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The first time I was naked in public, it was April. The sky was clear and blue, but there was a crisp wind. Everything stood on end. I was living in Linz, the town on the Danube where Bruckner was born. I lived close to the river, where there was an old steamer from the GDR that had turned into a bar that sold cake and beer and where people went to swing dance on Thursdays.
Just along from the boat was a technology museum covered in LED lights that glowed a different colour each night, and on the opposite bank was a thousand-seater concert hall. When I had told one of my colleagues in Vienna that I was moving to Linz, she made a face. In the 80s, it was a large industrial town known for its smog and its steel. Since then, it has built up a reputation as a place of art, culture and work. Now, it bustles with music and colour. It is also home to a beautiful bathing lake.
Only a couple of miles from the centre, and reachable by a riverside path, it is an enjoyable place for a quick afternoon swim. My flatmate suggested we go, and I agreed. I am not sure what I expected. Certainly for it not to be so normal.
It was cool and green, less busy than the crowded areas on the opposite side of the lake. Two men were playing ping pong. I could hear the sonorous pop of the ball as it bounced and bounced across the table. One man walked past energetically, clad only in a pair of running trainers. We found a space and sat down. Off came the shorts, the tops, the underwear. I looked surreptitiously around.
