The outraged, offended, indignant, and those whose feelings are trampled by the promised sight of naked people of various kinds also travel the world. When I was browsing and taking part in a discussion on our forum about the “Free the Jugs” campaign—a proposal to parade topless during the August Gliniada—I remembered a story from Bulgaria.
At one of the hotels, the attraction, as it later turned out, a dubious one, was a small, intimate beach, practically intended only for hotel guests. Naturists took a liking to this beach. And they were unlucky, because the hotel turned out to be full of people who are hurt by the sight of a naked body. Of course, there were children there too. Never mind that they happened to be adults. A child is a child. It is an axiom—as Trumf, our portal troll, would say.
It began with complaints about the naked people who, in pairs, often unfortunately not heterosexual ones, paraded along “our” beach. Because there is something about our nation that when it drops into a place, even for a week, it believes that the place belongs only to it. And the beach was intimate, by the hotel, but public.
I was ordered to call the police. But when informed of the incident and learning that the naturists were harming no one, the officer promised only to drop by and make a token appearance.
Meanwhile, the all-Polish tourists regrouped and came up with the idea of calling the naturists exhibitionists in front of the police. I knew the case would fall apart when the police came down to the beach and, instead of a man in a long coat lurking behind a sea rock, saw naturists sunbathing. But the customer is always right.
A married couple who felt the most outraged went on the attack. They made the police officer listen to their testimony, with me acting as interpreter. The wife felt the most aggrieved and offended by the sight of a naked man. She began telling me:
“Ma’am,” she said indignantly, “I come down to the beach, and he is standing there. Shamelessly, facing me. Disgusting. Naked. His awful, you know what”—at this point she gave me a knowing look, so I made it clear that I understood what had drawn her gaze, full of righteous indignation.
“And it was enormous, you can imagine. Disgraceful!” she continued, but at the word enormous, her husband looked at me as if he wanted to make sure I would translate the word correctly. The police officer smiled, which did not help me maintain a professional attitude toward the client.
“It was so big, and it was standing erect. Horror!” the wife continued, absorbed in her story and noticing neither our looks nor our smiles. “Honestly, you can imagine. And he was shaved. A lecher, a pervert. Completely…”
At this point, the husband interrupted:
“You said he frightened you and you ran away?”
“Yes, yes, that’s what happened,” she readily agreed, “but I want to describe it accurately.”
“Too accurately,” the husband concluded the interrogation and turned to me: “The resident representative can deal with it with the police herself.”
And he pulled his wife aside. The police officer looked at me in surprise that the victims with wounded feelings had left.
“Perhaps you gentlemen could talk to that naked sunbather?” I asked hopefully.
The police officer nodded, which in Bulgaria means no.
And so, my dear readers, my colleague and I—two innocent little creatures—sacrificed ourselves and, with great distaste and disgust, went to that beach to look for the naturist described so perfectly. And we sat there for about two hours, but apparently he did not want to approach such holy maidens as ourselves and never appeared on that beach again.
Grażyna Hanaf