An ongoing series about uprooting our lives in America and moving to France. For what's happened before, see previous Jours of Our Lives entries here.
WE ARRIVED IN Marseille not knowing where we would spend the night. The Hotel de Cacharel—where we’d left all the belongings we’d been hauling all over France—was full. I called our next stop along the way—the Mahogany Hotel de la Plage in Cassis. I have never been more delighted than when the helpful clerk told me they had a garden room. Jim, being a dear and a trouper, would drive back to the Cacharel the next day to retrieve our stuff. The lovely Cassis—where Matisse basked in the light and Winston Churchill learned how to paint—was only 30 minutes from Marseille, smack dab on the Mediterranean. We would take a day of much-needed R & R.
When we arrived, we were shown to a large and lovely room in deep Provencal red and gold, with brick floors, lovely products, and a bath. Oooh la la! The Mahogany was directly across the street from a wonderful beach, and the view was magnificent. That night we had an elegant dinner at the Jardin d’Emile restaurant next door. I savored a delicious vegetable flan and fish, while Jim relished hot chevre and lamb with artichoke hearts.
Harbor at Cassis
The View From Our Room
The next day, while Jim drove back to the Camargue, I slept late and then packed up our suitcases to move to a room with a view of the sea. Our garden chambre was luscious, and larger than the new one, but it didn’t have the Mediterranean view—water in hues of milky to deep emerald green by the shore, and as the liquid became deeper, ponds of deep purple spread over the cobalt sea. I walked to the village and bought a bottle of Champagne, which we drank on our balcony when Jim got back. The sun was setting, and the sea reflected the copper of the mountain it lapped up to. The moment was serene.
We stayed in Cassis several days, tracing M. Matisse’s footsteps and generally getting to know the lovely town. But mostly we rested, exhausted as we were after our long ordeal. To my mind, the most important—and perhaps symbolic—event of our time in Cassis happened on the beach.
One morning we were sitting on our balcony enjoying breakfast and observing the topless sunbathers at the beach. Jim asked me if American women were the only ones who don’t spend part of their adult public lives with uncovered breasts. He brought up all the National Geographic photos of African and other native women who don’t clothe their bosoms. Good point, I thought, and who cares about their bare breasts, anyway? Another question arises: Do all European women disrobe their chests for sunbathing? I don’t know. I doubt the Spanish-influenced cultures engage in this tradition. Too many macho men would have heart failure, kill someone, or both.
Drawing by James Morgan
But the French women sunbathe—and sunbathe topless—no matter how fat or thin they are—or old or young, pregnant, or for any other reason that would prevent an American from doing it, at least as far as I can tell. French women accept their body-types publicly, and they take pleasure in emancipating their breasts while lying in the hot sun.
Listen, sisters, I don’t blame them. It feels happy and free to have sunbeams warming your usually bound and covered chest. It’s not even bold behavior here. Almost all French women do it with their husbands and children, grandchildren, boyfriends, fathers, sons, and brothers—anyone—around. It is an established piece of culture that no one even thinks about. It’s not sexual. You don’t see a bunch of men with their tongues hanging out, staring, or making lewd remarks. Topless sunbathers are not slutty, forward, or unusual. They’re remarkably status quo. French men see bare breasts, boobs, titties, knockers, headlights, honkers, hooters, jugs—whatever you want to call them—all the time at the beach and pool. So?
Drawing by James Morgan
Anyway, the sun was hot and we put on our suits and walked over to the beach, found a spot on the rocks, and laid out our towels. As I slathered on my sunscreen, my skin came off in rolls. I was actually shedding my skin! Was my body telling me something that my mind hadn’t yet registered? Was that late-April date important in some way? I decided it was—that shedding old skin was a very good thing!
So I peeled my top down. My suit was a one-piece, and after a few minutes I didn’t even care that my own breasts were basking naked in the sun with multitudes around. Unless I did this many years ago, this is the first time I recall being topless at a French beach. We’ve foregone the coast every other time we’ve been here. Frankly, I don’t remember, but Jim liked the fact that I bared myself like all the other women. I took this as a compliment, since I personally wished I weighed about 20 pounds less.
Swimming was not on my agenda. The water was icy, and I’m not a cold-water girl. So even though the sun was searing, I walked in up to my hips once and retreated to the shore. While Jim sketched, I stretched back on the pebbles, listened to the sea, and looked at the sky.
Thoughts of my mother drift in with the tide. The feelings wash over me, yet her death does not seem real. I think I have more skin to shed.
Beth Arnold
Cassis, France
April, 2003
Unless otherwise indicated, photos by Beth Arnold. Not subject to use without permission.
Beth Arnold lives and writes in Paris, where she produces her "Letter From Paris" new media project.
You can find the Chasing Matisse book by James Morgan here at Amazon--or you can find it in or order it from your favorite book store.
Jours of Our Lives illlustration by artist (and couturier) Elizabeth Cannon. To find out more about her, click here.
If you'd like to start at the beginning of Jour of Our Lives, click here.
