Clothes-Free Travel
Naked and Just a Little Afraid
CHAPTER I, Part I: Life on a naked island in France
We believe naturism has so much potential for expanding one’s mind, if only we are able to set aside preconceived ideas about the value systems of people we don’t know very well.
She couldn’t have been a day over…. seventy-eight! Wearing a peach-colored sheer and a cheap feather boa that looked like it came from a party and costume store. The full-length cover-up billowed in the afternoon wind exposing her septuagenarian skin, devoid of tan lines, while proudly displaying a lifetime of wrinkles and scars. All devoid of eroticism, that was clearly not what she was going for. She was simply singing her best songs and living her best life.
Her repertoire was varied and egalitarian; New York, New York immediately followed by Oh Champs-Elysées — a tried and true standard for every cabaret singer in France. So why should things be any different on the terrace of this little bar on a naked island in France?
The backup band lived in a small boombox braced on a folding chair. I don’t recall if she used those music-minus-one tracks, sort of like karaoke, where everything is there except the lead vocals. Or she may have simply been singing over the vocalist through a microphone hard-wired into the auxiliary input. It didn’t matter, really. Nobody was holding this half-naked, elderly woman to the bottom-shelf standards of a Las Vegas lounge singer. Options for live entertainment on Ile du Levant are few and far between. She was alive. She was entertaining.
We’ll call her Veronique.
The venue was unassuming in every way. Just a small terrace with little wooden tables and uncomfortable chairs, set against the majestic and marvelous background of the Mediterranean Sea. An awning over the front door of the adjoining shop — the French equivalent of the general store you might find near a campground in New Mexico — proudly bore the name La Bazar, a nomenclature that I always thought to be ironic as it was simply the catch-all mercantile for this island village. Here, you could buy produce, a bottle of wine, a lightbulb, a postcard with yellowed edges, a sewing kit, and should you need them, even a new pair of flip-flops — all in one stop. If you desired to purchase a lottery ticket as well, you’d need to chat up the old guy in the corner who runs the tobacco shop. He was also at the ready to take money for a do-it-yourself cocktail, in case you wished to imbibe while taking in the not quite mellifluous tones of Veronique on the terrace. In my mind, the name of the place seemed an unintentional play on words, recalling a French teacher who, when confronted with the inconsistencies of French grammar or verb conjugations would simply shrug her shoulders and quip, “C’est bizarre!”
It most certainly is. All of it. Veronique singing oldies to a smattering of naked people on the terrace of a five-and-dime store was, among other things… truly bizarre.
But in the same breath, entrancing and fully satisfying.
Life on the Golden Island — Ile du Levant — is defined by so many dichotomies, Veronique’s cabaret show being merely one of them. And to be sure, it’s terribly difficult for a foreigner to figure out what the hell is going on. Even for the locals, hardly anything is logical, let alone predictable.
But alas, for most of the dozen or so customers enjoying happy hour at this makeshift nightclub on the terrace, we were completely naked, and earnestly exhilarated each time the sea breeze kicked up through the macquis. Naturists live for that perfect balance of sun and wind as each competes for access to the skin. Add a sunset musical soirée to the mix and life is good.
Just another day on a naked island in France.
About five years ago, after a good bit of gentle coercion, we persuaded long-time textile friends to join us in for a weekend stay in this village of Heliopolis on this remote island, Ile du Levant. Up till then, they had little experience with social nudity, other than hanging out with us in the hot tub that sits on our back deck. Having lured them all the way to France, I will always wonder if this bizarre little island was the most compelling — let alone welcoming — gateway to understanding our long-standing love of naturism and nakations. I remember our friend Tom sitting at the bar of our hotel, scratching his head while asking the innkeeper about the quirky and unpredictable parameters for naked decorum in this historical birthplace of French naturism.
“So people come here to live naked, yes?” Tom asked.
“Yes. Of course.”
Paul, the innkeeper, stood behind the bar, stark naked, pouring another beer for our newbie naturist friend. At the risk of perpetuating stereotypes about the French, his responses were predictably brief and efficient. Small talk is not part of the culture here.
Tom persisted. “So, when I look at the village map, there are places where nudity is compulsory, places where it is allowed, and others where nudity is prohibited. Isn’t the whole idea that the only people here all want to be naked?”
“Of course… but, you know how things are.” I was sitting nearby, eavesdropping while sipping red wine. The innkeeper seemed dismissive, but the subtext came after a pause. “It’s complicated.”
Finally, Paul began to engage.
“Heliopolis is a commune* of Hyères, and the governance thereof remains at the whim of the magistrate on the mainland.” Paul’s command of English was superb. “When the mayor of Hyères needs a distraction from the more pressing matters of administration, he can easily make headline news by sending the gendarmes out here to issue a few citations to those reckless or belligerent enough to walk across the town square without the required garment of le minimum.
*In the US, we might refer to a commune as a borough or a suburb in the greater metropolis of Hyères, in this case, a midsize city on mainland France
Le minimum refers to the small garment that might find its American equivalent in the banana hammock
Paul went on to explain that after years of repeated protests, the Hyères city council finally relented in relaxing the mandate for the town square so that one could cross from one side to the other without bothering to dress, but should you choose to stop and chat with a friend, you’d better “conceal the goods.” (It’s times like these I’m reminded that bureaucracy is a French word!)
Tom kept pressing in an effort to understand the logic of it all. Clothed at the port was sensible (though rarely enforced) as the boat that serves Levant also calls on the nearby island of Port Cros, the destination of perhaps 80% of the people on board the boat. But the people in the centre ville — the heart of the village — certainly know they are staying in a place where naked people will be abundant.
Paul, the innkeeper scarcely looked up from wiping down the counter. The underlying inference was that the French have a knack for making things inordinately complicated, so why would nudity on a naked island be any different?
If the meddling from the mainland magistrate isn’t enough, it seems there are opposing factions on the island as well. While the island may be teeming with sun worshippers in the summer, it’s estimated that there are only a hundred or so year-round inhabitants, most of whom own gorgeous villas looking back toward the Cote d’Azur some twenty-five kilometers in the distance. Many of these homes have been handed down through generations of a single family, where inevitably, the offspring may not share the proclivity for naturism of their benefactor grandparents. Even more confusing are the implicit expectations in the restaurants and boutiques, some of which require you to cover up upon entry, while others encourage you to dine and shop naked if only as a passive-aggressive gesture to tell the politicians on the mainland to bugger off and mind their own business!
Perhaps the innkeeper was clever to keep it simple at the onset. “It’s complicated.” And have I already mentioned that Ile du Levant is a place of confusing dichotomies? Oh yes… I think I have.
In many ways, Ile du Levant has become our French home away from home since that visit in 2004. The story of that first experience— best told at cocktail parties after a glass of wine — has taken on a life of its own as a referential point in our thirty-seven years of marriage. It would be overstated to say I coerced my wife Charlotte to visit this alleged birthplace of naturism in France, but she was most definitely reticent about the whole thing from the get-go. But I had been reading about the place for years and had a pretty good idea as to what to expect, which could best be summed up in the single phrase: You never know what to expect on Ile du Levant.
That first time, we got off the boat, a map of the island clutched in my hand and set off on the seaside path to begin exploring the landscape. If you’re a confirmed naturist, you already know there are few things more exhilarating than a naked walk along the sea. To the uninitiated, perhaps this all sounds a bit freakish, but the combination of breeze, sun, and sea amidst the most incredible vistas is all but impossible to describe.
Of course, we weren’t 100 meters down the trail until we passed another hiker in shorts and a t-shirt.
“Are you sure we can be naked here?”
Charlotte was a seasoned naturist by this time, but always incredibly sensitive about the risk of offending the locals.
“We’re on a naked island! That’s the whole point!” I waved the map, now crinkled and sweat-drenched. “It literally says nudity is compulsory on the seafront trail.”
“Well, apparently that dude didn’t get the memo. What’s up with that?” She was skeptical, with due cause.
Perhaps we passed another half-dozen people on that trail over the next 45 minutes or so. One or two were actually naked — as was I — but most were not. From there we ventured up into the village, along windy roads with cute little houses positioned for watching sunsets. That seemed even weirder, but at least the ratio turned a bit more favorable for the naturist cause. Except, of course, in the town square, where everyone was wearing a good bit more than le minimum. Most everyone sitting at the cafés on the plaza was fully dressed.
By the end of the day, I assumed this would be our first and last visit to Ile du Levant, despite the late afternoon snooze on a pleasant little beach where, amazingly enough, everyone was naked! The water was warm and clear, and the atmosphere was chill. We sat on the cliffs overlooking the small bay and watched the boats drift by, also bedecked with happy naked people lazing in the afternoon sun. I was smitten with the place, but Charlotte wore trepidation on her brow.
“I just can’t quite figure this place out.”
It must have been a year or two later that we began planning our next trip to France with the objective of skipping the touristy places and spending most of our time fully exploiting the French concept of nakation.
“Are we going back to Ile du Levant?” Charlotte inquired one night as I was pouring over train schedules. “Maybe we should try one of those little hotels this time.”
I was gob-smacked.
“I thought you hated Levant!”
“I didn’t hate it. I just couldn’t figure it out. But I think we should give it another try.”
Which we did.
Then again. And again… and now, it’s pretty much the annual last stop finale for a few days of decadence at the end of our summer sojourns to Europe.
Is it still quirky? Yep. Very much so. Despite the progress made by the town naturist association there, alleviating much of the anxiety about being naked in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I’ve often reflected on the words of Paul the innkeeper, “This is not a resort. This is a village! A municipality.” Sort of like a home-owners association where people comply with a few defining civic principles. But like any other village, you simply learn to compromise with your neighbors so residents and visitors alike might find what they’re looking for during their time on a small naked island in France.
I suspect Veronica, that bizarrely entrancing lounge singer has passed by now, or at least, is probably infirmed someplace back on the mainland. And that funky little place called La Bazar will likely close their doors in the coming year as one of the owners is quite ill and it seems there is no natural chain of succession to perpetuate the future of such a strange little store/tabac/lounge/tapas bar on a sleepy little landmass. A fancy new grocery store up the hill has a spiffy wine and cheese section along with a whole room dedicated to fresh produce. Certainly a game-changer in competing for a finite clientele. I suspect city ordinances about regulated commercial installations are a bit lax on small, remote islands — especially naked ones.
Since we first visited Levant, our favorite little hotel has changed hands three times, now run by a youngish French couple who decisively chose to cater to a more affluent, discerning clientele. I worry they will price us out one day, but we’ll pony up the cash for a few days of naked decadence for as long as we are able. Our last stay was especially enjoyable when they hosted a brunch for seemingly the entire island, replete with a live band. And the band was naked, too! How fun is that?
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