Before twitter there were fan letters: Dear Mr. Redford

November 12, 1973 Dear Bob  Mr. Redford,I just had to write to tell you how hot and sexy talented, I think you are.  Laura and I bickered over who was more desirable — Robert Redford or Clint Eastwood — with as much fervor as we girls once debated who our favorite Beatle was, Paul or John, George or Ringo. Laura's mother, tiny Corky, curled up in her easy chair with a ciggie and a cup of tea, pronounced both actors 'tall drinks of water'. This was so long before  water became such a desirable commodity that we actually had to buy it by the bottle, back in the seventies when water was still free even in the once desert lands of Los Angeles, that I never quite understood the praise. But yes, Redford could put his shoes under my bed any time, as our mothers might have said, mostly about men whose paths they would likely never cross. I had it so bad for Robert Redford after seeing The Way We Were ; wishing I were Barbara Streisand with her impossibly long eleg

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Dreaming of France: By the bay, barely [memoir]

Baie des Anges, Raoul Dufy/1928

The trouble with going topless on the beach in France is that while the French may not bat an eye, the prudish hybrid of British, Canadian, and American that I am—go ahead, call me a BritCanIcan if you can—isn’t quite so nonchalant. Even though I was thirty something when my friend Mindy and I visited Nice, I still had reservations about taking my top off on the famous pebble beach.  

The only time I’d ever gone topless before was with a couple of friends at a nude beach here in Southern California, a “secret” place where Topanga Canyon meets the Pacific Coast Highway. An unmarked path leads down around the cliff, you have to tread carefully to make sure you don’t trip and fall. An old, deeply tanned bare-chested man cruising around with a camera had made the whole thing feel creepy, and we’d left quickly, feeling dirty.  But I had that old man, leering with his camera, asking could he take our pictures, in my head as Mindy and I made our way along the Promenade de Anglais and down the stairway to the plage, gauzy cotton dresses floating over our versions of itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikinis.

I don’t know what tripped me up more, the pressure to disrobe—when in Rome (or Nice) and all that—to pull loose the slender ties bowed at the neck and reveal my breasts, small and pale, as crowds chatted and sunned themselves nearby, kids splashing in the water, waiters delivering drinks—or the idea of walking on the narrow strip of rocky beach.

I cant help it. You say beach. I say sand. Im used to the feel of the soft powdery stuff between my toes. My first beaches were the shores of Tripoli in Africa where I toddled across a desert of silky white sand that stretched out to the turquoise of the Mediterranean. Even when we moved to Canada, the beach that my family went to every summer weekend at Lake Erie was called Furry Sands. My year as a teenager in Puerto Rico was spent mostly following the sun and the boys from one soft and sandy beach after another, from the Condado to Luquillo, the Caribbean a warm blue bath Ive never quite duplicated, even though Ive spent most of my adult life in Southern California, where glorious beaches, from the coast of San Diego to Malibu, Santa Barbara and beyond, are a dime a dozen. 

There are beautiful beaches all over the world where the sun and sand is like a caress. The beach at Nice isn’t one of them. What it is, is a scene. A must see. A must do. And so we did. A wooden walkway protected our feet from the roughest spots. Under blue striped umbrellas, red-shouldered American tourists smeared their kids with pink calamine lotion and striped white zinc on their noses. Chic French women, blonde hair tucked under yellow straw hats were brown from the tip of their perfect noses to their little black bathing suit bottoms as they stood talking, watching their children play in the deep blue sea. A cacophony of color filling the air, making a kind of cover. Mindy, younger, braver, was already topless, flinging her black curls off her bare shoulders, surveying the scene. I took a deep breath, undid my top and sat on my beach mat, eyes straight ahead, facing the water. 

We were part of the scene. Semi-naked in Nice. Breathe, I told myself, breathe. Pretend it’s just another ordinary day. And no one cared. No one batted an eye.



  1. Ahhhh, you really took me there. Loved all the details, and I can feel the the breeze, hear the cacophony of sound along the beach. If I ever went topless, I'm pretty sure the whiteness of my breasts would blind people. Thanks for playing along with Dreaming of France. Here’s my Dreaming of France meme

  2. Will you go topless when we go to the Baie Des Anges in the next few years when you come to visit me in France? Or have we missed the opportunity? I still love your story. I'll try to drum up more support for Dreaming of France. I know what would get people reading though. I have to move to France and write about it. Then they'll play along.
    Thanks for always supporting me.

    1. Haha! Wouldn’t I like to know! You’re absolutely right though, if you write it, they will read it! Can’t wait for you to move there!


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