I’m surrounded by naked people. They are, as you’d expect, not wearing clothes. Even I am not wearing clothes. That’s because I’m at the world’s largest “Zona Naturista” in Vera Playa, Spain. A place where clothing is optional on the beach, on the streets, pretty much anywhere you want to go up to an unmarked and slightly fungible (depending on how hot you are) point. Have you ever seen a naked man walk into a bar to get his wine skin refilled. I have. Just yesterday.
Trust me, this is not my idea of a vacation. I’m not a beach person. I don’t want my skin to burn and peel. I’m not a nudist. I admit it. I’m more of a naked in his own bedroom kind of a guy. But I’m here doing research for my next non-fiction book Naked At Lunch. Just like Heart of Dankness, it’s an immersion into a specific subculture to try and figure out what makes it tick. Nudist culture is surprisingly similar to cannabis culture, both are outlawed in places, both are driven by hedonism, and both have their unwritten codes of conduct.