party,” while the older kids can “catwalk around the pool” and “be a model for a day,” sing karaoke, and enjoy a “mini-disco.” The little kids and preteens seemed evenly split between wearing swimsuits and going nude, but the teenagers—hyper self-conscious—piled on as many clothes as they could.
I heard some shouting and turned to see the youth activity director waving a bunch of kids over to where she was standing. I’m guessing it was some kind of morning roll call before they went off to play. But why she decided to gather all of them a few feet from the chair where I was splayed out is something I do not know. In a matter of seconds my chaise was suddenly adjacent to a school yard, thirty or forty kids of all ages lining up to hear instructions from their teacher. I looked up from my book to see a huddle of teenage girls acting like they weren’t looking at me. I returned the favor, acting like I wasn’t looking at them acting like they weren’t looking at me. That way no one had to feel uncomfortable. For a second I considered covering my crotch with a book, but I was reading Jess Walter’s excellent novel Beautiful Ruins and, well, I may be getting older but it’s too soon to apply that label to my genitals. Besides, doing anything would’ve been an acknowledgment that I was feeling uncomfortable and my being uncomfortable might’ve made them uncomfortable, or at least think that they should be uncomfortable when, really, nobody has to be uneasy about any of it as long as we all act like we’re not looking.
After what to me seemed like an hour of lying naked on a playground, the kids got their orders and ran off to do various fun things, but before I could turn back to my reading I heard some strange sounds and looked over to see a group of men and women standing in a circle doing what I can only call organized rhythmic clapping. There wasn’t any music playing that I could hear, just a group of naked people in a circle clapping out a beat. Some kind of traditional sun worship warm-up? I had no idea what they were doing, but it reminded me of the horror film The Wicker Man and I was sufficiently unnerved that I required a beer from the bar.
Except for these occasional outbursts it was quiet. Birds in the trees chirped, the waterfall in the pool made a continuous aquatic rumble. Occasionally someone would dive in. This tranquillity would be broken from time to time by announcements over a loudspeaker. PA feedback would squeal, heralding another incomprehensible broadcast as the hotel tried to shove a good time down our throats. Or maybe it was fun. I know one of the announcements trumpeted the start of “flower power mojito hour” and an exuberant young man in a kind of hippie clown outfit came bounding out of the bar to round people up for a free shot of mint-tinged booze. As much as I enjoy a good mojito—and believe me when I say with all sincerity that the mojito is one of mankind’s greatest achievements—I couldn’t be bothered to get out of my lounge chair. Besides, the clown outfit scared me. Would we all take a shot of flower power mojito and then stand naked in a circle rhythmic clapping?
People lined up for the free mojito shots but then went back to their chairs for more sunbathing. A few of the wilder ones jumped into the pool. Which is to say that the pool area returned to normality, a totally normal resort normality. Couples played pétanque on small sand pits. People read books and applied sunscreen. A couple of younger women sat in their lounge chairs obsessively sending text messages. Kiddies splashed in the shallow end. No one used the water slide. A mother played Ping-Pong with her ten-year-old son—which in America would spell years of therapy for both parent and child, not because of the Ping-Pong but because of the nakedness of the Ping-Pong players; but here it seemed innocent, cute even. In other words, it could’ve been any resort hotel anywhere in the
I heard some shouting and turned to see the youth activity director waving a bunch of kids over to where she was standing. I’m guessing it was some kind of morning roll call before they went off to play. But why she decided to gather all of them a few feet from the chair where I was splayed out is something I do not know. In a matter of seconds my chaise was suddenly adjacent to a school yard, thirty or forty kids of all ages lining up to hear instructions from their teacher. I looked up from my book to see a huddle of teenage girls acting like they weren’t looking at me. I returned the favor, acting like I wasn’t looking at them acting like they weren’t looking at me. That way no one had to feel uncomfortable. For a second I considered covering my crotch with a book, but I was reading Jess Walter’s excellent novel Beautiful Ruins and, well, I may be getting older but it’s too soon to apply that label to my genitals. Besides, doing anything would’ve been an acknowledgment that I was feeling uncomfortable and my being uncomfortable might’ve made them uncomfortable, or at least think that they should be uncomfortable when, really, nobody has to be uneasy about any of it as long as we all act like we’re not looking.
After what to me seemed like an hour of lying naked on a playground, the kids got their orders and ran off to do various fun things, but before I could turn back to my reading I heard some strange sounds and looked over to see a group of men and women standing in a circle doing what I can only call organized rhythmic clapping. There wasn’t any music playing that I could hear, just a group of naked people in a circle clapping out a beat. Some kind of traditional sun worship warm-up? I had no idea what they were doing, but it reminded me of the horror film The Wicker Man and I was sufficiently unnerved that I required a beer from the bar.
Except for these occasional outbursts it was quiet. Birds in the trees chirped, the waterfall in the pool made a continuous aquatic rumble. Occasionally someone would dive in. This tranquillity would be broken from time to time by announcements over a loudspeaker. PA feedback would squeal, heralding another incomprehensible broadcast as the hotel tried to shove a good time down our throats. Or maybe it was fun. I know one of the announcements trumpeted the start of “flower power mojito hour” and an exuberant young man in a kind of hippie clown outfit came bounding out of the bar to round people up for a free shot of mint-tinged booze. As much as I enjoy a good mojito—and believe me when I say with all sincerity that the mojito is one of mankind’s greatest achievements—I couldn’t be bothered to get out of my lounge chair. Besides, the clown outfit scared me. Would we all take a shot of flower power mojito and then stand naked in a circle rhythmic clapping?
People lined up for the free mojito shots but then went back to their chairs for more sunbathing. A few of the wilder ones jumped into the pool. Which is to say that the pool area returned to normality, a totally normal resort normality. Couples played pétanque on small sand pits. People read books and applied sunscreen. A couple of younger women sat in their lounge chairs obsessively sending text messages. Kiddies splashed in the shallow end. No one used the water slide. A mother played Ping-Pong with her ten-year-old son—which in America would spell years of therapy for both parent and child, not because of the Ping-Pong but because of the nakedness of the Ping-Pong players; but here it seemed innocent, cute even. In other words, it could’ve been any resort hotel anywhere in the
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