I have to admit, though I have not partaken in this form of travel, the opportunity nude travel offers in the form of traveling lightly by way of packing a minimal amount of clothing is a little bit intriguing. (I’m always looking for ways to lighten my bag — as are most travelers.)
This week the Guardian visits “America’s Nudity Central,” Palm Springs, a town blessed with almost zero rain and year-round sun, perfect conditions for finally getting some sun in those hard-to-reach places. The paper visits The Terra Cotta Inn, just one of several nudist getaways where clothing-optional attire is not just relegated to late-night pool parties like most other hotels. (I can’t wait to read the comments on this one from the pro-nudist camp.)
And what kind of problems does one encounter when staying at a nude retreat? Unnatural sunburns? Uncomfortable encounters when tying one’s shoes? How about trying to figure out how to talk to each other without getting the police called on you. “But there were difficulties: eating was a potential minefield. And whenever I spoke to anyone I was at a loss to know where to look. (I plumped for locking my eyes to theirs. ‘Here I am, naked and staring at you like a psychopath.’)”
Eh, I’m not really sold. I pack lightly as it is. Plus, I don’t have room for all that suntan lotion.
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