By David P., SCNA member

January, 2009 - I spend six months of the year in Italy, missing the summers in L.A. and the best of the SCNA get-togethers. Finding any kind of Italian counterpart hasn’t been easy, but I’ve finally found a group, ANITA (Associazione Naturista Italiana), that offers some promising networking, as well as a resort that’s about a three hour drive or train ride away from me called “il Costalunga” (http://www.costalunga.org/int/indexe.html.)

The interesting thing about the resort is that nudity is absolutely mandatory, as Italy hasn’t yet caught up with our “no imposed rules” coolness or sometimes awkward attempts to be all things to all people. No, the nudist groups there seem to be about nudity first and socializing second. I bounce inconsistently around the prioritizing of those two conditions myself, so am not advocating Italy’s ethos as the preferred approach, but I’ve also been to too many stateside “clothing optional” places where the second word seems to be mistaken for “preferred,” and nudity is unofficially relegated to the pool and sunning areas. I’m always amazed to see people at these resorts hastily putting on towels to do anything but lie in the sun or swim. You can almost see the relief on their faces as they cover up and know that they’re once more conforming with the accepted norm of human behavior. As someone who NEVER wants to wear clothes, I can’t imagine wearing even a towel where I absolutely don’t have to.

British Health Club Had “Benefits”

Last summer I journeyed from Italy to a British nudist resort that I found interesting, to say the least. It will go unnamed here, but advertises itself as a health club and spa. On the first day there I found a large grassy area and lay down in the sun. As it was a weekday, I was the only one on the green. But several minutes later a couple showed up and established themselves not far away from me, and then five or six single men appeared from the surrounding woods and took up positions near the couple, as if knowing what was about to occur. I suspected this was the case and that the couple were regulars. They began having sex and the men started moving in closer and occupying themselves in ways guys often do when not invited to actually join the party, all the while the couple pretending to be oblivious to it all.

As I got up to check out the facilities further, I saw another single man behind me, watching the display dispassionately and not otherwise occupied with himself. He was a tattooed Rugby sort of “bloke,” and I was impressed with his apparent disinterest. I am in no way a prude or hypocritical about sex, but am always dismayed to see such obvious contributing factors to the erosion of true nudism as what was going on here, ample justification for the puritan outrage often targeted at all naturists, and the rationale for closing nudist venues everywhere. There’s a time and place for everything, and this almost choreographed routine on the lawn didn’t bode well for the “health Resort” I’d spent a fair penny (not to mention navigating myself through airport, plane, customs, Victoria Station and a couple of trains) getting to.

As I passed the Rugby bloke, he asked, “This your first time?” I said it was and he said the couple were indeed regulars and often put on a show. But he also said that the club had a lot to recommend it and to just relax and go with the flow, as he did, and I’d find it all more “amusing” that way. I took his advice, and that night went to a “nudity required” get-together at the club party room. It was actually a lot of fun, as it was mostly a couple of Billiard tournaments, and I was able to effectively reestablish myself at a game I’d gotten somewhat rusty on, learning the British variant of our typical barroom Eightball pool game. But even at this “nudity required” event of about twenty people there were a couple of towels in evidence and at least one pair of shorts. Nothing was said to the nervous textilers, of course, but how many more would there have been if nudity wasn’t mandatory?

The next night was the club’s regular Saturday night party and it was mostly fetish wear on both the men and women. There were probably six of us (all men) of the 100+ crowd who were fully naked. A couple of those men eventually slunk off and put something on. But I was also gratified to see one clothed young guy who’d been nervously glancing my way disappear and reappear in only sandals, justified in being comfortable by the presence of someone else’s nudity. He hung around close to me, though, as if afraid to get into an area where he’d be the only unclothed participant. I’m amazed that some people are actually afraid of being nude at a nudist venue. Why wear clothes where you don’t have to? But this night at the club the crowd was predominantly not nudists but swingers, who seem to prefer naughty peekaboo mode and waiting till they’ve consumed enough alcohol before slipping not-so-discreetly into a cabin or trailer (sorry, Brits, I mean caravan), out of which they stagger into the next morning’s dawn in disheveled fishnet and trailing whiffs of stale eau de Guinness Stout in their wake. So much for my weekend at the British nudist health club.

Back to Italy

Back safely on Italian terra, I went with friends to the beach about an hour’s drive from where I stay. In Italy, as in much of Europe, the beaches are mostly pay beaches, where you essentially rent a plot of sand, as well as umbrellas and other accoutrements if you need them. But there are also free beaches, usually a bit out of the way, where you’ll find a more bohemian crowd, as well as somewhat heightened danger, as the free beaches don’t tend to have lifeguards. This particular beach is one I’m familiar with, as I like its sense of freedom and generous Italian friendliness. It takes some doing getting to it, as beach-goers have to park about a mile away and walk through a path in the woods, then have (or had) to negotiate a short but narrow winding path through some wild plant life in the dunes, being careful to avoid stepping on one of the abundant little green lizards or occasional big green snakes. After this there was still a wide swathe of hot shoe-defying sand to cross before reaching the sunbathers at the shore, mostly hippies, bohemians, gays, the usual we-don’t-pay-to-go-to-the-beach crowd.

While nudity isn’t the norm anywhere on the coasts of Italy except in a few designated nudist beaches (mostly on the east coast’s Adriatic, while I’m on the west’s Mediterranean), it’s not unusual to see topless women. The men, of course, still prefer the Speedo look, perplexed at the body-fear-mongering of American board shorts. “Why do you Americans wear long pants to swim?” they ask, totally mystified. Well, I don’t, as I sport an age-appropriate squared off version of Speedos when custom forces me to wear anything to swim.

Europeans aren’t as uptight as we are about changing on the beach, so it’s not unusual to see men and women openly slipping in and out of swimming attire, even on the pay beaches. This particular day I slipped out of my pants and was about to put on my age-appropriate trunks when some little naked devil whispered in my ear that I might not do that and see what happens. So I just sat down on my towel and waited to see what, if anything, might happen. Nothing did for about an hour. My companions were nervously glancing this way and that, looking for the carabinieri (the Italian military police), but I held tight. Suddenly I noticed a couple of guys not far away who’d followed my lead. Then the couple next to us got on the program — he rather cockily, if I can use that word, she giggly and unsure but willing to try. Then some friends of ours showed up, a banker and his molecular scientist boyfriend. I dared all and stood to greet them, throwing caution to the wind. “You’re naked!” they both shouted, all smiles as we did the Euro double-cheek kiss bit. And before I’d sat down, the very “proper” banker had pulled off his trunks, which really surprised me, and then the scientist did also, which surprised me less, as he’s definitely the partyguy of the duo.

By now there was lots of nudity, albeit confined to one section of the beach, although a pretty extensive one. And it wasn’t just on the sand where people felt safe, but was seen at the water’s edge, in the waves, and there were even people strolling the length of the beach, as naked as at their nativity. I found it all amounted to a very gratifying day, to say the least, and hated to leave. I would have hated leaving even more if I’d known what would happen the next time I came to this beach. Only two weeks later I went back, wondering if magic could strike twice.

As soon as I got to the end of the wooded path I knew it wouldn’t. All the plants and bushes of the dunes had been removed and a wide cumbersome boardwalk, complete with railing, covered that area, traversing half of the swathe of sand, and all making it much easier to get to the beach. Nothing wrong with that, of course, except that the crowd had completely changed.

Now the hippies, bohemians and gays were far outnumbered by hundreds of Italian families, people I’d never seen at this beach before; it seemed like there were a thousand kids there. The banker and his boyfriend showed up and said it was done to “preserve the dunes,” ironic, since in building the boardwalk the dunes had been pretty much destroyed and I suppose the abundant little green lizards and occasional big green snakes had all gone to reptile heaven. It was suddenly a completely different beach and the only changing I saw was done furtively and very awkwardly under towels. I still changed into and out of my trunks openly, but that was the problem — I was back to my age-appropriate trunks. I went to that beach only once more as the summer wound down, and the crowd and conventionality were again a disappointment. We’ll see what this summer will bring.

I won’t be spending a full six months in Italy this time, the economy and dollar being what they are, so I’ll be attending a few more SCNA summer bashes. If anyone’s interested, I’ll have a report on the few days I plan to spend at il Costalunga, which will be my first full Italian nudist experience, and where I trust I won’t encounter any British-style peekaboo fetish wear mirrorball parties in place of honest open-air nudism, or naturism, or whatever you like to call it — I like referring to my preferred state as just plain being naked.