I celebrated my birthday in Paris with old friends at the Hotel du Nord, best known for the 1938 French film that took the hotel’s name as its title. I was joined by Robert, an intellectually gifted American man turned very French citizen whom I had first met in high school in New Orleans. There was Jeanne Marie, an intellectually gifted French woman who, 45 years before, had slipped off from her boyfriend (later co-parent), Joseph, to find me writing in my travel diary at a cafe on the Champs-Elysee — thence to join me for a very French three-day romantic interlude. We had corresponded at great length through the decades, but this was our first meeting since our tryst.
A few other friends joined us: You cannot ask for a better Parisian night of food, wine and memories.
Fueled by that sense of dread and anticipation that ticking off a birthday with a zero in the second digit will bring, I decided to purify myself, to go back to nature, as it were, by spending the next few days in the nude — in a very French way, of course. Fortunately, before leaving I decided to purchase a train pass through Rail Europe, which meant I could go just about anywhere (I elected to travel first class) that the European railroad timetables allowed, unencumbered by concerns about further costs of travel.
I headed south, the studied elegance of Ile-de-France giving way in time to the sun- washed, tile-roofed villages of the approaches to the Mediterranean. I rode through Montpelier and came at last to my destination, Cap d’Agde — the premier nudist village in Europe.
Why would a Manhattan copyright and trademark lawyer make such a choice? The simple answer is that when you reach a certain age, as I had just so perfunctorily done, and yet find yourself as thin as you were in high school and in relatively good health, you can do just about anything you want within the boundaries of the law and not care any longer what others might think.
I had figured that a beach trip would be a solace and, seeing as the one thing that typically keeps me off seashores is the bother of a wet, sandy bathing suit, it was sound planning to find a resort where sporting such a garment is considered overdressed at best, antisocial at worst.
I walked the relaxing half hour or so from my hotel, the Mercure, to the entrance of the Village Naturiste (Naturist Village), where the tourist office sold me a three-day pass. It electronically granted me entry to a large parking lot, where naked people were going to and from their cars. I continued down long, bending streets and sidewalks filled with nude pedestrians and cyclists. On the right was an imposing apartment block with a curved facade.
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On the ground floor, couples and families could be seen in residences and on patios, doing what people do on vacation, only here they were doing it in the nude. From within the entrance to one apartment, a middle-aged man called out to his wife in clear French: “You old slut!” She paid him no mind, calmly setting the patio table for dinner.
It was late afternoon, so the day had already expended its most intense sunlight, and the Plage Naturiste (Naturist Beach), when I arrived, was in a gentle glow. There were few umbrellas, and that was to be expected in a place that follows the precepts of what, as a German citizen, I know as Freikoerperkulture (FKK) — the century-old movement that advocates communal nudism as a collective strive toward physical, mental and spiritual health. That is right: We were all naked in this village because it was good for us — and it was too late in the season to come up with a better excuse.
Just the same, and in contrast to my go-to nude beach back home, Gunnison at Sandy Hook, New Jersey (in the Gateway National Recreation Area), Cap d’Agde beachgoers did not set up elaborate encampments or crank up pop music pulsating that washed out the rasping sound of low. Another difference: In New Jersey, there are all types of bodies; here, the scene skewed toward physiques that impress, hinting that exhibitionism was a subtle but real factor.
The French are more placid on their beaches; unlike at Gunnison, there was no opportunity to enjoy my favorite summer sport, coed naked beach volleyball. Large breasts, real or augmented, were a noticeable feature of many women here, and as for us guys — as one explained to me: “I am under average height by 5 centimeters; fortunately, those extra 5 centimeters ended up precisely where I would have wanted them to go had I been asked.”
Children of all ages could be seen here and there along the shore.
At a beachfront bar, its tables and lounges filled with nude couples, I swaggered naked up to the bartender and ordered a drink — like an absent-minded cowboy who had forgotten to put on his chaps. I next went into town, passing the previously bickering naked couple, now dining in new-found tranquility over an elaborate meal and a bottle of white wine set on their patio table.
I walked through two arcaded commercial areas, into a supermarket where for the first time in my life I shopped in the nude, emerging with cold Perrier. Several boutiques specialized in the transparent clothing for women intended to be worn like lingerie, albeit al fresco, during Cap d’Agde evenings. I shopped at one called Pallas, in no small part because the saleswoman, Clair Marriott, was English, removing the language barrier at point of sale. She and the owner, Pascale Carpentier, explained that business is typically lively during the relatively short summer season. This was the first time as a travel writer that I had done an interview while in the nude. I bought a fetching transparent top as a gift for a Cap d’Agde enthusiast.
Just beyond, women wearing only thong bottoms and men wearing nothing at all shopped for souvenirs and toiletries. It soon became apparent that service people at all shops, bars and restaurants were practiced in freezing eye contact on you — making a point of showing they were not staring at places down below.
When cocktail hour arrived, the mood changed radically. At the cafes and restaurants lining the yacht-filled harbor, Port Ambonne, men appeared in casual shirts and shorts. But women, about age 20 to 80 or more, paraded bare-breasted or in transparent outfits, thongs and come-hither spiked heels. Most of the outfits were daring, some were elaborate and a few not street legal back home. Couples formed into an erotically provocative version of the Italian passeggiate — the post-work/pre-dinner stroll.
A tall, thin blond woman of about 40 broke, along with her escort, from the parade to stride elegantly to her outdoor dining table. She wore a glistening red top that extended above her knees, the transparent front an elaborate show of embroidery; when she turned, she revealed that the back was completely exposed.
While I was having dinner, an Englishwoman came over from the adjacent table, chatting me up about my vintage Rolleiflex film camera, stroking my neck. For personal reasons, I could not advance that invitation into anything more energetic. When the Englishwoman later rose to leave, however, she came by me again and at that moment, her top came loose, exposing one breast, to her audible amusement. She was quite sweet, and respectfully I wished her a good evening.
After dinner, clubs would open, offering late-night music and dancing; following that, widespread rumor had it, you could try to snag an invitation to a sex party. I had never warmed to the club scene, and for now, collective love was outside even my broad comfort zone.
And so it went, more or less, for three days. On one, I tried a clothed beach, Richelieu,
which was pleasant but, as we say in Germany, “not my beer.” I pushed on by rail to Marseille, where Mucem (formally, Musée des Civilisations de l’ Europe et de la Méditerranée) was holding a comprehensive exhibition on nudist culture, Paradis Naturistes (Naturist Paradises). Although I was unable to attend on one of the days the museum opens specially to allow you to see the show in the nude, it helped me place much of what I had just experienced in a historical context.
The core takeaway was the same as I got from my days in Cap d’Agde: Some people just look better and feel better without their clothes on; may you be blessed to be one of them.
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If you go
Cap d’Agde base camp: Mercure Golf Cap d’Agde Hotel, 1 Rue Volvire de Brassac, 34300 Cap d’Agde, France
Where to stay
Visit all.accor.com/hotel/9244/index.en.shtml. The hotel is a relaxed and conveniently located four-star property.
Getting there
I have driven around France and find it easy, but for long trips, I ride the rails. All-in-one train passes as well as point-to-point tickets from 200 operators are available on the Rail Europe website or app at www.raileurope.com. I have found that booking in advance of departure will deliver the best prices.
Dining
Cap d’Agde: My go-to place was the harbor-front Fou du Roi, which had a steady, competent kitchen and offered the resort’s signature cocktail, Sex on the Beach.
Paris: Restaurant of l’Hotel du Nord: 102, quai de Jemmapes, 75010 Paris; www.Hoteldunord.org.
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