It’s Private~!

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Many, many years ago, in the last century, before I got married, I landed on a Spanish Island called Gran Canaria, part of the Canary Islands, which, interestingly enough, is closer to Africa than to Spain.

I had booked a last-minute vacation. When I told the lady at the travel agency that I wanted to get away for seven days to a place with sun, beach, and a few mountains—but didn’t want to spend much money—she informed me that this island would be the best fit for my needs and budget. It was a roulette vacation. I am not sure if it still exists today, but it meant I would spend very little money ($300) on a flight and a hotel stay. The catch? Why is it called a roulette vacation? Because you don’t know which hotel you will be staying in. This secret is revealed on the day of arrival at the destination. Anything is possible. You can end up in a 5-star hotel or a run-down place with barely 1 star in a questionable neighborhood.

I found the not-knowing part thrilling; also, I couldn’t really afford more.

And so I convinced myself that I didn’t care. I knew the hotel would cover breakfast and dinner. It all felt a bit like an adventure right from the start.

When I arrived, I found my name on a bus list, and after a 45-minute trip from the airport to an area called Maspalomas, the bus stopped in front of a very nice hotel. Bingo! The gamble had paid off. At the hotel, all new guests were greeted with a drink, and I sat with other tourists in the lobby, filled out the travel papers, and waited for our room keys.

Most guests spoke German or English, which suited me fine. Some of them knew each other; they booked the vacation every year, and they couldn’t wait to go to the beach. Neither could I.

A while later, my face got longer and longer. I learned that the hotel didn’t have a pool, but we would have a buffet in the mornings and for dinner. The dunes and the beach were only a few minutes away.

I also learned it was a nude beach. The only beach reachable on foot was a nudist area. This was not for me.

A very nice lady at the reception desk told me I could rent a car for the time of my stay, or, to reach other areas, I could order a taxi every morning and afternoon, or perhaps even walk three miles to the next ‘normal’ beach.

I didn’t have the money for a taxi or a rental car, so I stayed in the hotel for two days, sat on my very small balcony, read a book, sweated bullets, and felt terribly sorry for myself.

On the morning of day 3, the other guests who shared a table with me asked me if I was feeling better, which I didn’t understand. They thought I had been sick or ‘under the weather’ because they couldn’t locate me at the nude beach. I told them a nude beach was just not an option for prude little me. They looked at me and wanted to know why.

I couldn’t answer the question. What was I supposed to say? And more importantly, what did I feel? Society, where I come from, tells us that bathing nude is what…a sin? Or should I tell them that I was a bit shy or didn’t find myself attractive enough to share my birthday suit with the rest of the world?

Isn’t nakedness only for the chosen ‘right one’ (and all the ones that come before him or her)? I had bathed topless on beaches, like most European women, but letting go of my bikini bottoms. Nope, it wasn’t in the cards for me.

Day 4 came around, and I was a sweaty, lonely mess. People all around me had fun and were in a good mood, while I was at war with the ideology of everybody around me. How dare they be different?

After an early afternoon Bloody Mary in the hotel lobby and a stroll to a nearby ice cream parlor for a quick snack for lunch, I caved. I had had enough. I wanted to go to the beach, and wanted to swim. I wanted to lie in the sand and bake in the sun like all the other tourists.

I left the hotel, walked toward the nude beach, held my towel and my bag in front of me, like a shield. I didn’t make it past the beach bar; instead, still dressed in a bikini and a t-shirt, I ordered a Lamumba, a cold chocolate drink with rum. I am not a drinker, but I learned that some situations in life might be easier lived through a bit buzzed.

An older couple waved at me, which made me uncomfortable; others from the hotel looked in my direction, and a woman came toward me—naked, of course. With a welcoming smile, she asked me to join her group. Oh, I hated them all, and I hated the situation.

I stared at her face, looked into her eyes, tried to look at nobody, while I looked at everything. They were all so comfortable, and it all seemed so natural. Nobody was staring, other than me.

“Come on, join us,” she said. I nodded, grabbed my things, and followed her. I had a plan. I would quickly undress and then run (or walk) as fast as I could toward the ocean. After all, I wanted to swim.

A short while later, when I sat down on the lounger, sorting my things, I looked up and stared directly at a lady’s private area in front of me. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I laughed out loud. This was the funniest thing I had ever seen. She grinned.

She had Donald Duck with a lawn mower tattooed right beside her private area. It looked like he was going to mow it all down. I thought it was brilliant.

I don’t have a tattoo—never could make up my mind or settle on an area or image—but if I ever follow my bucket list and get one, it’s going to be Donald Duck with a lawnmower, same location.

As for the rest of my vacation. It was wonderful. I learned a lot about myself, my boundaries, my comfort zone, and society.

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Daily writing prompt

What tattoo do you want and where would you put it?

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