RE-ENTERING THE RED ZONE

There’s an unofficial understanding that, as a Canadian, I am not supposed to be travelling in the United States. I have a few friends who have refused to cross the border for many years, probably dating back to Trump’s first term as president. To them, the U.S. seems like a scary place or, at least, a place that is extremely foreign compared to Canada where citizens seem to be considerably more tolerant of differences and much less inclined to discuss political opinions. We express our views at the voting box (or via mail-in ballots), not loudly at a table at a local café. The “unofficial” avoidance of going to the U.S. officially began around the time of Trump’s second term when he started taking pot-shots at Canada, stating it should be the 51^st state and rushing to impose tariffs on one of what are traditionally the closest allies of the U.S.

 

A year and a half later, Trump still occasionally mentions the 51^st state thing to rile Canadians, distract Americans and be a commonplace menace. Many Canadians continue to choose other countries to visit.

 

I don’t have a choice. I go to the U.S. because I lived there for sixteen years from 13 to 30. My family continues to live in Texas and Colorado. I’m the only one who decided to return to Canada. My boyfriend, whom I met in Seattle in 2022 during Biden’s presidency, also lives in the U.S., currently Colorado as well. I’ve viewed visiting American friends as a luxury and have thus avoided trips to Boston, Cedar Rapids, Tulsa and Los Angeles, but I will not end my relationship with Evan just because Americans put Trump back in the White House. A president will not be the end of us. So, yes, hello again, Colorado.

 

It used to be that my parents would fly to Vancouver to visit me and I would fly to the family cottage in Ontario to fit in a second visit with them. But all that changed a couple of years ago. My parents, now eighty-six and eighty-nine, are done with navigating airports and flying places. They also can’t handle the altitude in Colorado so they’ve stopped visiting my sister and their granddaughter here. 

 

In order to see them, I must do so on American soil. I can no longer avoid entry to Texas. This is an early Father’s Day visit, five days in completely air-conditioned spaces because outside temperatures rest in the thirties (in Celsius, not that Texans or Coloradans or other Americans, for that matter, know anything about that scale). Basically, it’s going to be very, very hot for the entire time I’m there so I’ll find “relief” immersed in very, very cold artificial indoor conditions. 

 

Oh, if only temperatures were the only significant adjustment for this Canadian.

 

My parents voted for Trump in 2016, 2020 and 2024. My mother purports to be an “Independent” but, when I ask if she’s ever voted for a Democratic candidate for president in the forty-eight years she’s lived in the U.S., the answer is no. (She did once vote for third-party hopeful Ross Perot.) 

 

Over the years, we’ve had some heated phone calls when anything political comes into conversation. I think the only issues we’ve ever agreed on are gun control and Queen Elizabeth II had ugly purses. There is no other common ground. 

 

This wouldn’t be so problematic but for the fact my parents are news junkies. When I step out of the guest bedroom in the morning, a news program is on. It may well have already been playing for an hour and it will continue for at least another hour. I sit in a chair in the living room, ostensibly to be social, biting my tongue every time either parent adds their own commentary about the news. I have a rebuttal at the ready, but I’ve learned it’s better to search for new Instagram followers instead and “like” the latest photos from Lake Bled in Slovenia and the striking landscapes of the Lofoten Islands in Norway.

 

All is well as my parents step out onto the balcony for breakfast and I take my rental car to a local café to write, the one with a biblical quote from Luke taking up a whole wall. 

 

Evenings are dicier. My parents tune in for another hour of news, first on Fox News—yep, that network—and then on CBS. My mother always chimes in about fairness of Fox, especially when it comes to her favoured news anchor, Bret Baier. Typically, I sit through one Fox newscast per visit. I’m genuinely curious about what biases it is feeding my parents. (The days of unbiased news coverage officially died when Trump first campaigned for president, the final nail in the coffin coming when Kellyanne Conway repeatedly talked straight-faced of “alternative facts.”)

 

After my first sit-through of Fox News, I retreat to the bedroom for subsequent broadcasts of the evening news. I read the news as presented by CBC (the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) and scan the headlines on CNN’s website. I’m as up on the news of the day as much as I want to be. 

 

Given our striking differences in almost everything political, my parents and I have reached an unofficial détente whereby we don’t engage when one of us expresses a political view. This came to be a few years ago during my parents’ last trip to Vancouver. As I popped up to my parents’ room after dinner in the hotel restaurant, my mother stepped into the bathroom and, by the time she stepped out, my father and I were yelling at one another, my father insisting that Hunter Biden was wholly relevant to the assessment of Joe Biden’s presidency. I was incensed that he would see things that way and he was equally incensed that I didn’t.

 

After decades of no-win political disputes, enough was enough. Under no circumstances would my parents change my opinions and the same applied to my own impassioned arguments. The impasse would always be. 

 

The dynamics can be tricky in a newsy household as it’s two against one during my visits. I tell myself that, when my parents express a political view, they are conversing with one another, not me. I don’t ask them to turn off the news or to even watch a little less. I will always be the guest now on visits. It’s their home. They have their own habits and make their own choices about how to be informed and entertained.

 

It's only five days. I’ve got this. 

AGE ADJUSTMENT

As the decades pass, I keep shifting the bar regarding what is old. I’m closer to sixty-two than sixty-one and I know there was a time I thought sixty was old. I’m embarrassed to say that, in my twenties, I thought forty was old. Oh, to be so young again. (Forty, not twenty.)

 

Despite the fact I usually feel young for my age, I found myself doubting that this past week. Exercise at high altitude in the mountains can do that. 

 

For work purposes, Evan is moving to the Roaring Fork Valley of Colorado, a corridor that includes the ski areas of Aspen and Snowmass. We spent four days last week in Snowmass Village as he connected with colleagues, worked on new projects and looked for housing. (So expensive!) 

 

I used the small-but-good-enough hotel gym for one day’s workout but then did back-to-back days of biking roads and trails that run from Snowmass to Aspen and from Snowmass to Basalt. It’s the rides that had me feeling my actual age. 

 

Looking back, I would not say that my twenties were my fittest decade. I was still figuring things out. What were all those gym machines? Who were all those buff guys who seemed to have established routines and seethed with impatience as I worked with light weights on the cables? Why jog when it was such a sweaty experience? I loved tennis, but I struggled with back pain, popping Motrin and, on one occasion, lying on my office floor, door shut, unable to get up as I repeatedly called out to my admin assistant for help.  No, the twenties were plain awkward in terms of fitness.

 

It was during my thirties that everything clicked—in fitness, in work, in life. I wasn’t quite there, but I was beginning to realize I knew a lot less than I thought I did during the years from sixteen through twenty-nine. Not knowing brought on humility and a greater sense of relaxation—I didn’t need to know it all. I still found the gym intimidating, but I went more regularly and I knew which machines felt good with my body and which ones just made me look like a struggling fool. (Way too many mirrors!) 

 

From my forties until now, I’ve been relentless about exercising. I ignore the steroid-y dudes bench pressing twice my body weight and grunting loudly as they drop the barbell after a leg press set. (I’d say they grunt while sipping from their water bottle too, but I can’t confirm it…being as I’m ignoring them and all.) I still don’t like sweating while jogging and biking—especially when sunscreen seeps into my eyes—but I’ve accepted that it’s proof of exertion. I know that my form sucks, but I still swim laps at the pool, doing my own version of a flip turn, a roll that would make Michael Phelps and actual pool mates laugh. Despite all my workout flaws, I follow that old Nike slogan—Just do it!—and I even consider myself athletic, not just for someone who is sixty-something but even at a level for thirty-year-olds. Yes, I keep up!

 

But, oh, Roaring Fork Valley, you had me doubting myself. You humbled me. At the beginning on that first day when I set out on my bike to go to Aspen, the most exercise I was getting involved my hands as I kept squeezing the brakes on the curvy downhill route from the hotel above Snowmass Village. I might have even laughed if I hadn’t been aware that, as a cyclist going round trip, what goes down must come up. Yes, it would be a grind, but I told myself that’s what first gear is for. I would just make the adjustment and pedal my way back to the top, breathing evenly, keeping my head down so as not to be overwhelmed by how steep the incline was. 

 

There is always a learning curve in cycling a route for the first time. I don’t know what’s ahead and often find myself shifting gears too late as hills seem to rise out of nowhere. The road (and bike path) to Aspen were no exception. At one point, I had to dismount and walk my bike up one hill as I swear a couple of Steller’s jays laughed at me—loudly, too. (I reclassified them as mocking-birds.)

 

It didn’t help that, as a fair-skinned Canadian who prefers vacations in Iceland and Sweden, I was still adjusting to the Colorado heat, the temperatures above thirty degrees and I’d foolishly set out without a water bottle. 

Once I reached Aspen, I walked my sweaty, messy self into a bougie coffee shop and ordered a ten-dollar iced latte. (Oh, Aspen.) I knew I didn’t fit with the wealthy clientele so I grabbed my drink and walked my bike around town, window shopping at the Prada store and listening to a busker sing a cover of John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High.” (Of course.)

 

Afternoon storm clouds nudged me to down my latte and get back on-trail to make the return trip. The overall distance was typical for me in summer though longer than what I’d been doing throughout the winter and spring. It was a decent challenge, the right stuff to shift me into summer mode. The return route provided a long, slow incline and my legs felt it enough so that I frequently shifted into lower gears, something I usually avoid doing for all but the most obvious hills. There was a switchback area behind the Aspen airport that had my mind flashing forward, fretting about how I would handle the mountainous stretch in Snowmass. One kilometre at a time, I reminded myself. Enjoy (or endure) the moment…

 

Instead of birds that mocked, I had to avoid cursing at the people on e-bikes who powered past, their legs opting for a pedal-free experience. (Eighty-five percent of “cyclists” were using e-bikes, half of them using them as nothing more than a sit-down version of an electric scooter.) 

 

When I reached the steep incline at Snowmass, I went easy on myself and the gears. I followed the plan. First gear, head down. Our hotel was above the village, where parking lots were numbered from one to our lot, lucky number thirteen. I made it to lot ten before I had to stop as a panted profusely. Even in low gear, I could not restart the pedalling effort, the hill being far too steep. I tried not to feel defeated as I walked up the final two hundred metres. I told myself the trek was not diminished by a short uphill stroll to the bike rack. I had done it. A good workout as my tight legs attested. 

 

I hadn’t planned to bike again the next day, but Evan needed the car for work and I felt restless after a short writing session at a café in the Village and staring at the partial view from the hotel room. I switched into my bike gear, slapped on the sunscreen and headed back down the mountain for a ride in the other direction to Basalt. It would be my longest ride in many months, but I told myself that, except for the final mountain ascent, the trail would be flatter. My still sore legs would appreciate a “lighter” workout. For the most part, the ride toBasalt proved to be a comfortable ride. Only one stretch looked like it would be a particular challenge on the way back before I had to tackle Snowmass Village. 

 

The temperatures were once again hot and, by the time I finally reached for the water bottle I’d remembered to bring, the water was warm. Once again, I stopped for an iced latte when I’d reached the turn-around point, this time in the charming, historic town of Basalt. My legs sent signals that they felt achy, but I did my best to prevent any whining from filtering up to my brain. I headed back, smiling proudly on account of the distance I’d travelled. I told myself that, worst-case scenario, I could take a slow but steady approach on the return leg, stopping all I wanted, refreshing myself whenever necessary by gulping down water that was now unequivocally hot. 

 

But as is so often the case, my mind went rogue, ignoring my legs, brushing aside any plan to be like the tortoise in that classic race against the hare. I knew I was in for a grind shortly after leaving Basalt when I took a wrong turn and dead-ended in a neighbourhood. To get back on-trail, I had to face an extra uphill segment that went on for half a kilometre. This was just the beginning of the trip back and, whoa, my legs were already protesting. 

 

Ignore, ignore.

 

There were distance markers I hadn’t even noticed along the bike path on the way to Basalt but now I found myself spotting each one and longing for the tiny, faded half-mile signs to show up sooner. So many to spot; so far left to go.

 

Once reaching the base of Snowmass and taking the tunnel under the highway, I had only four kilometres to go. I knew the last half (which had been part of my Aspen ride) would be difficult, but I didn’t realize how tough the first half—a sprawling meadow area with a series of smaller dips and rises—would be. Let the water breaks begin. 

 

In the end, I dismounted at the first lot instead of the tenth and walked my bike the rest of the way. My legs were pedalled out. My pride was severely bruised. I let my sunglasses mask much of the disappointment on my face. 

 

It’s been a couple of years since I last did the 140-kilometre, uphill/downhill roundtrip trek from my condo in Vancouver to Squamish, BC. My Snowmass experiences had me wondering if such outings are a thing of the past. Were my challenges just a sign that I was only at the beginning of summer biking season or had I gotten “too old”? Was an e-bike in my near future? I reminded myself that no one on a regular bike had passed me on my four-hour ride along the busier Rio Grande Trail to and from Basalt. I assured myself that I could still keep up with thirty-somethings. Alas, the assurances fell flat. I felt old. Sixty-one, if not older. 

 

Four days later, I am still shaken from the experience. Have I reached a tipping point where I am too old for more things than just rave events, rap music and TikTok? Is it time to take up pickleball? Lawn bowling? Bridge? 

 

In a day or two, I’ll get back on my bike and ride for hours along the flatter bike paths in and around Denver. I’ll tell myself I still feel like I’m in my thirties (maybe thirty-nine instead of thirty-six). Still, I can’t help but think the aging clock is ticking faster. It won’t slow down; instead, it seems I will. As that now-old movie from 1994 says, Reality Bites. 

HAPPY PRIDE

Another June, another Pride, another month of queer books, movies, history and people getting more of a spotlight. As I’m spending June in the U.S. instead of Canada this year, I know things will be slightly more muted due to less corporate sponsorship and more political on account of an administration intent on rolling back gains, tainting history and scaring its base in portraying trans rights as “threats.”

 

I am fortunate to be spending most of the month in Colorado which has a gay Democratic governor, Jared Polis, and two Democratic senators, Michael Bennet and John Hickenlooper. Polis has been married to Marlon Reis since 2021 and the couple has two children. 

 

Still, things feel very different from back home in Vancouver. Evan and I freely hold hands in Denver and he often moves in for a quick kiss—things I’d be far less comfortable doing in a red state—but I feel less at ease as we venture to more remote areas such as his family cabin and on hiking trails in the Colorado mountains. I have no stats to back me up but the more pickup trucks I see in a community, the more conservative it seems. Evan listens to NPR most of the day and, while it is purportedly a left-leaning news source, the station is fixated on Donald Trump. “Trump this” and “Trump that…” My mood drops as my level of agitation rises. Without fail, I find myself begging Evan to switch to a soft jazz station. He quickly honors my request, but I can tell he’s totally used to All-Things-Trump when I’m away. Such is the state of the union.

 

I expect a harsher political climate if I make a planned visit to see my parents in East Texas sometime this month. When I was there eight months ago, I stopped at sixteen gas stations, grocery stores and book shops on a Sunday in search of a New York Times. There didn’t seem to be a copy anywhere in Tyler, a city with a population of 115,000. My parents will sit for their daily dose of Fox News. Trump bumper stickers will be rampant. I Googled “Pride Tyler Texas” and the main event will not include something so public as a parade; instead, on Saturday, June 20, there will be food trucks, vendors and art displays inside a conference center, an event organized by Tyler Area Gays (TAG+). 

 

I can’t imagine what it would be like spending June or any month in many of the places I drove through in Southern Washington, Eastern Oregon, Idaho and Utah on my way to Denver. I would never want to return to the confused, lonelier, closeted existence I experienced while attending high school and university in Texas. All that was a long, long time ago but, aside from online connections, I don’t think I’d feel much better there in 2026. Life felt dramatically freer once I moved to Los Angeles in 1989.

 

I’d like to spend much of this month reflecting on the good fortune that has led me into a healthy, loving relationship with Evan, reaching out to the few gay friends who remain in my life and honouring those who died of AIDS and other causes. I’d like to ponder more about marrying Evan, a subject I didn’t even think possible when I landed in L.A. And I’d like to enjoy the two books I’m currently reading, Queer by Beatnik member William S. Burroughs and The Journalist of Castro Street, a biography of the late gay writer Randy Shilts (And the Band Played On; The Mayor of Castro Street).

 

Generally, during a day or month of celebration, it’s all about gratitude and festivities but in the eleven years that have passed since the U.S. Supreme Court affirmed marriage equality, there has been an alarming backslide in rights, in open expressions of queer support and in the movement toward understanding and accepting trans people and those who identify as one of the Plus groups under the LGBTQ+ umbrella. I continue to receive emails from and follow the website for Advocates for Trans Equality (A4TE) as a way to stay informed and to consider personal political actions. I check the Advocate’s website weekly for affirming stories while also reading about setbacks at the state and city levels that have slipped through mainstream media coverage. Basically, I continue to be on guard and to not take my rights and freedoms for granted. To do otherwise would be a manifestation of foolish Pride. Alas, this is not a time for complacency. 

 

To other queers and queer allies, enjoy the positive, fun activities scheduled for this month, but I hope you also find time for self-education and honing a reality check of where things stand in terms of LGBTQ+ issues in the U.S., in Canada and around the world. We are stronger when we stay informed and involved.