Topless in Tarragona: Lost Things & Found Meanings

“Be safe! Wear sunscreen…” The study abroad group dispersed to explore Tarragona, cliques magnetized — I aimlessly wandered away.

I pushed my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose and went through a shaded passage way. Wings fluttered as white goop clung to my t shirt.

“Shit.” I muttered. My annoyance was quickly superseeded by optimism — rooted in superstition. I ventured past historic Roman ruins and into the city square. Two sides of soft colored buildings sandwiched a stretch of sidewalk, the crust of which were city streets that separated outdoor seating from the restaurants themselves. My stomach grumbled, I swiped my card, and wrapped my mouth around an empanada. Stagnant air separated me from the blaring sun. Swim suits in a shop window caught my eye, the beach downaways called my name. I wiped my greasy fingers on the back of my cut offs and opened the door. A gust of AC carried the shopkeeper’s friendly voice.

“Hell-o!”

“Hi!”

Display tables were cluttered with children’s pool toys, random gadgets, and beach gear. Swim suits hung on wooden walls partitioning the spacious rectangular shop, I rounded the corner to the women’s section. My hand landed on a pair of bikini bottoms. They’re cheeky, maybe a little too cheeky, and covered with a green leaf design. The tops hanging above had pointed foam cups that were fixed by underwire. This prompted a string of inner dialouge which ended in a shrug.

I guess I can wear the bottoms with my bralette.

I headed toward the register. The transaction was made with a relaxed hand, unaffected by the anxiety which usually possessed it. I entered the restroom and surveilled my appearance in the mirror. Nerves shot up my fingers as they clapped against my chest. It was gone. The sapphire evil eye pendent, which hung around my neck for four years, was gone. The gold chain hung broken around my neck. I collected it and changed into my new swimsuit bottoms.

Where could it be? I followed the breadcrumbs of my memory. After eating each bite of the empty sidewalk, I decided that I couldn’t waste any more of the day on this thing.

I limply carried my sandals on my journey down to the beach. A preteen girl jumped around in beads of water coming out of a free-standing shower. Her friends stood off to the side, licking ice cream cones, laughing alongside her. They stood in relaxed postures with their stomaches puffed out. This scene greatly contrasted what one may see in the United States. Once girls reach puberty in the US they cower beneath umbrellas, skip the celebratory ice cream cone, and start to doubt themselves.

People were scattered along the Spanish beach — laying atop beach towels or propped up in foldable chairs. Topless women baked beneath the sun, their faces were shaded by hats or oversized sunglasses. Men passed by them without a second glance. As I stepped out of my shorts I realized that my exposed ass was not an object of interest. Women are more than their bodies here.

I trekked across the flaming sand until I reached an empty spot on the shore. My clothes seemed to fall off me. I had never felt less concerned about my body; as I wrote in my journal my breasts went from white to pink. Sweat dripped onto the page as I clicked my pen against it — leaving my mind blank. I got up and ran into the cold waves. My smeared words read,

There’s nothing like being so unknowing of your own hunger that you accidentally starve yourself. I have been bred to become my own enemy — through no fault of my own. As a woman, my desires have been skewed by social judgment. According to my radiating worries: the worst thing to be is a fat slut. Men are allowed to indulge in their physical desires, and this implicit permission extends into all aspects of life. Meanwhile, as a woman, I am enslaved by anxieties based around social expectations.

What should I eat? How much?

Who should I sleep with? When?

I doubt my own desires. I experience a sense of foreignness in my own body as I rely upon outside regulation. I want to get to know myself unhinged from the US culture.

What do I want?

Who am I?

I hope to escape my self-doubt and to hold myself with the same confidence as the women in Spain do.