VISITING A GAY MECCA, MY WAY

Okay, so I’ve been halfway there, done half of that. For my entire adult life, I’ve heard about Fire Island and Provincetown as being East Coast gay meccas. Last week I checked out Provincetown.

I realize the “optimal” time to visit is during the summer, but I figured it would be too crowded, too overwhelmingly gay for me. Too many people wanting to be on display and wanting to check out the other displays. Call it a hunch. So early October seemed reasonable. Foliage season. I was already going to Boston. Why not add P-town to the itinerary?

And my first impression was negative. Not too gay, but too touristy. My Cape Cod bed-and-breakfast was on the main street, Commercial, and I had to drive about ten miles per hour, braking constantly as pedestrians took to the middle of the road without a care in the world. Yes, there was signage telling drivers to yield to pedestrians, but at some point that notion can be abused. And that point had been passed! I was cranky by the time I reached my destination. Relieved I’d only arranged to stay one night, I fretted over how I’d spend even that limited period of time.

After checking in, I dutifully meandered, keeping to the sidewalk or the parking lane, modeling how cars and pedestrians can coexist. Really, it wasn’t so hard to do.

None of the shops enticed me but that was fine. I didn’t need a tchotchke to cram into my suitcase. Not even a nifty rainbow t-shirt from the Human Rights Campaign store. I drifted off the main drag and ended up on the beach, gazing at sailboats, puffins and the sea.

Okay, this place has something.

Based on a friend’s recommendation, I later drove to Herring Cove Beach to catch the sunset…and a seal that seemed to like an audience. (Maybe even the seals here are gay.) By nightfall, I was relaxed. But more than anything I looked forward to seeing Provincetown during an early morning jog, when shops would be closed and tourists would still be sleeping off a drink or two too many.

I caught the sunrise from the beach and then from a pier. I ran along Commercial Street, sharing it only with a few delivery trucks and the occasional dog walker. Everything seemed more charming without all that human clutter and clatter. The appeal of P-town started to make sense. Having it all to myself was glorious.

The rain waited until I’d finished my run. I headed up the 252-foot Pilgrim Monument—another recommendation from my friend—to get panoramic views of the area. Remarkably, I had the entire tower to myself as everyone else apparently presumed soggy views weren’t worth the climb. Sure, the raindrops on the windows at the top and the shower from the overhead made me keep my phone camera in my pocket but that served as a reminder that experiences are still worthy even though they are not documented on Instagram. Being the sole visitor was a wonderful contrast to when I fought for elbow room atop the Empire State Building last summer as people posed for selfies. This moment was perfect.

Most gay men would say I didn’t do it right. I missed out on the quintessential Provincetown experience. I wasn’t seen and I didn’t take in the gay scene. No gay bar, no gay-frequented restaurant, not even a conversation or an exchange of looks. I’m okay with that. I got what I wanted—a tamed visual of this gay haven and a solitary exploration.

If I ever return to Provincetown, maybe it will be in February, during the week, when shops are closed down for owners’ extended vacations, when vacancy signs are common and when there is absolutely no excuse for pedestrians walking in the middle of the street. The rainbow flags and the store windows will still remind me that I’m in a gay haven, even if the gays are all in Puerto Vallarta. That’s another mecca I suppose I should visit, whenever the off-season happens to be.

GROVE IS IN THE HEART

Last time I visited San Francisco, I did what all gay men do: I cruised thousands and thousands of shapes, sizes and colors. Of pumpkins. I’m not using a euphemism. I’m really talking pumpkins.

That’s what I get when I stay with my one San Fran friend, a straight married woman. It was October 2008 and she wanted to photograph the uncarved gourds at the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival which is a far bigger draw than you might imagine. If it had been in Cleveland or Pittsburgh or Boise, the folksy festival might have been a big hit with me. But gay men don’t fly to San Francisco for pumpkin postcards.

Five years later, I needed to do something different. I chose to visit during the week when my friend would be working during the day (and when certain veggies are still in the early stages of the growing season).

After wishing her a great day at work, I got in the car and departed suburbia with Google Map directions to take me to Castro Street.

Of course, Castro isn’t exactly a hopping place at 10 a.m. on a Thursday. Like my friend, most people are at work—or sleeping off a wild Wednesday night. (Vacation or not, I don’t think I’d have much in common with the wild weekday set anyway.) My dog Hoover and I walked along the Castro, peeked in all the closed clubs, oohed over all the rainbow flags—Look at all the colors!—and then got back in the car to marvel at the roadway ups and downs while I fretted over all the stop signs impractically positioned in the middle of steep inclines. Surely car insurance costs more in Frisco.

We headed for my second Google Map destination: Golden Gate Park. This would be a place my dog could truly enjoy. (In truth, those rainbow flags did not impress him at all. Perhaps dogs really are color blind.) The destination on this visit to the park was the National AIDS Memorial Grove. I am ashamed to admit that AIDS has fallen off my radar in recent years and I am willing to bet this is a trend amongst gay men and the general public. We’ve become complacent. People traded in their red ribbons for yellow rubber bracelets—at least until a certain someone had a sit-down with Oprah.

Medical and charitable causes are competing more than ever for the same dollars. There are runs, walks, bike rides, dinners and auctions every weekend for one charity or another. The donors are suffering too, partly due to the economy and partly due to Bleeding Heart Burnout. With everyone from grocery store clerks to sign-toting girls’ baseball team members asking for donations, it has gotten easy to say no. I don’t even put my head down or feel a pang of guilt.

But AIDS shouldn’t be lumped in with all the other causes, not for someone like me who came out during the height of the AIDS crisis and whose participation in the L.A. AIDS Walk made him The Gay One in his law school class. (There were others, of course, but I was the outed one at ultra-conservative Pepperdine University.)

It was both a relief and a disappointment to visit the AIDS memorial without anyone else around. Indeed, I had the opportunity for quiet contemplation, reflecting on how AIDS served as a death sentence for so many proud, defiant people who dutifully took their AZT and dealt with the side effects of diarrhea, nausea and unhealthy looking tans while continuing to face extreme weight loss, blotched skin and an increasing dependence of canes, walkers and wheelchairs. In the early ‘90s, we all knew who had AIDS; people could only conceal it a month or two at most.

Undisturbed, I read the inscriptions on every rock and honored the named and the nameless. I remembered my friends who were part of my AIDS Project Los Angeles Buddy group, My first love arose directly from the AIDS crisis as he was a coordinator of APLA’s Buddy Program and my facilitator pulled the two of us on the dance floor in a matchmaking gesture at a volunteer appreciation event. I recalled the AIDS quilt, watching the documentary (the Oscar-winning “Common Threads: Stories from the Quilt” narrated by Dustin Hoffman and featuring a haunting score by Bobby McFerrin) and seeing a part of it on exhibit. More than anything, I remembered Stephen and Don, the two men I connected with, at first solely because of their AIDS status since I was assigned as their Buddy. Stephen, in particular, remains a strong part of my life twenty-one years after his death.

Rocks form Dry Creek, a representation of what we
lost due to AIDS. 

Reflection ultimately turned to tears and I sat on one of the dedicated benches to weep as my dog looked on, perplexed, licking my leg in comfort.

Here’s where the disappointment came in. It saddened me even more to realize no one interrupted my thoughts. Granted this was a working day for most, but Golden Gate Park is a tourist draw which attracts 13 million people per year. On a mild summer day, how could I possibly have this section of the park all to myself?

Meandering through the grove, I ultimately came upon a clearing, an open field area bordered by unused handball courts. I sought out a restroom

and then tried to stroll back through the grove. Due to my complete lack of direction, I couldn’t find the grove again. The dog was content to amble aimlessly as I attempted to walk back in toward the start of the memorial. I wound up far off the mark, but signs ultimately guided me back to the car. I stopped once more at the entrance of the memorial, this time disturbed as a horde of tourists on Segway PTs gathered to listen to a guide explain the memorial. Finally, some recognition. The Segway tour felt tacky but no more so than hooking up with a grocery chain to peddle your cause.

Even though it was only early afternoon, I headed back for suburbia. I was done being a gay tourist for the day, not on account of getting lost. No, I’ve become blasé about that sort of predicament. But I’d broken another form of blasé and felt more empowered because of it.

Turns out daytime San Francisco isn’t much different from daytime Cleveland, Pittsburgh or Boise. Still my dog is well walked and I am thankful I found the car. And no pumpkins! My vacation standards are getting lower all the time. Still, San Francisco does have the AIDS Memorial Grove and that makes all the difference. It is what I needed, so much more than an overpriced glass of ice with a dash of Dewar’s, even more than a cheap ogling from a well-dressed octogenarian.

I’ll end this post with a dedication to Stephen and a quote inscribed on a stone wall at the grove:

May we all remember our lives are not measured by the number of years and days we exist

but by what we accomplish while we do live and the good we may render our fellow man. 
             –Henry Wells