¡Hola! Bienvenido a Club de Lectores
“Miss Naturism,” he said, sliding a thin file across his desk. “The annual pageant in the south of France. Get the spirit of it. Not the… uh, anatomy. The spirit.”
I opened the file. The first page showed a photograph of a woman with silver-streaked hair, standing on a rocky beach, arms raised to the sun. She was naked, but you didn’t notice that first. You noticed her smile—wide, unforced, the kind of smile you only see on people who have just finished a long swim in cold, clear water.
The contest took place on the third day. There was no stage, no swimsuit round, no evening gowns. The “competition” was a long, meandering walk through the forest, ending at a clearing by the river. Each participant was invited to speak for three minutes about what naturism meant to them.
It was the summer of mismatched expectations. I was twenty-three, a junior photo editor for a glossy but unadventurous travel magazine, and my boss had just handed me an assignment I was certain was a prank.
