Palmira's airport commands exquisite views, in one direction an empyreal-blue ocean of startling clarity, in the other leafy hillsides dotted with neat, whitewashed houses, and between them the picture-postcard town of Régate spread out along the arc of the bay.
The pavement of the terminal concourse shimmered in the early afternoon heat. Lined up on the roadside were several open-air taxis. These are rather quaint, customized pickup trucks, with bench seating along the sides of the tray facing inwards under a canvas awning. Ricardo checked the numbers on the vehicles and led me to the third in the queue. He spoke to the driver and showed her a ticket. She was tall and athletic, with skin that gleamed golden in the sun's rays, sparkling amber eyes and lustrous blond hair which cascaded across broad shoulders. I was ready to believe the folklore that this island is home to the world's most beautiful women.
She bid us welcome and announced herself as Catriona. Ricardo and I climbed into the back of the taxi. There was just enough room for us and the three couples already on board. We exchanged smiles. One of the women, aged in her middle thirties, was evidently comfortable with her nudity, although the way she pointed out the attractions to her husband when we were on the move made me think they were first-time visitors. Next to them were the two girls who had sat in front of me on the plane. Even without their punk-goth garb, their hair colors, perforations and pallid features proclaimed their lifestyle. And there was something else, a secret which cannot be kept on Palmira. On each girl, amidst the silken tufts between her thighs, I glimpsed the glint of a small gold ring piercing the rose-petal folds.
I could not help but squirm when I took my place on the bench. The imitation leather was warm and sticky under my bare backside. I wished I'd had the foresight to get the packet of "wet wipes" out of my bag. It was too late now, but in any case the seat was spotless -- literally squeaky-clean.
Our journey was slow through the downtown area, because pedestrians share the streets with the taxis (although no other vehicular traffic is allowed) and there seems to be no operational concept of right-of-way. So our buggy slowed from a crawl to a snail's pace in order to weave our way through the crowds. Whenever we swerved, and when we turned off the highway to head up into the hills, and as we climbed a gravelly, undulating road towards our hotel, I felt a delicious titillation as the skin of my bottom peeled away from the upholstery and clung again when I sank back down. It was weirdly erotic. My unconstrained breasts swayed to the rhythm, and while this was hardly a new sensation, its public display during the half-hour drive added to the thrill. None of us women could suppress the occasional gasp and sigh.
While the other two males were understandably charmed by our aroused reactions, Ricardo either didn't notice or pretended not to. I was seated between him on my right and the other female passenger on my left. The man sitting directly across from me every so often let his gaze wander over my body, though our eyes never connected. He was tall, and his knees grazed against mine when the vehicle rocked sideways. We weren't packed in; but Ricardo's thighs touched mine whenever we lurched forward. The feel of the men's trousers against my bare skin tickled my senses. Even if I'd wanted to put my nudity out of mind, it was impossible.
We drove eastwards straight through the town, which hugs the shorefront of Regatta Bay on the northern side of the island. Régate's western precincts merge into the Robina district, where the airport is located, and the Grandin "special administrative precinct" on the south-west coast. The eastern fringe diffuses into the forested ridge which forms the island's backbone. The parts are linked by two major thoroughfares. The Esplanade follows the curve of the bay and is lined with cafeterias, bars and nightclubs, travel agencies, vehicle hire operators, duty-free stores, souvenir shops and refreshment kiosks. The Boulevard runs further inland but roughly parallel. Along it are located department stores and specialty shops, offices, banks and hotels. Near the middle of town, the two avenues are connected by Patrick's Emporium, the historic marketplace.
In contrast to the cool, quiet calm of the airport terminal, the town center was vibrant with exotic sights, sounds and smells. It has a distinctive French flavour -- leftovers, along with place names, from the early colonial era. The day was pleasantly warm and the salt air wafting off the waves was infused with aromas from the coffee shops and fragrances from the gardens. Tourists and locals mingled noisily, haggling, arguing, relaxing, loitering. It could have been any Caribbean resort, with an amorphous medley of males -- perspiring vacationers in Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts, jocular merchants in decorative straw hats peddling knick-knacks, red-faced salesmen in white suits touting their trade, jaded tour leaders in khaki and olivine shepherding their groups and organizing rides.
But then there were the women: visitors, vendors, agents, guides. They were shopping, sightseeing, plying the crowds outside the storefronts; hanging onto the arms of husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends; strolling or striding; wearing backpacks, carrying briefcases, toting shopping bags. Their skin was dark, light, pale, black, brown, pink. All were stark naked. Some wore hats and shoes, but in between was nothing but plain skin.
After just a few minutes of observation I could distinguish local women from tourists. The former carry themselves with a self-assurance and self-possession that come with day-to-day experience. To any of these women, covering her body would be as awkwardly unfamiliar as out-in-the-open nudity was to me that day. Meanwhile, among the visitors it isn't hard to spot the new arrivals, although not always by complexions and tan lines. The newcomers' bodies will be slightly hunched, as if against the cold, even when it is sunny and hot. They cling to partners and avoid eye contact with all who pass by. Those having a few days' acquaintance with public nudity hold themselves with more ease and confidence, but they still stand out, albeit subtly, from the locals in the way they move and how they look about, not yet entirely accustomed to the extraordinary scenery, and less so to being part of it.
We left the town and drove up a hill to the Hôtel Andromède. Overlooking Régate with a superbly panoramic view of the bay, it is a genteel establishment, graceful in design, set amidst manicured lawns, carefully tended gardens and lush groves of palms and pines. It's comfortable rather than luxurious. Chips of fractured granite on the driveway crunched cheerily underfoot as we disembarked. On a marble plinth flanking the portico there is a bronze sculpture of the mythical Greek princess, chained naked to a rock and gazing toward the heavens awaiting her rescuer. The building's faux-Renaissance façade might seem at first a little pretentious, but it is not overdone, and the interior's fine stucco decoration and period furniture do set the Andromède above the norm.
We thanked our chauffeuse and were met by a long-faced doorman who was a personification of the hotel, attired in a crimson uniform with wide lapels, gold epaulets and copious braid, befitting the old-world charm. He politely cleared his throat.
"Excuse me, ladies." He pointed tactfully towards our feet.
I was uncomprehending at first, until one of the other women exclaimed: "Good grief, this place really is posh!"
We laughed and I took off my sandals. We approached the reception desk across a gleaming marble floor. In my bare feet, I tiptoed charily over the hard, cold surface.
The young woman behind the counter had sleek brown skin and eyes like black diamonds. She wore her hair plaited in elaborate, beaded cornrows. She spoke in a dulcet voice with a melodic Caribbean cadence and a faint patrician overlay. A plaque on the desktop identified her as Regina. Like most Palmirene females I'd seen thus far, she was extremely attractive. So I do wonder if three centuries of nudity have given rise to a natural selection process that has made all the women so stunning. However, that may be an illusion. In reality, as I'd seen on the Esplanade, the women -- locals and visitors -- are not all beauty queens, nor by any means supermodel-slim or triathlete-trim. But I was finding out that once you get past the initial reticence, being so openly on display is a powerful and empowering expression of your womanhood. I have always believed that positive feelings about yourself radiate to everyone around you. (And I was soon to meet a woman who epitomizes that.)
All of us standing at the desk were spellbound by this vision of unadorned splendor. I recovered and signed in, and was given my room key and some brochures. Regina reminded us of the hotel's amenities, including a saloon bar and dining room, a swimming pool and gymnasium; and she bade us to have an enjoyable stay.
"I shall leave you here," Ricardo said. "I'll be back at nine tomorrow morning?"
It took me a couple of seconds to realize he'd asked a question.
"That's fine. See you then."
There was no attendant to carry my luggage, which was just the one bag anyway. I took the stairs, and found my suite on the third floor. It was modest but comfortable, with a balcony that offered a splendid view of the bay. I took a quick shower, and it was a funny feeling to realize that once I'd toweled myself dry I was ready without further ado to go downstairs. But I couldn't resist scrutinizing myself in the full-length bedroom mirror. I performed a pirouette, arms outstretched, and was not displeased. I'm rather short. My lips are a tad too thin, my nose slightly crooked, my eyes a fraction too far apart, skin perhaps in need of better care. My hair is rather unkempt. (A shag cut demands discipline.) My breasts aren't large, my hips are narrow, my rear end is small; but I keep in shape, the contours are in the right places, and I have nice legs. I'm told I have a cute smile. My pubes bothered me, a little. Just a few wisps blurred the outlines of my crease. However, I'd read that in Palmirene custom pubic hair is like a wedding ring. Yet I decided that it was not a bad thing, at least for the time being.
I went down to the bar. The place was almost empty, with a couple sitting at one of the half-dozen tables. The waitress waved her notepad to let me know that I'd been seen. She was streamlined and tawny-skinned. (I must say that I don't normally focus so much on women's physical appearance... at least I didn't, until Palmira.)
I eased myself warily into one of the big lounge chairs. I now had in my purse my packet of towlettes, but decided I didn't need them. Yet I couldn't hold back another gasp. Unlike the taxi's upholstery, the leather was cool and slick against my back and bottom. I felt my heart begin to race and my chest start to heave, and it took a few moments to regain my composure. It was extraordinary how something as prosaic as sitting in an armchair could be such a new and exhilarating experience.
The waitress now took my order for coffee, and while she was fetching it the couple came over and asked if they could join me. Feeling somewhat apprehensive -- sitting alone naked in a bar in a foreign country can do that to you -- and a little resentful that I'd been abandoned by Ricardo, I was happy to have company. Ted and Valerie are in their mid-to-late-forties. He is bespectacled and somewhat paunchy, with a florid face and a double chin. In his gaudy shirt and voluminous shorts, he was an endearing caricature of the jovial American tourist; and indeed he speaks with a broad Midwestern accent. She, on the other hand, is well-built and well-toned, with platinum-blond hair and a pleasant face, keen eyes and a breezy bearing. She is curvaceous with an all-over even tan. When she sat, I noticed that she pursed her lips as her flesh came into contact with the seat. It's obviously something you never really get used to.
The waitress came back with my coffee. Ted inspected her body from one end to the other, his gaze lingering at the most interesting places along the way. He was utterly unabashed, and the young woman remained serene and gracious, completely relaxed at having her every nook and cranny examined so thoroughly.
I had received only a cursory browse from Ted, but I wasn't offended. I could see he was showing restraint for the neophyte. Even so, I must have begun to blush, because Valerie leaned across and patted me on the knee. Then she did something that made me shiver. She gently pushed my knees apart, just a little. It might have come across as an invasively intimate thing to do, but I realized I had been clamping my thighs.
"First time, sweetie?" she asked indulgently. "It takes some getting used to at first, but it's the best feeling in the world, you'll see."
"This is our third trip." Ted explained. "We'll keep coming back, too. Can't get enough of it."
Val slapped him playfully on his thigh, and her fingers caressed the cotton. "No, you can't."
Their friendly enthusiasm was infectious. I started to relax, still somewhat tense but more at ease than I had been since flying out of Kingston.
"First time we came..." Ted began.
