Facing my inhibitions head-on, I lose the sarong, even the flip-flops. I am just beginning to get comfortable, slipping easily through the warm air while arranging a plate of fresh fruit, when I hear voices approaching. I turn around to find my fellow naturists on their way out to go sightseeing — dressed head to toe, from their baseball caps to their laced-up shoes. It’s an anxiety dream come true: There I stand in my birthday suit, plate in one hand, smile stiffening on my lips, facing a crew of color-coordinated tourists. In broad daylight.
We kept to ourselves after that, having broken nearly all the dress codes at the nudist resort. Food was good, though. And unpacking was a breeze.