Clothing optional
French women have a reputation for baring it all (or partially). Heaven knows it’s far too hot to wear clothes anyway.
Afterall we have been subjected to their swimming pool attire and frankly I hope they’re not paying too much for those bikinis because not a lot of lycra was sacrificed in the making of them.
Once I move on from my 1950s vintage scene of La Plage I have this idyllic vision of the French seaside involving beautifully behaved and dressed French children (Etienne, Florian, Coco, Marguerite, Louis - I’ve created entire families inside my head) and their gorgeous mother - bronzed, svelte, immaculate nails and makeup, groomed to within an inch of hair on her body, impeccable hairstyles - watching from the shore her darlings in the sea, sunbathing topless. String bikini bottoms that did cost the earth but her husband handed her the credit card and pleaded her (‘ma cherie’) to please treat herself to a little two piece from Galleries Lafayettes before she takes the children to the seaside for the summer months. To ensure she returned in acceptable working order.
Wait a second. The 70 and 80-somethings weren’t part of that image. Nor were the 15 and 16 year-olds.
Clearly I was feeling at unease from the outset. No, I couldn’t go swimming. Not in my burqa. They have laws against such things. I couldn’t possibly suffer the embarrassment of being asked ‘Madam, please leave the beach area. Your outfit is not suitable’. And while the bottom half may have been a suitable compromise for the locals - long bikini bottoms at a stretch - I have not been inducted into the French way of doing things enough to bare all above waistline. Jamie would be mildly amused. The children would never recover.
So I waded. The only sensible option in 34 degrees. And besides, who goes to the Mediterranean to sit in their black Jane Daniels long dress and birkenstocks on the beach and watch others having a nice time.
It seems the French don't actually swim in the sea anyway. They stand. After a lengthy period of topless sunbathing - front, side, back, side - the heat gets to them so they parade themselves slowly to the water’s edge and eventually make it to waist height. Stand a while. Then return to their sunbathing - front, side, back, side. All with two small triangles, back and front, connected by a string tie at both sides.
Curiosity gets the better of me. Firstly all power to the 80 year-old who wants to spend a day beach-side wearing just their lower half. If only us New Zealanders had the courage. But I struggle to understand what the appeal is. Do 80 year-olds really need to avoid an uneven tanline? Is topless sunbathing such a liberating and exhilarating experience that once you’ve gone there you never go back? I wondered if the grandmas (let’s face it, some might even be great-grandmas) had been spending topless days at the beach since they were the age of the 15 and 16 year-olds who were also doing it. Poor Jamie. He wasn’t quite sure where to look. He didn’t shy from holding his position at the water’s edge though.
What a fabulous day we had at Cassis, along the coast, to the east of Marseille. It was picture postcard perfect. And the best bit was we took a boat trip to see the Calanques (a steep-sided valley or creek) that dot the coast of the Mediterranean in that region. I know we have some stunning scenery in New Zealand but this was magic. The colour azure must have been created to describe the blue hue of the water as it reflected the white stone cliffs - deep, perfect and still. Everywhere there were boats, sailing ones, little wooden ones with motors, stripes in primary colours and quirky names (those ones were certainly part of my 1950s vision). Dotted along the coastline were couples who had climbed partway down the cliffs and found a ledge for a romantic picnic. Boats were anchored at the top of the calanques with their inhabitants sitting on the bow eating a picnic lunch or off the side having a dip to cool down in the high temperatures. Brigitte Bardot or Grace Kelly would have fitted right in. I tried to capture photos of Jamie on the boat, with its French name and the French flag in the background - I was after an Alfred Hitchcock moment of French Riviera-style. Shame he had decided this was the one day to leave the polo at home and wear a singlet. You can take the boy out of New Zealand…
But the last word has to go to George. Who did adore it all - the boat ride, the swimming in the sea, jumping the waves, the nautical-inspired carrousel ride, the fish and chips for lunch (first ones since leaving New Zealand). But the highlight for him? On the point leading to the first calanque was the favoured swimming and sunbathing spot of the nudists. High excitement. We brought him to France to be exposed to the culture, the art, the cosmopolitan nature of a European city, the food and the history. I just hope we haven’t sewn the seed for a future nudist.
