The other day, while telling stories from my childhood, over breakfast with my love, I was reminded that my first love was a Maori hula dancer from Guam. She was a beautiful woman with long straight hair down to her bum and she danced in a lounge act that packaged all of the Pacific into an improbable evening to be enjoyed with colourful cocktails in a restaurant called The Paddock, on the rooftop of the Hilton Hotel in Kuala Lumpur circa 1974.
I went to The Paddock often with my father during this period, his date while he was in between girlfriends. I would wear my "going-out" clothes, which at this time was a red t-shirt and a yellow long skirt. I cannot remember the name of my hula dancer now, but the love was mutual. She too fell in love with me. I went to see the show a number of times (either my father was quite supportive of my love life or he was lusting after the nubile young dancers himself). It all culminated in a lunch date with said hula dancer. She sat next to me in my dad's car, an orchid in her hair. I was in awe of her skin, her scent and her beauty. She joked about packing me into her suitcase and taking me with her. Long after she had left, I wished it had been possible.