On Foreign Shores

Artwork by Phavida Viphavady

“Pardon, Mademoiselle. Kesker say mmm… bikini?”

I turned and gazed into the deep blue eyes of a drop-dead-gorgeous Frenchman.

“What?” Hardly the most articulate rejoinder, but I was already heartily sick of the French and I’d only been on Corfu one night! I know, Corfu is a Greek Island and I don’t speak Greek, but when the handsome travel agent in Sydney booked me this ‘holiday of a lifetime’ — golden sands, golden bodies, azure seas and romantic nights — he hadn’t mentioned that a large group of Parisians would comprise the clientele of Club Med that month. And I don’t speak French either.

Back to the Frenchman: “Ah! Australie! I will try to, how you say, parlez-vous ossie. I ask why you wear the two pieces swim clothes?”

Oh God, have I broken another rule? I looked down at what, to me, was a rather daring bikini. The regulation three inches at the sides, plastic daisies on each boob; the beach inspector back home almost had a heart attack the day he arrived with his tape measure. Surely Club Med wasn’t as restrictive as 1970s Bondi Beach?

For the first time I became aware of the other bathers. Stretched over the impossibly white sand around me was the most spectacular array of breasts this side of a chicken shop. Across the beach, along the pier, draped over the prow of a dozen sleek yachts, slowly rising with breath and tide was an example of every boob size and shape imaginable. Nipples of every hue, from ebony to delicate pink, every one of them sitting up and pointing at me, challenging my right to imprison my flesh, standing up for their suppressed sisters. I could feel each foreign nipple sneer at my parochial rejection of their right to liberation. Along with the waves of resentment, for the first time in my life I felt the bitter sting of racism. I was different; a lesser being.

All these breasts had one thing in common: they emerged from the taut flesh of their owners in perfect harmony with the evenly tanned flesh around them. They were brown. If I removed my top I would stand out like a zebra in a herd of sleek dark fillies.

Dreading the titters that would accompany any unveiling of my little white swellings I muttered to the Frenchman, “Just checking the tide!” and darted into the dive shop and the blessed anonymity of a full-length black wetsuit, snorkel, mask and flippers.