nudity in Barcelona

Every time we have been to Barcelona (three and still counting), we encounter a nudist.  This trip was no exception, as we saw a young man confidently walking the streets wearing only shoes and a satchel. What made this trip different from most was that this time around I found myself an unwilling nudist (or almost nudist).

The first occasion of my near nudity arose due to the ill-thought out lifts in our hotel.  Our hotel had a roof-top pool (or it was advertised as such; really, it was no bigger than a large bath).  One afternoon, before heading out to Primavera, I decided to take a quick dip.  As we were on the 5th floor and the pool was on the 9th, I thought it would be safe simply to catch the lift from our floor to the pool wearing my bikini and nothing else.  Given that towels were provided on the 9th floor, I didn't even bother to wrap a towel around my waist. 

There were three lifts and their design favoured style over functionality.  The way that the lifts worked was that you would select which floor you wanted to go to before entering the lift, using a numbered keypad on the wall. Once you pressed the number of the floor you wanted to go to, the keypad would then flash a letter "A", "B" or "C".  Then, when one of the three lifts arrived, the idea was you checked to make sure it was the lift designated with the letter that had been flashed on the  keypad before stepping into it and waiting for it to deposit you on the correct floor.  The inside of the lift had no buttons, so you could not change the lift's destination once inside it.

The difficulty with the hotel's lift system is that, when you are tired from getting home at 5 am the night before, it's hard to keep track of what letter flashes on the keypad and so which lift you are meant to get into.  As I discovered the hard way, if you don't pay attention to the letter flashed at you and simply hop in the first lift that arrives, you can find yourself deposited on a floor you never intended to visit.  In my case, when the lift stopped and its doors opened, I ambled out in my bikini, only to find myself standing in the foyer of the hotel rather than on its roof.  Worse still, there was a large group of businessmen standing by the information desk.  Initially none of them noticed me as I stood self-consciously in my bikini, frantically pressing "9" on the keypad and waiting for my designated lift to arrive.  It was at that point that one of the employees behind the information desk decided to be helpful, and shouted to me "madam, you must look at the letter that appears on the screen.  You must get in the lift that matches the letter if you want to go to the pool.  You must have gone into the wrong lift to be down here".  There was no avoiding the bemused stares of the businessmen in their suits after that.

That incident paled in comparison to the one that was to follow. 

The next day, I rolled out of bed, tired and bleary eyed and wandered into the bathroom.  I stripped off my pyjamas, turned the shower on and, while waiting for the water to warm up, went into the adjoining toilet.  These details of my ablutions are necessary, for reasons that will become apparent. The window in front of the toilet was a large panel of clear glass.  There were no curtains.  This did not bother me, as I thought at the time that the window did not need curtains given that it simply looked out to the roofs of nearby hotels. 

As I sat on the toilet, in all my naked glory, I suddenly found myself face to face with a man, who was pressed against the panel of glass like spiderman, peering in at me.  I sat for what seemed like an eternity, trying to work out if I was dreaming or hallucinating, before realising neither to be the case; instead, I was face-to-face with a window cleaner who seemingly had no intention of averting his eyes from my state of complete nudity.  The last time anyone had seen me in this state I was around 2 years old.  And even then, according to my mother, I usually at least wore some clothing by way of my underpants on my head. 

It is hard to muster much dignity when you have been seen, naked, on the loo but I did my best, covering what bits of me I could with my hands and running out of the toilet.  A quick exploration of the hotel afterwards meant I found the culprit - it seems the hotel has its own window cleaners who work off the roof of the hotel and clean the windows every morning.   

Perhaps the Spanish are so comfortable with nudity they do not see the need for curtains, blinds or even some warning about the window cleaners attending the building every morning.  I am not quite so easygoing. 

I confess that these incidents have not given me a taste for the life of a nudist and you are unlikely, at any point soon, to see me embracing the nudist lifestyle in Barcelona.