My suburb is a flirty extrovert, even with those who can’t pronounce it properly

The American tourist joined the queue at the 333 bus stop at Bondi Junction railway station. “Will this bus take me to the world-famous Bondy Beach?” he asked me. It wasn’t so world-famous, apparently, that he could pronounce it correctly. “Yes,” I confirmed, “this one goes to Bond-eye Beach.” Perhaps he’d thought it was named after Alan “Bondy” Bond, the Ossie famous for stealing the America’s Cup (among other things).

So I told the American where he could get off. Rather, as we boarded the bus (standing room only because it was a Saturday), I asked the driver to alert this newcomer when he should alight: on the hill at the southern end of the beach, just before Notts Avenue, the address of the Bondi Icebergs, the essential starting point for a first-timer.

It was one of those shimmering autumn days – cobalt-blue sky over indigo ocean, “diamonds scattered out to sea”, as Richard Clapton sings in Capricorn Dancer. I’d already taken it all in with my morning beach walk and dip, so I knew the American was in for a treat. “You’re about to witness Bondi at its flirty best,” I told him. He frowned: “Flirty?”

“You’ll see,” I assured him. “But you should also know that there’s much more to Bondi than its world-famous beach.”

And yet the beach does steal the show. “It’s an extrovert,” I said. “It’s the flirty, giggly exhibitionist of Sydney’s beaches.”

Again, he frowned. Again, I said: “You’ll see. Anyhow, that’s the way we like it.”

Note that this conversation happened last year, long before the December 14 atrocity that cast a pall over the famous beach and its well-earned reputation as a place for frivolity, as a refuge from seriousness and sadness.

“I gather you’re a local,” the American said. “Almost,” I replied. “Forty years, with a year off for good behaviour. Now, are you thirsty?”

He looked at me warily. It was early in the day for a session. Was I a pathetic, lonely drunk, desperate for company? Or, worse, was I a sweet-talking confidence man plotting to lead him into an alley and mug him?

He seemed disappointed, though, when I said my stop was only minutes away, several before his. I would have to leave him, not only with his belongings but with riding instructions.

First, find a perch on the balcony at the Bondi Icebergs – the everyman club, not the (fine) Dining Room and Bar next door, unless you’re hungry enough to test the greenback against the Australian peso. From here, imbibe the Bondi postcard, from the lap swimmers in the Icebergs pool and the sun worshippers on its deck to the full canvas of the beach and its dazzling speckles of humanity and the white trails of surfers carving its waves.

Then, backtrack up Notts Avenue and find the steps to the sand and kick off your shoes and, after noting the rock-dwelling yogis at the south end, stroll the shoreline and dodge the acrobatic ball kickers and the splishy-splashy toddlers and the guitar strummers and the parade of fabulous abs and barely-bikinis, all the way to the north end.

Here, get wet. You must.

If still thirsty, cross the road to the North Bondi RSL, the northern bookend of Bondi’s beachside clubs, and perch on its balcony. Or, across the road from the North Bondi Surf Life Saving Club, you’ll find lifesaving coffee at Porch & Parlour, the proprietor of which, Louise Shaw, while working as a barista to fund her university studies, travelled to Indonesia for field research on the supply chain of specialty coffee from farm to cup. See – you’re just 30 seconds from the sand and already frivolous Bondi is capable of a cerebral conversation.

Next, return to the beachfront and its promenade for the sheer spectacle: the calisthenics musclemen defying gravity and human limitation on the parallel bars in the outdoor gym; the Sydney Handstand Club (on Saturdays), whose members apparently include a look-Mum-no-hands subset of synchronised somersaulters; the Bondi Pavilion for its less athletic but equally sea-salted throng of everyday people; and back at the south end, the Bondi Skate Park for more exhibitionists, the aerial acrobats.

But now, you must – must – leave the beachfront. If there’s no time for anything else, a first-timer should climb Bondi’s ascending anterior artery, Hall Street, the heart of the suburb for those of us who live here. Do not pass the Gertrude & Alice Cafe Bookstore. Another American visitor, Oprah Winfrey, didn’t miss it last December and called it the best bookshop in Australia. One of her favourite American authors, Ann Patchett, also visited and went one better: best in the world.

Among my family’s six Bondi addresses was the happiest of dead-end streets, Cox Avenue, the cul-de-sac of which abutted Hall Street. The only sensible way out to buy a loaf of bread was on foot. That could become a one-hour, five-conversation expedition, as it might in the chatty main street of any decent country town. Back home: “You forgot the milk.” So off I’d trot for another hour.

I should have told the American to stroll from Cox to Forest Knoll, another glorious dead end around the corner, and climb its precipitous stairs to Francis Street, then cross to the magical pedestrian lane that connects to Edward Street. Stop in the lane! Here, admire its outdoor gallery of artworks, as I did last month when I discovered an old Bondi friend, Greg Perano, tending to the “exhibition”. I’d been impressed to learn about 35 years ago that Greg was an early percussionist with Australian band Hunters & Collectors. I was more impressed now by his devotion as a Bondi citizen: he had created this gallery with another local, Rex, who named the lane Fredward.

Bondi has many unsung and under-sung heroes. My long-time neighbour Bruce Wynne was among them at the Bondi Surf Bathers Life Saving Club last December when the shooting started. A few of his fellow volunteer lifesavers scrambled into the line of fire to guide children and families into the safety of the clubhouse. Bruce and others gave first aid to shooting victims. He soon learnt that Ahmed al Ahmed, the hero who wrestled the gun from one of the shooters, was among those he helped. Lifesavers, indeed.

And still they come to Bondi Beach, the unrelenting show-off of beach suburbs. Bondi did not surrender to the terror. If it had, that would have dishonoured the 15 who perished. They had come to celebrate. Still Bondi giggles and flirts.

Rick Feneley, a former Herald journalist, has lived in Bondi for four decades. His novel Life After Ted is set in the suburb.