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My boyfriend Steve and I stood, naked, hands on our hips and stared hopelessly at our hire car, its back wheels buried into about a foot-and-a-half of sand. No amount of angry revving or sweary reversing had succeeded in dislodging it. We were stuck. Luckily, at that moment, a naked French man appeared from around a corner and offered to help. The French man and Steve pushed, I put my foot down. A few minutes later we were free. We shook hands with our rescuer and he continued on his way, white bottom vanishing into the sunset. "I need a shower," said Steve. "Sand is everywhere."
We were at CHM Montalivet, the world’s oldest naturist resort, founded in 1953. Today, the resort is 175 hectares set in a pine forest and bordered by a huge section of white sand beach on the Atlantic coast. There are around 1000 private bungalows on site, some of them owned by families who live there permanently, others let out to tourists in the summer months. There is a corner shop, a boulangerie, a newsagent, a hardware store, a bicycle rental, several bars and restaurants, two swimming pools, a spa, an archery range, tennis courts, a cinema and a hairdresser. It’s a town, really. A naked town.
It’s worth pointing out that normally I’m the kind of woman who sunbathes in a one-piece swimsuit and would rather die than take part in naked yoga. I live in Shoreditch, where it’s fair to say appearances do count for something. I’d describe my body as almost exactly average. I’ve gained a bit of weight since quitting smoking and I care about this enough to occasionally order a salad, enough to join a gym. But nowhere near enough to do a juice cleanse, or hire a personal trainer. I don’t hate my body, but that doesn’t mean I want strangers to see it either. I am not a naturist, I suppose is what I’m saying. Or, at least, I wasn’t, until a couple of weeks ago. To be honest, after a four day stay at a naturist resort, I’m still not quite sure what the criteria are, really. For being a naturist, I mean.
Around the resort, friendly signs featuring a cartoon family romping naked through the woods ask visitors to “Respect our values”. But it wasn’t a case of 24/7 nudity. In the evening, you’d generally dress for dinner, an item of etiquette Steve learned the hard way on our first night, after walking through a crowded restaurant wearing a t-shirt but nothing else, meat-and-two-veg hanging free; roughly at eye level for the dozens of people seated, enjoying their wine and moules mariniere. This was, to be fair, the opposite (and therefore, I suppose, equal) faux pas to one I’d committed myself earlier that day. Carrying our towels and parasols down the walkway to the beach, a friendly resort rep had jogged after us. “Excuse me,” he said, gesturing at my shorts, “Please, is it possible?” He pointed to a very large sign that I’d somehow missed, in French it read; “Beach 100% naturist.” The shorts had to go.
You don’t check into a naturist resort without expecting to take your clothes off. At least, not unless you’re very stupid and/or exceptionally culturally insensitive. Although, as with most things in life, I’d taken a cross-each-bridge-as-I-come-to-it approach. As it turns out, when it comes to public nudity, cross one bridge and you’ve pretty well crossed them all. I took the shorts off and nobody looked, nobody pointed, nobody laughed. Obviously not. Everyone else was naked too. Within seconds the moment had passed and I was just one naked person on a beach with a lot of other naked people. It has nothing at all to do with what you look like. On a beach, being naked just makes good practical sense. No swimsuit for sand to get all caught up in, no tan lines to worry about. And once you’ve been naked on a beach, why not at a bar, or in a corner shop, or a swimming pool? We’re all just people. Various sizes and shapes and levels of hairiness and wrinkliness and tan, but, basically all the same.
The following day, with my boobs and bum slightly sunburnt, Steve and I were sitting at the beachside bar, drinking beer from plastic cups and talking to a lovely retired American couple, with syrupy Deep South accents. We all enthused about the flawless French weather, swapped tips on the best local places for dinner. We bitched about Brexit and Donald Trump. We spoke about our jobs back home, which felt very far away. The man had been a U.S. Army Colonel. By definition an intimidating character, but not here. They’d been coming to the resort, every year, for over 20 years. Being naked, I realised, doesn’t expose you at all – it makes you anonymous and equal. Flying home to headlines and TV reports filled with hatred and division, there’s something very comforting in having discovered a place where people are just people. Next summer, we’re going back.
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Welcome to California's Esalen Institute, the Susan Sontag-approved retreat that'll transform your entire worldview. Once you get into your birthday suit.
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Each and every pore on my body is flexed shut. My anatomy — I’ll spare you the details — is visibly cold. I had thought November would be a mild month for Big Sur, California, and I was only half right: It was a beautiful and warm day to be naked outdoors among strangers, but by nightfall, freezing winds are blowing over the Pacific and into my bloodstream. Then I plunge my body into a hot mineral bath, and every cell in my body sighs.
This is hour seven at the Esalen Institute , where I’ve elected to spend the weekend in the hopes of shedding inhibitions, self-consciousness, and clothing for a few days of totally nude R&R. (Vacations are a lot less stressful when you’re not responsible for a beach bag.) I’m also devoting a total of nine and a half hours to unguarded self work with 30 strangers and two professionals who are also strangers. Annoyingly, I’m calling this “emotional nudity.” Do you get it? There is basically one place on earth that asks you politely to share your innermost thoughts and feelings and fears and insecurities with a group of people you have never met before, and, yeah, if you use the pool or baths, would you mind also not wearing clothes? Thank you so much. Welcome to Esalen.
Protected by a menacing stretch of cliff and a BY RESERVATION ONLY sign, the Esalen Institute has been welcoming guests at or after their designated arrival time since 1962. (If you arrive early, you will be asked to check in later. If you ask where in the area you can stop and maybe get lunch, the parking attendant will laugh.) It was founded by Michael Murphy and Dick Price, Stanford grads who were inspired by studies of higher health and peak experiences, and on Murphy’s family land, which boasted healing hot springs and arresting views of the Pacific. In the last half-century, Esalen has developed a luminous alumni list — Henry Miller, Joan Baez, Aldous Huxley, and Joni Mitchell, among others. To this day, it may be the only thing that Susan Sontag and Deepak Chopra have in common.
Esalen cultivates a kind of cultish mystique. Mentioning the institute prompts one of two responses from people: effusive acclaim or furrowed skepticism. Esalen featured prominently in the Human Potential Movement of the 1960s, a belief system focused on inner development (one that middle-aged men still employ today as an argument for swinging). The finale of Mad Men famously referenced the institute: Don Draper attends a workshop during a personal crisis and finds wholeness — along with an idea for a Coca-Cola ad. While the 1960s Esalen was extremely bohemian, the Esalen of today has modernized a bit. It has a cash bar and a Wi-Fi hookup (except during mealtimes). And last November, briefly, it had me.
My fear was that it was going to be, um, enlightened. When I arrived on Friday afternoon, my fear began, borrowing an Esalen term, to manifest: The first person I encountered, who checked in my car, was wearing a Sublime T-shirt. The second person I encountered, who checked in me, was an extremely kind white woman with a bouquet of blonde locs. What do you call those midcalf-length pants that are jersey and usually paisley, and you can only buy them at head shops? I saw 40 pairs that afternoon. My jeans and sweater felt like a tuxedo. For a miserable four hours, I was convinced I had made a terrible mistake.
Then everybody else showed up. Businessmen barking their last business commands into FaceTime Audio calls (the campus has very spotty cell service), yogis wearing beanies, thoroughly bleached women wearing expensive premium sportswear, a haggard couple who, I’m not joking, arrived in a yellow Volkswagen minibus. One by one they spilled out over the grounds, which are, I cannot say it enough: stunning. Esalen is verdant — everything within campus limits is remarkably green, thanks in part to a sustainable irrigation plan that involves processing laundry water. The lodging is rustic with comfortable flourishes, like soft duvets and hotel furniture. Everything smells vaguely of lavender oil.
My assigned roommate, James the nurse, is instantly my best friend. We are inseparable for two hours, until he goes to his workshop (“Esalen Massage: The Basics”) and leaves me. When he comes back to our room, an hour after I have already been here waiting for him , I furiously interrogate him about his whereabouts.
James, revealing himself to be a pathological liar, is no longer my best friend. Bonds are forged and destroyed at breakneck speed here.
My workshop, “A Different Perspective: Reframe Your Life Using Play, Embodiment, and Humor,” begins at 8 p.m., but I arrive early. Most of the conversation I overhear is from people who have already been here, who would love to give you, verbally and specifically, an itemized list of the last times they were here, plus other details that are riveting. Before one of my workshops, two Esalen regulars animatedly argue about which side of the room the instructors will instruct from. “A month ago, they started there,” one says, pointing to the southernmost corner of the room. The opposing counsel shakes her head. “It’s over there,” she insists, gesturing to the door. “I know. I’ve been coming here for years.” This goes on for 15 minutes, which only seems like a short period of time.
Then it begins. “What we discuss in the seminar must stay in the seminar.”
By 10 p.m., after hours of [ redacted ], the workshop lets out. Some seminarians head to bed. Since the mineral baths are open 24 hours, I break off, hoping to bathe under the stars. This is where the nakedness starts.
During the day, you can see clear over the sweeping grounds to where the mineral baths are, and if you squint, you can make out a spectrum of flesh-colored sunbathers on the edge of California. At night, you cannot see a sumo wrestler painted neon: The grounds are entirely dark, peppered with lamps that are a mean joke. It takes 15 minutes to walk across campus, but I spent nearly 40 ambling through the pitch. I consider returning to bed, but I remember my editor’s advice — “Man up and drop trou.” Plus, I want James to think I am cool. After journeying for all of night, I reach the baths. Reader, I dropped trou.
Being naked outside is terrific. And not because it hearkens back to our primordial form, although I’m sure there are some people at Esalen who find that t
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