be as stoic as possible as I saw spots of blood popping through my freshly waxed skin. And after it was done, Dee assured me the next time would be better. My skin would get used to it. I still never said a word that indicated a Brazilian was not what I wanted.
I was numb. Not my lady parts — those were en fuego – but my mind was numb. I paid, thanked Dee, and got into my car and cried. Like, sobbed. I called my mom and tried to sound nonchalant like Carrie had — I’ve been robbed! Ha ha ha! — but it was no use. I was upset.
But as I sat with my sadness, I realized my emotional state had little to do with my newly bare self and had everything to do with the fact that I didn’t speak up. Even when I felt the words bubbling up inside me to check to make sure Dee and I were on the same page, I didn’t. Why? Not sure. I didn’t want to show I didn’t know what I was doing. I was worried I might look like an idiot.
When it came down to it, I hadn’t advocated for myself.
A few weeks later, after I enjoyed my Mexican vacation and did, in fact, live out all my bikini-wearing dreams, I returned to Dee. But this time, I made sure I did my research. Turned out, the “new client special” I had signed up for was specifically for a Brazilian, which I didn’t notice and she never said out loud.
This second time, I did not get a Brazilian, but instead a “deep bikini wax.” It was still painful, yes, but it was what I actually wanted.
Dee welcomed me into her tiny room again and said, “So, not going for the Brazilian again? It isn’t for everyone.”
You have no idea, Dee. No idea.
Turns out, not communicating with your esthetician can result in some pretty traumatic experiences. Talk to your Dee. Make sure you and your Dee are on the same page. And for the love of what is good in life, don’t remain quiet when something is clearly off.
And that’s my first mistake for you: the cautionary tale of my accidental Brazilian. Something I thought I’d never say and hope you’ll never have to tell yourself. You’re welcome.
Mistake #2: The time a pair of espadrilles almost ruined my trip to france
Experienced by Laurie
Let me begin by saying I was young. Young enough to want to wear the cute espadrilles that completed my outfit despite the sharp pain emanating from the skin on my feet.
I was studying abroad in Toulouse, France, and day 1 was scheduled to be spent on a tour of the city.
I. looked. fabulous. And my cheap espadrille sandals looked chic despite them being on clearance at a bargain store. I felt fashion-forward and budget-savvy, like a young American girl taking the world by storm. I was living the dream.
Until it became a painful foot nightmare.
The tour began, and two things quickly became clear: this tour would require a lot of walking, and, oh no, these shoes were not made for a lot of walking. The pain was clearly coming from the plastic and fabric band that kept the front of my feet in place. I knew the band was cutting into my skin, but I figured it would be fine. So what? I chose uncomfortable shoes. At least I looked incredible.
Hours later, the tour was over. My student group broke off, and I finally waved the white flag and announced that I needed to sit down on the curb and take these shoes off. When I finally did (and beware reader, it gets a bit gross for a minute here), my sandals had cut so far into my skin that the sandals had almost become one with my foot. As I yanked them off, I knew I had made a massive, enormous, trip-altering mistake.
A couple of people in my group looked on in disgust. My feet looked infected, and I could feel panic set in. I was young, I remind you, and I was thousands of miles away from my family for the first time in my life. My feet were oozing blood and clear liquid of some sort. All I had for support was my very broken French and students who were just gaping at my circumstances.
The next hour was a blur. I walked barefoot on cobblestones, roaming block to block, searching desperately for something, anything. Bandaids? Gauze? Neosporin? A hospital?! My cheap espadrilles hung lifelessly from two of my fingers as I fought back tears.
Eventually, I found a pharmacy. There were no Bandaids in sight, but I was able to snag gauze, tape, and antibiotic ointment. On the streets of Toulouse, I administered first aid treatment to my gross, painful feet and walked home to my rented apartment, where I lay and wondered what the hell possessed me to ignore the searing pain in my feet hours ago this morning.
My trip was a month long. The first week was spent hobbling with gauze-wrapped feet and flip-flops, which were the only thing my feet could fit into (months later, back in the States, my feet developed scars where the worst of the espadrille assault took place).
I’ll never forget my professor seeing me walk awkwardly into class on day 2 of our trip.
“Mademoiselle, what happened?” she asked in her thick French accent.
“I…I wore espadrilles on the tour yesterday. I cut my feet pretty badly,” I admitted to my chic, gorgeous professor.
“Espadrilles? On a walking tour?” She paused with an appalled expression on her face. “That was a mistake.”
No kidding, Madame. No kidding.
This shoe faux pas taught me a few key life lessons: cuteness never beats comfort. Espadrilles are not for walking tours. And, Toulouse does not have Bandaids.
Mistake #3: The time I decided not to pack “too much”
Experienced by Eryn
This mistake starts with a wife trying to prove her husband wrong, an age-old power struggle we all can relate to on some level. Sometimes, the wife comes out valiant, and sometimes, it ends with the wife sitting in a restaurant in a stained shirt.
I am that wife. And you should never try to prove a point while traveling.
Case in point: On one overnight trip, I dug in my heels, convinced that I could prove my husband wrong on his tendency to overpack. I packed my bag, arrogantly tossing in just a few items, as he packed a stuffed suitcase for his perceived “what if” situations.
As I threw my bag into the car, packed with just a single outfit, makeup, and some toiletries, he laughed as he simultaneously tossed in his overpacked suitcase. I was confident as can be. I couldn’t wait to be triumphant.
Fast forward to our hotel room later that evening; both of us are getting dolled up for a night out. I pulled out my outfit, knowing this would be my pièce de résistance in the point I was proving. See? Just one outfit, and I’m good to go!
But as I was applying my powdered foundation, something happened that would upend the entire point I was trying to prove. I knew before I even looked that my light powder had sprinkled off my brush and onto my shirt. My black silk shirt.
IYKYK: This is a deal breaker with a shirt. Foundation simply isn’t coming off until the shirt is tossed into the washer, and our hotel room is fresh out of washing machines.
With no other top except my jammies, I had to roll with it.
And roll with it, I did.
As I sat down to dinner with a clearly stained black top, I kept my chin held high as I knew that, while my husband never uttered a word, he knew my triumphant plan to prove his packing ways were wrong had been a big, giant fail.
And that, my friend, is not a situation that’s ever fun to be in.
Pack lightly, but not too lightly. And never, ever try to prove a point to your partner while traveling. It’s just not worth it.
Mistake #4: The time I decided to travel cross country for a fling
Experienced by Eryn
Let me preface this mistake with words to live by: Don’t travel for a fling.
Here’s why.
I knew him. At least that much I can say. As kids, we grew up together, but when he left for college, we lost contact with each other.
Until we reconnected online — I know. So many “What were you thinking?!” stories begin this way. As we talked and realized we might have a connection, he asked me to visit him out in Colorado. I. was. into. this. I mean, what 20-something woman wouldn’t want to fly out to a new place and visit a handsome man with whom she thought she had a genuine connection? It was a no-brainer. I booked my ticket.
In my defense, I also booked a hotel room, declining to stay with him. He had recently become estranged from his wife, and I wasn’t comfortable staying in his house. So, at least I did that much to protect myself.
Regardless, I still missed all the red flags.
The first day I spent alone. I was disappointed but brushed it off. He got called into work. What could he do? I wasn’t about to come off as needy or nagging, so despite feeling neglected (I did just fly to him across the country!), I let it go and said it was totally fine to just meet up later that night.
Missed Clue #1: He very unexpectedly wasn’t available.
We ended up seeing each other that night, and we had an absolute blast, which reassured me that this trip was, in fact, a good choice on my part. After a passionate rendezvous that night, he took off unexpectedly the next day. He claimed he had to head back to work and stop by his house again.
Missed Clue #2: More unexpected calls into work. Plus, he sure did go back and forth to his house a lot.
Later that day, when he was done working, we went to a winery in the mountains and walked a nature trail. The area was breathtaking, giving me the ability to look at this trip through rose-colored glasses. We drank, laughed, and had the best time. That night, we met some of his friends (How cool, right?! Meeting the friends?! He liked me!) But there was a red flag that, at the time, I couldn’t put my finger on.
Missed Clue #3: We hung out with his friends, not couples.
On my last day there, I didn’t see him. He had to work again. But my head was swirling with the magical times I had with him when we were together. It still felt like the perfect rendezvous. I went to the airport feeling like something was beginning to bloom with this man, and I was here for it.
After arriving home, I didn’t hear from him for a couple of days. Trying to play it cool, I didn’t reach out to him but felt a pounding in my chest when his number finally flashed across my phone. He’s calling! I didn’t imagine the spark!
But when I answered, it wasn’t him. It was her. But not his estranged wife, no. His girlfriend — my head started to spin at this point. She was hysterical but finally got out the first piece of jarring information she had for me: the man I met for the weekend — her boyfriend — was currently in jail for hitting her. While I was still processing, she proceeded to tell me that he also forced her into giving up a pregnancy recently and that the reason his estranged wife left him was because he strangled her. She continued, telling me she saw a lot of communication with me on his phone, so she called me to warn me that this man was not who I thought he was.
You can say that again.
After conducting a little bit of independent research, I found it was all true. And then I started to put the pieces together: the constant needing to go, the sudden “call-ins” to work, the friends she met but with no couples to be found. He was a conman, and I was his next victim.
I cut off communication completely. I never spoke to him again. The magic of my weekend getaway with a fling evaporated into thin air.
The bottom line is that a weekend rendezvous with someone you think you know might sound exhilarating, but it is likely going to fall into the “too good to be true” category of life experiences. And, in this time of dating apps and online messaging, these situations are even easier to overlook.
Keep your head on straight, girl. Don’t travel for that long-distance fling. It isn’t worth it.
The takeaway
See? Travel can brainwash you.
Okay, okay. Not exactly, but the allure of embarking on an adventure can lead you to drop your common sense at the door as you catch an Uber to the airport. We urge you to pick it back up and bring it along with you as you prep, pack, and begin your trip.
And, look, travel is magical. We totally encourage you to book that flight. Start your adventure. Discover the unknown. There’s so much life waiting for you out there.
But also: open your eyes. Tap into your common sense.
And, please, oh please: don’t get an accidental Brazilian wax.
