Platja Nudista

For those dear friends and family members who are following this blog... I have a wonderful piece of information.

I have found, well... discovered... I was led to, err (*cough cough)... well, a wonderful beach. The sand is a beautiful mix of imported and uniform grains and whole seashells. The salty and warm Mediterranean sea is crystal clear. There are no jelly fish. The boardwalk of Barcelona is populated with little chiringitos, sea-side bars, situated with flawless precision to neither clutter nor leave its patrons with want. The vistas are... well, I would say that they have the potential to be other-worldly.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, I have found the nudist beach.

Hold on, I know. I would be happy to show you which metro stop (Poblenou). I would be happy to accompany you to the 7 blocks--transversing the crowded streets. It would be my pleasure to point out the interesting sights, the remains of an old Francoist factory, the gelatería... but please, señores y señoras, take care when entering the beach.

From Poblenou metro station, you head east about 10 blocks and you enter a small park. Palm trees and sandy spots in the grass advert to the presence of the beach. After climbing a small hill (that I climbed), you can get a beautiful view of the populated coast line--the skyscrapers and apartment buildings that line Barcelona's eastern boundary. I turned right. I wouldn't advise it. After carefully walking along the ridge of the small hill, I gingerly looked for a break in the fence and was more than a little surprised to find three older men washing off the beach sand "neked as jay birds."


I looked down and walked past them. (Ladies, there wasn't anything photo-worthy). The great quantity of nude men was astonishing. Nude men under umbrellas. Nude men sitting on their heels. Nude men walking to the water. Nude men; nude men and water. The Weather Girls, aside. I must have walked a half mile (burning sun, burning sand, eyes burning a little) before the medium vesture reached acceptable levels. I layed out my towel, and turn around to take off my shirt (I was wearing my swimsuit), and of the group of clothed men behind me--there is a young, but good looking African man changing from his pants into his swimshort-(just one).

Well, I spent about an hour of unsuccessfully trying to read a book about the legends and myths of Cataluña, ¡¡Dios sabe porqué!! Then dedicated myself to people watching. The man who suns himself on a public beach in the buff has to be a certain extent exhibitionist. Also the variation between reclining, face-down, face-up, standing, offer variations of the strip-tease. Only the movements are much more abrupt (my roomate would call this the Impulse Function) and I won´t mention the difference in pole.

The women on the other hand, seemed to offer more of a variation. I offer two different categories as extremes--the unblushing adamite (converts to helioatry) and the frustrated conservative. These two groups are largely recognized by the position of the torso with relation to the hips. If the torso of the upright female figure is convex--naturist. If convex, frustrated with something.

Well, I hope my experiences and digressions were amusing to you, whoever you are.

Let me know who is following this blog.