I’m just not hipster enough to live in Bondi.
I’m not just saying that because I’m not a Sydney-Sider, nor a backpacker by definition, but because what I wear, how I act, the music I listen to and hell, probably even the hobbies I have, don’t fit the mould of your typical Bondi resident.
As I write this my eyes are watering on what is an extremely blustery day on Bondi beachfront.
Earlier in the day I stripped off to my Roxy bikini and attempted to lie back and ooze sex appeal, I really did. However, having now lived in Australia for two years, my taste in perfect beach weather has become slightly more discerning, and, call me a kill-joy, but having windswept sand particles thrash against your bare skin and settle in orifices you didn’t even know existed isn’t my idea of fun.
This dilemma becomes even more troublesome on Bondi, as wiping the sand from between your thighs whilst trying to hold onto your hat and maintain some degree of ‘cool’ is nigh impossible.
And so I admit, I gave up.
It was only when I retired to a café out of the gale force gusts, in order to regain some form of decorum, that I noticed just how innately fashionable and self-assured the locals were. This Bondi breeze was clearly not bothering them, oh no, far from it in fact. Tall, bronzed young women with flowing blonde (all-be-it fake) tresses glide along the promenade turning their heads to every angle, their Colgate smiles seemingly on a 30-second timer, just to show us all how attractive they actually are.
Others stop for a chat with a skateboard under one arm, the other occupied by a daintily held cigarette, all the time, glancing around to regard their audience with nonchalance. Surfers stride out of the waves, not shivering with cold from the biting wind as I was, but slowly and almost erotically unzipping wetsuits, dropping them deftly to their waist, all the time with a casual grip on their board and a cheeky grin reserved for any females passing by.
I’m just pondering whether I should have opted more for a more ‘Malibu Barbie’ look, instead of my reliably practical grey cardigan and jeans, when I get rudely interrupted by a flock of seagulls that have decided to attack a French tourist on the table next to me. Ah, another alien amid the Bondi Beach chic brigade, and like me, she’s certainly struggling to maintain any kind of casual appearance, amid manically wafting arms and panic in the face of potentially having her chicken burger destroyed by bird excrement.
I’m comforted by the fact that although I’ll never quite make the cut for ‘Bondi’s Beach Babes 2013’ award, I’m certainly not alone. I sip my cappuccino smugly and for a moment, just a split second, consider buying a skate board from the shop next door.