Does Unexpected Nudity Ruin a Perfect Day?

Back in the early spring, while it was hot but not too hot, I got it in my head that I should head to Casa de Campo to write. It was a confluence of events really. I had been doing most of my writing during my lunch break, which I normally take in a small, park-like patch of grass next to El Corte Inglés. (For those who don’t know, this is a gigantic Macy’s-like department store.) It was generally quiet, with some shade and a mostly minimal amount of dog poop.

At first, I started writing outside for convenience because it was when I had the time and I had not yet made any lunch buddies at work. That is, until one Saturday that I had slotted for writing. That day, I found myself continually doing household chores instead of writing. I was completely unaccustomed to getting down to work at home, inadvertently having programmed myself for writing outside. Luckily, Madrid has no shortages of parks. So I packed up my computer, a bottle of water, snacks, and a sturdy tarp we use for picnicking and went right outside to a nice, shady park by the river. Unfortunately, I only lasted a couple hours before I had to re-pack all my stuff and head home to pee.

Over the next few weeks, I started creating a luxurious image in my head where I would walk deep into one of the shady parts of Casa de Campo and hang my hammock below the lush canopy. I had even selected the perfect place under the trees just off a ridge where I often run. I didn’t usually see people there, so I figured it would be secluded enough for deep thoughts and frequent pee breaks.

Finally, when my next writing weekend arrived, I was so excited that words and visions of my forest retreat ran through my head well into the night as sweatily flopped from side to side in bed. Thus, I started my writing Sunday: late and sleepy. But, despite this, I was determined to manufacture the perfect day. Because the afternoon was quickly approaching, I didn’t have time to make a lunch as planned, but I filled a bottle of water and a thermos with lemonade, packed a little cooler with a cold, nonalcoholic beer, and, of course, my computer, which I had thankfully charged the night before. Hungry on my way to the park, I stopped for Burger King, planning to take it with me what I thought would be a short distance into the park. This was definitely not the precious, little picnic I had envisioned eating.

By the time I entered the park, the afternoon was approaching and much of the way there is open, hot, and dusty. Unabated, I continued along the gravel road and off to the side up the hill leading to the ridge. I was wearing a pair of Tevas that I had chosen only so I could easily remove them for hammocking. Once I reached the ridge, I realized that I almost never walk this far in these shoes, using them only casually for post-hike/run lounging or camping. The combination of the canvas straps and the dry, loose sandy soil lodged underneath became sandpaper across my tender toes and heel, and I suddenly recognized how much further this journey was when not running.  

Before long, I gradually cut off to the right of the ridge where a little trail runs just off the top and there are more trees. Up ahead, I saw a man through the trees walking toward me but just a little higher up the ridge, suddenly, he stopped. It looked like he was hastily pulling on a pair of shorts. At first, I thought, “Is it hike naked day? Do they have that in Madrid.” It may sound a bit strange, but this would not be the first time I have seen naked people in the park—usually by themselves just laying out and enjoying the day.

As I walked, the tree canopy was starting to get thicker, so I began looking around for a good place with sturdy trees. Scanning the forest, I made out a group of people off in the distance in a shady clearing—a group of naked people. I looked away quickly, continuing down the trail, thinking “Ahh, now I know where that man I saw earlier came from” and wondering if I had stumbled across a gathering of nudists.

Regardless, I figured I’d give the nudists some space to enjoy nature in their own way and kept on walking, but soon, the forest was teaming with naked men. There must have been 20 plus people, some meandering through the forest and across the trail in front of me, parts swinging, and others engaging in various sex acts. My eyes shot down to the trail as I silently chanted, “head down, eyes down, keep walking, head down, eyes down, keep walking.” And I did, I kept walking (speed walking?) the entire length of the ridge until I reached the paved road that cuts across two of the ridges, near a parking area. Here, I stopped momentarily to get my bearings. Where was I going to put my hammock now? As I started down the paved road, I saw a shirtless man in what looked like a swimsuit scanning the area as if he was searching for something. “Perhaps I should ask if he’s looking for the orgy,” I mused to myself, but I’m not really sure I have the Spanish, or really English, vocabulary to express that.

I continued along the road, down the ridge, and up the next one before I finally started looking for another spot for my hammock. It must have been another mile or so and my feet were stinging and raw from the Tevas. I finally found a passable place where I could get at least half the hammock in the shade. I don’t know if it was the destruction from the snowstorm Filomena or bad memory, but the parts of the park that I thought were shady just didn’t seem as shady as I remembered.

I hung up my hammock and slowly slid the Tevas off my tender feet before leaning back into the smooth fabric, swinging slightly. I gulped down about half my still-cold lemonade and pulled my food from my pack. It was not cold, because the day was too warm for it, but it was tepid, flat, and dry. The fries were flaccid sticks of sadness. After the wholly unappetizing meal, I extracted my laptop and the nonalcoholic beer, which I finished before the computer even turned on.

I tried to sit perpendicular to the hammock, computer on my lap, to write, but one edge kept digging into the back of my knees and the other flopping over my head. I tried lying in the hammock both straight and diagonally, feet in and feet out, and using my backpack as a pillow, but no matter what position I tried, I couldn’t get comfortable. I gave up on writing, tucked the computer away and pulled out my Kindle. At least I could read. I propped my head on the backpack pillow and stretched out. Finally, I could relax. Except, everywhere my skin touched the durable, parachute-type fabric, I instantly started sweating. The sides of the hammock, which is really meant for two people, kept engulfing me and creating a horrid greenhouse effect within. Then, the sun fully shifted, leaving me completely in it, and I gave up. I packed up everything and started walking back out along the well-used paved road, but I literally could not make eye contact with any man I saw. I kept wondering, “Did I inadvertently see your penis, sir?”

I arrived home, hot, sweaty, and thirsty; my stomach was leaden and bloated and I had a constant onion taste in my mouth. The fantasy of writing outside in my hammock ruined. But this is how it goes sometimes. We have these ideas about the path our adventures will take and the experiences we hope to have, and they never really materialize. Whether it’s a run, hike, backpacking trip, or maybe even an outdoor orgy, the reality may not meet our fantasy. I didn’t go into my planned perfect day expecting to stumble through a naked group of men having sex and then thrash uncomfortably in a sweaty hammock. Nor, do I think, did those men expect a random clothed lady wandering through their romp or, I’m sure for at least some, pine needles in uncomfortable places. Perhaps, in the end, perfect is overrated and entirely unmemorable, and I’ll always take a good story over that. Though, I’m certain I won’t try to write it in my hammock.