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Nudist Adventures Around the World : When You Have No Clothes, One Container of Sunscreen, and Unlimited Airline Miles To Travel the World…
Let me tell you how it all started. Not with a noble quest for body freedom or some deep philosophical calling about shedding the armor of clothing to connect with the earth. Nope. It started with a rogue boob in Hawaii.
I was thirty-six, deeply overworked, recently dumped by a man who claimed he was “too emotionally evolved” for monogamy but still lived with his mother, and I needed a vacation. Not just any vacation, mind you. I needed a sweaty, salty, full-throttle escape-from-responsibility kind of vacation. So I booked myself a solo trip to Maui, packed five sundresses, three swimsuits, and one emergency vibrator, and declared it my “healing journey.” It became something else entirely.
The first nudist moment came unexpectedly. I was snorkeling at a beach that someone (looking at you, Susan) said was “optional clothing.” Now, Susan says a lot of things that are only 47% true, but I was already in the water when I noticed the nearby couple sunbathing in full birthday suits. Not even a sarong between them. Just buns in the breeze and a level of casual nudity that said, “I’ve eaten hummus off a stranger’s chest and I’m fine with that.”
I thought, hey, maybe this is my moment. My post-breakup, I-don’t-need-him, spiritual-cleansing moment. So I whipped off my top. The ocean was warm. The sun was shining. And then a wave hit me so hard it flung my snorkel mask into a coral reef and my bikini bottoms straight into a sea turtle’s personal space. I surfaced, blind, half-naked, gasping for air and dignity, looking like a nudist who’d just escaped from an underwater prison. A woman on the beach clapped. I think it was sarcastic.
That, my friend, is when I realized something being naked abroad is an adventure. Not always a sexy one. Not even a graceful one. But a funny, freeing, occasionally mortifying ride that makes for damn good stories.
So that’s what this book is. It’s my diary of public nudity, international embarrassment, and spiritual awakening through the power of butt-cheeks. I’ve been kicked out of spas in Berlin, sunburned in places that should never peel, and once shared a tiny hostel bunk bed with a nudist couple from Belgium who believed in “open sleeping.” I have accidentally flashed a monk in Japan, been massaged by a naked man in a yurt in Costa Rica, and danced topless in a Croatian bar with a group of retired Danish dentists. They tipped me in chocolate.
If you’re wondering if you have to be some kind of bold, sexy goddess to travel the world in the nude, let me assure I am just a woman who regularly forgets to shave her knees and once used a maxi pad as a flip-flop liner. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about putting your thighs on strange furniture and saying, “Why not?”
So, come with me. Not in a weird way. Well, a little bit weird. Come with me as I travel the world with nothing but my courage, my SPF 50, and a firm belief that everybody looks better naked… after two glasses of wine and a filter.
Let’s get cheeky, my friends. It’s time to get nude abroad.
I was thirty-six, deeply overworked, recently dumped by a man who claimed he was “too emotionally evolved” for monogamy but still lived with his mother, and I needed a vacation. Not just any vacation, mind you. I needed a sweaty, salty, full-throttle escape-from-responsibility kind of vacation. So I booked myself a solo trip to Maui, packed five sundresses, three swimsuits, and one emergency vibrator, and declared it my “healing journey.” It became something else entirely.
The first nudist moment came unexpectedly. I was snorkeling at a beach that someone (looking at you, Susan) said was “optional clothing.” Now, Susan says a lot of things that are only 47% true, but I was already in the water when I noticed the nearby couple sunbathing in full birthday suits. Not even a sarong between them. Just buns in the breeze and a level of casual nudity that said, “I’ve eaten hummus off a stranger’s chest and I’m fine with that.”
I thought, hey, maybe this is my moment. My post-breakup, I-don’t-need-him, spiritual-cleansing moment. So I whipped off my top. The ocean was warm. The sun was shining. And then a wave hit me so hard it flung my snorkel mask into a coral reef and my bikini bottoms straight into a sea turtle’s personal space. I surfaced, blind, half-naked, gasping for air and dignity, looking like a nudist who’d just escaped from an underwater prison. A woman on the beach clapped. I think it was sarcastic.
That, my friend, is when I realized something being naked abroad is an adventure. Not always a sexy one. Not even a graceful one. But a funny, freeing, occasionally mortifying ride that makes for damn good stories.
So that’s what this book is. It’s my diary of public nudity, international embarrassment, and spiritual awakening through the power of butt-cheeks. I’ve been kicked out of spas in Berlin, sunburned in places that should never peel, and once shared a tiny hostel bunk bed with a nudist couple from Belgium who believed in “open sleeping.” I have accidentally flashed a monk in Japan, been massaged by a naked man in a yurt in Costa Rica, and danced topless in a Croatian bar with a group of retired Danish dentists. They tipped me in chocolate.
If you’re wondering if you have to be some kind of bold, sexy goddess to travel the world in the nude, let me assure I am just a woman who regularly forgets to shave her knees and once used a maxi pad as a flip-flop liner. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about putting your thighs on strange furniture and saying, “Why not?”
So, come with me. Not in a weird way. Well, a little bit weird. Come with me as I travel the world with nothing but my courage, my SPF 50, and a firm belief that everybody looks better naked… after two glasses of wine and a filter.
Let’s get cheeky, my friends. It’s time to get nude abroad.
83 pages, Kindle Edition
Published July 1, 2025
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