T A B L E_T A L K Have you ever stayed in a grand hotel? Discuss the joys of sleeping in style in Table Talk's Wanderlust area R E C E N T L Y Bangkok's got a brand new bag By Karl Vetas Sex change capital of the world (09/10/98) Have dress, will travel By Lori Leibovich Test-driving Travelsmith's "Indispensable Black Travel Dress" (09/09/98) A legendary cafe-restaurant in Paris By David Downie Le Pied Rare is celebrated in novels -- and by its pork-loving patrons (09/08/98) Raving in Goa By Karl Taro Greenfeld Into the dark heart of India's newest scene (09/04/98) Confessions of a hoteloholic By Jan Morris Seduced and bedazzled by a grand hotel (09/03/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		F R O M__N U D I S M__T O__B U D D H I S M AFTER A PAINFUL BREAK-UP, A WRITER SEEKS SOLACE IN THREE WILDLY DIFFERENT EUROPEAN RETREATS. BY TANYA SHAFFER | When I broke up with my boyfriend last summer, I did what I always do under such circumstances: fled the country. Not everyone considers this the healthiest way to deal with personal crises, but I figure it's my life, and if I want to run from it, I can. Fortunately, my face had appeared in a deodorant commercial a few months before, so I had enough cash to take off. Since both funds and morale were low (the deodorant commercial notwithstanding), I decided to begin my trip where people knew and loved me and would be likely to buy me meals. My father and his wife spend every summer at a nudist colony in the South of France and had begged me to visit for years. Though the thought of being naked with my father made me slightly uneasy, I decided now was the time. Perhaps the stripping away of clothing would help me to cope with the unadorned truth of my break-up. I'd intentionally left the next few months free of commitments, since the now ex-boyfriend and I had been planning a trip to Mexico, so I bought an open-ended ticket to Paris. I figured I'd stay at the nudist colony for a while to recuperate in the bosom of my family, and then travel in France and Spain till my money ran out. Cap d'Agde is an enormous resort community divided into two sections: the "naturist" section and the "textile" section. In the summer the naturist section swells to a whopping 40,000 people. It's an international clothing-optional city, with its own produce shops, bakeries, restaurants and nightclubs, where people in every possible state of dress and undress roam freely. Waiting to pay for your grocery purchase, you might easily find yourself standing behind a French woman with a full shopping cart, naked except for her high-heeled sandals and pale blue nail polish, while behind you a portly German man wearing only a tight-fitting American T-shirt and broad straw sun hat waits impatiently to buy a bottle of ketchup. Only on the white sand beach do you find signs reading Nudité Obligatoire -- ostensibly to discourage voyeurism. In the evenings, however, when it cools off, people dress for dinner -- this is still France, after all! My Dad, whom I call Vati (pronounced Fah-tee, German for Daddy), is 78 years old, a Vienna-born Jew who fled Austria with his parents shortly after the Nazi occupation. Five-foot-five and deeply suntanned, with flying, Einstein-like white hair, he beams with an exuberant, infectious joie de vivre. Betty, at 65, is a wonderful example of a sexy and confident older woman, at peace in her body, with or without its elegant draping of clothes. A diagonal scar between her breasts marks the place where she had heart surgery last year. They are into the philosophy of naturism, how it breaks down notions of the body beautiful. They see nudity as a kind of equalizer, like school uniforms for kids. Vati and Betty love the freedom of the wind and sun on their bodies. I appreciate that on the beach, but walking around town I feel self-conscious, perhaps because I am a young woman and used to being looked at and appraised. The discomfort is particularly acute when my father proudly introduces me to the fully clothed young men working in the shops ("This is my daughter"). Somehow it's hard to discuss Asian travels with the handsome French butcher's assistant, he in his blood-stained apron, me in my birthday suit. I notice, as well, that the women here are smooth as mannequins. Gone are the days when European women were symbols of vital, hairy femininity. Even their pubes are shaved into neat little triangles. I'm a shock of wild dark grass in a world of pruned hedges. I take to wearing an extra-large T-shirt that reaches to my knees, providing Vati and Betty with much hilarity about the prudishness of the younger generation. In the end, the whole effect is profoundly desexualizing, and the presence of so much flesh begins to repulse me. Even before I am propositioned by a pasty Pillsbury Doughboy of an Englishman who tells me his wife won't mind as long as she can watch, I decide it's time to move on. Besides, I'm not crying enough. I decide this means that I'm not actually dealing with the loss of my relationship, and I need to spend time alone and "work through things." N E X T+P A G E | Making out in Spain