Ain't no tan lines here: Baring it all in Southern Portugal

During the first week of my trip, I made a bucket list of the things I wanted to accomplish in my six months of travel. Number three on my list (as I look back at my journal to reference...be glad I don't put more of that stuff in my blog) was verbatim: "be happy naked [...] two weeks at a nudist lodge should give you a bangin' tan." Now, sometimes even in the privacy of my own journal that I know no one will ever snoop on (Mom...), I like to tease myself...cuz let's be real, I could have been naked every single day since my birth, and I would never achieve a "bangin' tan." It's genetically impossible (Mom...).

Two weeks in the lovely fishing village
Ferragudo, Portugal. 

Anyway, the bigger point is "be happy naked" — that I can work on. Let's be serious though, we all live in this world and we're all raised to feel a little uncomfortable naked. Not really sure how that happens because I know for damn sure I was one of those modern hippy kids that isn't allowed to smoke weed with the 'rents but is still told she's perfect in every imaginable way and that all of life's possibilities are within my reach — really quite overwhelming now that I think about it #firstworldproblems. Regardless, even those of us who were fortunate enough to be raised knowing we are perfect little imperfections feel uncomfortable with ourselves physically in one way or another. 

Get naked!
Front entrance of La Quinta da Horta

That annoys me. I decided that the best way to feel comfortable naked is to practice (in a non-disease spreading sort of way). Sometime in early April I wrote to the good people at La Quinta da Horta, a nudist lodge in the Algarve of Southern Portugal. They were looking for helpers and I was looking for nudity. Never a more perfect match. I would be joining "Ted and Hun, the Buns" (tagline for literally every e-mail exchange) in mid-July. 

We arranged to have Ted pick me up at the bus station on the night that I arrived. I had no idea what to expect....would I find an unusually tan, naked British man expecting me to strip down for a quick car ride? Would he be the creepy type that owns a nudist lodge but isn't actually a nudist? What did he expect? Was I supposed to be the hippy type? (I wore a purple bandana in my hair just in case...I have a real firm grasp on the definition of "hippy," believe you me....)

I jumped in the car and the very tanned, yet very clothed British Ted began telling me about the Estonian yoga group that would be arriving the next day. Apparently this Estonian group hosts their annual yoga retreat at La Quinta da Horta every year and rents out the entire place. My first thought: what the hell is Estonia? I thought it was a type of yoga. Nope, it's a country. A COUNTRY. Geography champ, right here. 

And we finally found Estonia.

After discovering that Estonia is indeed a country (a very small country...think 1.3 million people, which is apparently exactly the same population as San Diego...WOAH dream big), the next thought was: what are these random 20 Estonians doing (a) in Portugal, (b) participating in yoga, (c) participating in a yoga retreat at a nudist lodge in Portugal. Ted's response, "I swear to you, all Estonians are mad." 

Within five minutes of meeting Ted (who was now confirmed to be a nudist himself), he started on a mini-rant about the Estonians and the fact that he was going to have to cook "vegetarian poppycock for these damn yogis." Apparently, Ted doesn't believe in such "alternative crap." I almost died of happiness. I mean... you're a nudist, bro. How much more "alternative" does it get? I knew we were gonna have a great time; love those snarky Brits, especially the irrational, naked kind.

Nudist pool at La Quinta.

Then, we arrived at the lodge and I was getting all settled in to my own little personal cottage, I asked Ted for the wifi password: "barebums." YES, nudists with a sense of humor. Needless to say, I giggled inappropriately and then proceeded to check my e-mail. 

The next morning I got myself all geared up for my first day of "work." I headed down to the kitchen fully clothed to help Ted prepare the vegetarian breakfast and found him clothed as well and then saw a bunch of Estonians running around also clothed. Welp, glad I didn't get naked....if being communally naked is a little awkward, being the only one naked is very awkward. 

One of the various nude sketches around La Quinta 

Apparently most of the Estonians are not naturists, they are just Eastern European vegetarian yogis. Glad we cleared that one up early on. Occasionally, I looked up from my breakfast nook and would see a few of them running around naked and then heading off to the pool, but for the most part, they remained fairly clothed. Ted, however, did not. Many of our kitchen sessions (I was essentially his sous-chef and dishwasher that first week) consisted of him pointing to various vegetables and things for me to chop, mince, slice, and other various orders that I just always interpreted as "cut however you like," and he would do so completely naked as he fried up one vegetable after the other. It took me a little while to get used to, but our conversations proceeded as normal (fake it till you make it) and I became very well practiced at looking people directly in the eyes when speaking to them. 

A week later, the Estonians had finally moved out and it was time to clean out their rooms in preparation of the arrival of some true naturists. Throughout the whole previous week, naked Ted and I had spent many hours in the kitchen preparing the Estonians' veggie diet in the exact "cleansing" manner requested by their leader. One crucial aspect of their retreat was not only to practice yoga and meditation, but to remain on a cleansing diet (think ginger, beet, and carrot bake). I was thoroughly impressed at their diligence UNTIL the week was up and I went to go clean out their rooms. I have never seen so many empty beer cans in my life...and if you've ever seen Yale during "reading period" (HA) then you know that this was an impressive amount of beer. A little buzz to enhance meditation?  Clearly.

Beach at Lagos, Portugal 15 miles from Ferragudo

Eventually I finished all of the "rubbish runs" and it was high time to get naked. All the cool kids were doin' it...plus, I had spent the majority of my week down at the beach and had worked up some pretty horrendous tan lines that needed tending. So I grabbed a grocery-brand beer out of the fridge (those damn nudists can be pretty stingy people), popped it open, stripped down, and walked out to one of the many loungers for a bit of a naked nap in the sun. After a couple of hours of dozing in and out, Ted walked up to me (also naked) and began discussing the plans for the next day's cleaning schedule. I was so used to seeing him naked at this point that I didn't even really think about the fact that I was naked as well. Needless to say, the transition to full-blown nudity went much more smoothly than I anticipated. Looking back, I wish that someone had taken a picture of one of these full-blown naked conversations between myself and the man who was essentially my boss, but even the most classless of nudists know that it's poor form to snap photos.

A few days later, a new workawayer —Anna— arrived from Italy. Anna is not your typical workawayer. For one thing, she is probably in her late 40s (workawayers tend to be quite young) and she actually has a real job. Why she came to La Quinta to work is beyond me, but it really doesn't matter because she provided some hilarious moments during my short time with her. I'll just share my favorite:

Everything at La Quinta is a little "wild"

Now that I had become accustomed to my daily routine (fix breakfast for the nudists, clean up after the nudists, take out the trash produced by the nudists, stop by lunchtime, get naked myself, and go pretend like I'm capable of tanning), I really did not care that my favorite naked tanning spot was right next to Anna's cottage...it was still my naked spot. Thankfully, she didn't care either as she quickly stripped down herself. One afternoon, however, I was woken up from a tanning/napping session to Anna's broken English: "Lexi! No, no your tit is too red," and before I even knew what was happening, she was spraying me with sunscreen. LITERALLY SPRAYING MY BODY. Oh, Italians. If this would have happened two months ago I would have most likely experienced a life-altering anxiety attack, but what was amazing about this moment —aside from the obvious— was that I had no reaction except for gratitude. I do not want to burn, especially not there. So thanks for lookin' out, Anna.

For all intents and purposes, I think my moment with Anna may have been a breakthrough. I mean, a woman that I would still consider a stranger just sprayed my naked body with sunscreen. May we all have a little nudity in our lives, and hopefully, a little Anna. Thanks to the wild naturists and the encouraging sunshine of Southern Portugal. Mission accomplished and on to the next adventure. 

Bye-bye Granada, Hello Madrid. Bye-bye Madrid, Hello Portugal.

Plaza Mayor, Madrid

Sadly, after two and a half weeks of working at Itinere Hostel (highly recommended!) in Granada, the time came to pack up my overstuffed REI backpack and hit the road again for a new adventure. However, I couldn't leave Spain without experiencing Madrid — and I couldn't really get to Portugal without flying through Madrid anyway so it all worked out!

The bus got into Madrid around 7pm and I proudly navigated the metro system directly to my hostel without issue. Then, in search of a bite to eat, I followed one interesting street after another, letting my curiosity get the better of me until I was completely and utterly lost...I'm not even sure I was in Madrid at one point. One full month of travel and this was the first time I had to flag down a taxi. Despite my 7 euro mistake, I made one of the best discoveries of my life to date.

Dunkbucks!

Now, if you know anything about me, you know that my coffee consumption is a little out of hand. I will most certainly have heart palpitations by the time I'm 30; no amount of meditation will undo the damage already done. But I really don't care and that is certainly not the point. The point is that I found a two-storey Starbucks in Madrid located right next to AND beneath a THREE-STOREY Dunkin Donuts.

I just didn't know what to do. My dual-loyalty instincts wanted me to buy coffee from both and then befriend all of the Americans that were surely sipping their over-sized coffees inside. But it was already night-time and I didn't sleep very well the night before so I restrained myself and vowed to return the next day. To be sure that I wasn't just hallucinating, I frantically started taking pictures. All the Spanish people started looking around trying to see what all the fuss was about... Justin Bieber? Tom Cruise? Oprah?!? Nope...my two favorite coffee shops all up in each other's business. Oprah would have been pretty great though. (*NOTE: Again, Oprah, if you ever read this, I love you and I would like to be employed by you in pretty much whatever capacity you see fit.)

Shortly after this dizzying Dunkbucks (Dunkin-Starbucks...obvi) discovery, I got lost, found a very sweet cab driver who dropped me off dangerously close to my hostel door, and proceeded to pass out in one of the best hostel beds I've ever experienced.

The next morning I got up early to just completely nerd out and spend the entire day at the Prado Museum and the Reina Sofia. Essentially, I spent my whole day looking at paintings by Picasso, Dalí, Goya, and El Greco and pretended to be artistically inclined. Occasionally I picked a painting to stare at, threw in a little twist of the head and a nodded in a pensive fashion, and basically looked like an artistic GENIUS...especially in my mesh shorts and flip-flops. Let's be real though, I took one week of Art History and then dropped it like it was hot (#seniorspringproblems).

Royal Palace, Madrid

After a strenuous day of cultural enrichment, I ventured back over to my beloved Dunkbucks and faced the heart-wrenching task of choosing between the two. As I stood there slightly panicked and weighing my options, a young couple walked out of Dunkin' and a faint sound of country music snuck out with them. I died of happiness. "Small Town USA" playing in big town Spain...now that's what I call exporting culture.


Now I know for some of you, the sweet sounds of Nashville would have swayed you toward the Starbucks, but I do love me some country so I settled in for a few hours of coffee drinking, people watching, and journaling.

Definitely gave them a euro...
have no idea how they did this!

My trip to Madrid was a quick one — just three nights and then I had to venture off to the Madrid Airport (again, successfully navigated the metro) to experience my first European budget airline flight with RyanAir. Along my travels I've run into people with some horror stories about RyanAir: exorbitant charges for bags that are overweight, charging you to print out your boarding pass if you lose it, not stamping your boarding pass and then rejecting you at the security line, etc. So to continue with the nerdy nature of my Madrid trip, I showed up to the airport THREE hours early. Of course, my bag was the perfect weight, I had absolutely no problems, and I walked directly through security. So I had three hours to kill and drink some overpriced coffee and eat an overpriced sandwich. While these inflated airport prices would normally have thrown me into a bit of a hissy fit, I've had some amazing luck recently finding money in the most random of places so I don't feel as bad having to pay the inflated prices.


I found 3 euro in the SINK at my hostel in Madrid when I came back after an afternoon cafe jaunt. Then, the very next day, in the Madrid Airport, I found 4 euro in the bins for the security line. It's the little things in life. 


Anyway, the plane in Madrid arrived late. So we boarded late. And then the Spanish military (I know, I know...they actually have one of those...) was performing some flight operation so all flights were delayed. And then, when we finally arrived at the Faro Airport, the bus from the airport to the city center was late. When it finally arrived, it was packed full. So then I caught a taxi with a bunch of other frustrated travelers. Just when I was sure that I would miss the last bus from Faro to Portimao (where I was being picked up by the nudist resort owner), the bus from Faro to Portimao was also late so it all worked out. OH I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE PORTUGAL.

Long story, but now I'm at the nudist lodge, which we shall turn to in the next posting. Good thing I'm all caught up because tomorrow begins my first two days off of work here in Portugal and I'm heading into Lagos for a night out...the Portuguese haven for dancing on bars and lighting shots on fire. 

Las Alpujarras: Off-road hiking & aggressive crickets

So it seems I'm about ten days behind in my blogging....that's alright though, just a sign of having a good time and cleaning too many toilets! Anyway, I started this post last week so I'm just gonna let it flow as I started it (aka when I say "this past weekend" I really mean June 30th - July 1st....forgive me) and I'll hopefully catch you up to speed with another post or two in the coming days.

This past weekend, I decided to take a vacation from my vacation, so I sat down and actually did a bit of research on where I might go. The fifteen minutes of Google searching reminded me not to go to grad school any time soon.

First night in Capileira.

I decided that since I had three days off from my toilet cleaning job, I would hop a bus for a casual weekend trip to Las Alpujarras in the Spanish Sierra Nevada mountains. The area is dotted with teeny tiny little picturesque villages and I chose Capileira, which is one of the highest in the region. Population: 559. 

What's incredible about the area is that there are three traditional all-white (talking architecture here) villages that you can hike between: Capileira, Bubión, and Pampaneira. I'm pretty sure that the people who created the trails between the three had my sort of humor because there would be a very clear trailhead and then half a mile later the trail would split into three places with no marking whatsoever. Naturally, I always chose the wrong one and ended up on someone's private property, their wild dogs would come sprinting toward me inducing a moment of terror and regret, only to be greeted with a sniff and then quickly rejected. 

Off-road hiking in Las Alpujarras

Other than these relatively isolated incidences of poodle-induced terror, I didn't have much problem with the whole "propiedad privada" thing. Except for the fact that I'm pretty convinced that crickets wildly reproduce in the summer-time because the second I stepped off the trailhead —rather, the second the trailhead straight-up disappeared— there were crickets everywhere. Literally in all the places. Every step I took, there were 6 or 7 crickets that would hop up out of nowhere. I'm not gonna lie, I died a little on the inside. I don't particularly care for bugs. I mean, who does really? Except for those adorable nerdy little kids with glasses who collect them in a jar only to study them and then grow up to be wildly handsome geniuses. You know who you are.

Anyway, it was kind of gross, and I'm pretty sure I accidentally killed 15 or 20 crickets. And I'm a bit of a pacifist so for a while there I was feeling pretty bad about myself. However, after a couple of miles of jaunting through cricket-infested territory, one very rude cricket jumped a little too high...and landed IN MY SHIRT. Yes, there was a cricket in my shirt. It gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it. I almost ripped off my whole shirt out of sheer horror but that would have given the cricket too much satisfaction. After that, I didn't care about killing the crickets. One rude cricket and my pacifism flew out the window. I'm pretty sure that's how wars start. One damn rude cricket....

Apartments in Bubión

Aside from the whole cricket jumping incident, my stay in Las Alpujarras was lovely. Two solid days filled with hiking, sitting by the pool, and chatting with old men about Spain's Eurocup domination. Since the weekend I was in Alpujarras was the weekend of the Eurocup final, the owners of the lodge that I was staying at turned their outdoor patio/garden into a raging outdoor sports bar— as raging as one can possibly get in a town of 559 people. Had I not been surrounded by wildly out of control small-town Spaniards, I probably would have felt almost sort of bad for Italy and their horrifying 4-0 dismal performance. BUT, when in Spain do as the Spanish do... show up late to meetings, eat dinner at 11pm, and NEVER feel bad for the Italians. 

Cultural Enlightenment & Learning the True Meaning of 42°C

The other day, I decided to dive head first into the cultural wonders of Granada by going to see my first Spanish movie. Well, I went to go see my first American movie in a Spanish theater...one step at a time here. 


Here's how this enriching cultural experience began: I looked out my window and saw a sign flashing 17:45/42°C. Struggling to do a bit of math, I realized that it was 5:45pm and I hadn't done a damn thing with my day. I ignored the 42°C part because only Google can tell me what that means. Big mistake. 42°C means "do not go outside." For those of us who ignore the norms of the rest of the world, 42°C is 107°F. Good thing I regularly apply my 100spf rain or shine. I have very delicate skin. 

Upon walking out the front door, I realized that the weather gods of Granada were NOT looking to play around. For a brief second I though about walking back up to my room, but alas, it's up five flights of stairs so I thought better. Thankfully, fours years of living on the 4th and 5th floors throughout college —room draw loser— prepared me well for these sorts of predicaments:
"Oh you left your room for lecture without your laptop? Ya, you're just not going to take notes today....well if you're not going to take notes, what's the point of going to class? Good point, Lexi, let's go see what terrible movies we can go watch today."


So I headed for the movies. After a pleasantly short walk to the theater (because I also don't know how to convert kilometers to miles), I entered a Spanish mall, took a hard look at the lovely casino directly inside the front entrance of the shopping center, then looked back at the movie theater and employed the very small amount of self-discipline I have left, and vowed to lose all my euro on Spanish slots another day. 


I walked up to the ticket office and the only thing playing was "Sombras Tenebrosas," the Spanish dubbed version of yet another Johnny Depp - Tim Burton collaboration (really...what's going on with those two? EIGHT movies together...??). Personally, I prefer Johnny with dreads (re: Pirates of the Caribbean), but it was the only thing playing and nothing is better on a hot day than sitting in a cool, dark theater and watching Johnny Depp dubbed in Spanish, amiright??

Brilliant choice because when I walked into the theater, they were jammin' to the great American classic, Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA" (also, twitter tells me she's engaged? what is this madness). Following the ever-pressing needs of my freakishly small bladder, I danced my way up the stairs to use "los servicios" and what a blessed day it was to be among the small bladder population, because it bought me enough time to hear the next song — the best of Britney circa 2004 — "Toxic." Perhaps no other combination of songs could make me quite so happy to be an American.

View of the Alhambra from afar 

All-in-all, my whole American/Spanish movie going experience was quite enlightening, and although I could have easily been satisfied with my cultural experiences in Spain at that point, we all know that I'm an over-achiever.


So, in the time since I've last blogged (although tempted to just sit in dark casinos and play Spanish slots), I've visited the Alhambra (about seven centuries worth of culture right there!) and seen my first Spanish Flamenco show. 

Detailing on the walls
at the Alhambra

For those of you who have never heard of the Alhambra (other than Alhambra Water....apparently not related...), it's the tourist destination in Granada. It's basically the main reason why people go to the city. It's a huge Moorish palace and fortress that was built in the mid-14th century by Arab rulers and then taken over by Christian rulers after the Reconquista. Fast-forward over five hundred years and you have a UNESCO World Heritage Site boasting lush gardens, exquisitely preserved stonework, and flowing water and fountains through all parts of the sprawling fortress.

Now, I'm always a little reluctant to go stand in line and pay money to see those supposedly "must-see" monuments. Like the Louvre... a whole week in Paris and never went. What's there to see anyway? The Mona Lisa? My God you guys, that painting is tiny. I guess I'm just generally a bad tourist. I'd probably go to India and end up eating Chinese food.

Generalife at the Alhambra

So, naturally, part of me was a little reluctant to go to the Alhambra, but the woman at my hostel in Algeciras was very insistent that I go. In fact, I think she may have threatened me at one point. I'm not sure. She kept trying to practice her English with me, but she really didn't speak any English at all, so maybe it was a mistake when she said, "I come kill you if you no go to Alhambra"...?

She was a little scary though, so I dragged myself to the world-famous Alhambra; it was fabulous. I highly recommend it. In fact, if you come to Granada and don't go I may just have to pretend that I don't speak English and threaten you a little bit.

View of the Alhambra
from the outdoor Flamenco show

As if I hadn't culturally enriched myself enough already —like I said, huge over-achiever— the owners of the hostel that I'm currently working at organized an outing to a local Flamenco show. And because I have the easiest job in the world, they had my shift covered so that I could attend as well. So after a strenuous day of not working, I was relieved from my 3 hour shift and headed over to the Flamenco show with a bunch of Brazilian, Polish, and Argentine tourists. The show consisted of a 10-year-old singer, a 14-year-old flamenco dancer, a 17-year-old guitarist, and a 65-year-old poet.


The show was actually incredibly inspiring. The kids were all ridiculous talents, but my favorite part was the older gentleman's performance of some poetry by the Granada-born writer, Federico Garcia Lorca. Firstly, I actually kind of, almost understood it in its semi-entirety, which was awesome. Secondly, even when I didn't understand, all the Spanish people around me were LOL-ing hardcore, so I know he was funny. And, thirdly, his flamboyancy reminded me of home. Overall, he couldn't have been more perfect.