Australia: Of Humid Bondi

Yesterday morning began with high fluffy clouds, looking somewhere between cute and threatening. Still, we decided to make it a day to jaunt over to Bondi Beach and walk around a bit. We puttered, stuffed a bag with some just-in-cases (sunscreen, sandals, &c) and leapt into the car, destination:shoreline.

Of course as we got on to the main street out of Balmain, Center Of The Universe, I realised I forgot my camera. So when I say we parked at Tamarama Beach (once bastion to the gay boys, and known as "Glamarama") and had the most glorious walk along cliffs and rocks over the coast to Bondi, with a storm system at sea churning the waves into magnificent, turquoiser-than-turquoise-could-possibly-be, the-gods-dream-in-this-colour liquid jewels, with impossibly hott li'l surferboys in wetsuits bobbing atop them like delicious flavour sprinkles on a glistening, undulating pudding, you'll just have to take my word for it.

I could have lingered at Tamarama the whole time. Spectacular views, dramatic cliffs, waves kabooming against sandstone rocky outcroppings worn into lunar landscape shapes. Rounding the cliff walk toward Bondi, I couldn't help be a bit disappointed at how ... basic and beach-y Bondi is compared to breathtaking Tamarama. On a hot go-to-the-beach day, though, I'm sure Bondi is beautiful in its own right - looks like a great place to spread one's towel and relax. A little over-developed and full of achingly hip skateboarder dooods and it's-been-edgy-and-daring-for-thirty-years-let's-keep-pretending-it-still-is graffiti art, though. Glamarama, while bereft of its once-dominant poofter population, is still beckoning and a bit more pristine.

We almost made it. The clouds blasted open as we rounded the last curve of road toward the car. Nick was nice enough to post me in a bus stop whilst he made the last dash & drove to get me, where I hovered with a tossled-black-haired, violet-eyed late-teens surfer who stood far too close to me in his shiny sea-soaked wetsuit. Wot a sweetie (Nick, not the surfer; I wouldn't know about the latter).

As Nick pulled up, two portly teen girls who'd also taken shelter in the small bus stop and were standing on the bench trying to dodge the sheets of rain blowing in beneath the scanty roofing began howling "noooo! no fair!" as I got into the car and we drove off. Sorry, gurlies, I got the dry ride home with the handsome hubzbind, you get to ogle a violet-eyed surferboy who's much closer to your age and probably your sexual orientation. It's a fair trade, I'd say.

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