KEEPING MUM DESPITE OPPORTUNITIES TO SPEAK GAY

It was a rainy welcome when I arrived by train from Vaasa, Finland to Helsinki. I grabbed a cab, checked in and went to a nearby café someone recommended on an online blog. (It was okay, but I won’t pass the baton with a further recommendation.) As I left the café, I noticed several tourist pamphlets and took a few. This form of paper advertisement is no better nor worse than random online sources. Still, one brochure stood out.

 

The main heading on the front of the pamphlet said, “WE SPEAK GAY…FINLAND.” I added it to my little stack. 

 

In truth, six days later and in a different country, Estonia, I am only now glancing through it.[1] I consider the brochure more of a novelty souvenir than something that would have helped navigate my stay in Helsinki.  

 

Helsinki's Oodi Library

Before I travel—often only the night before arriving at a destination—I will Google a few things online. Typically, I look for museums and special exhibits, best coffee spots, bakeries and the central library. Food is not an issue. As a vegetarian with an eating disorder, restaurants are not a highlight, especially as a solo traveler, which is my preference. I simply look up the closest grocery store once I get to the hotel.

 

I don’t give any thought to looking for gay things—bars, bathhouses, bookstores. Why would I park myself on a stool, drinking a margarita, when I could be out seeing the city (or prepping for the next day’s agenda which usually begins before sunrise? I know many gay seek a sexual encounter as part of the “pleasure” component of the trip. I’m not adverse to it, but I don’t establish eye contact in bars and men use apps just as ineffectively abroad as they do back in Vancouver. Why would I respond to a faceless “Hey”? Why would I be interested in a profile that fills in nothing? I am quick to stop checking my one app. Really, if I have nothing to do, it’s easier and perhaps more pleasurable to read my new book. 

 

A romance, go figure.

 

My aversion to a gaycation goes back to one of my early boyfriends, Gary, whom I met through a newspaper personal ad in L.A. It was the type where you had to send a note to a related box number in care of the paper.  Old days. Similar to online messaging in terms of process, but a written note required words beyond “Hey” or “Wassup.” Can you imagine getting a letter and that’s all it said? Trash can. (This was before recycling.) Standards have changed for many, but a “Hey” still goes immediately to trash for me.

 

Gary and I didn’t travel much during our year and a half together. San Diego, Santa Barbara, San Francisco. The loveliest trip involved seeing San Simeon and staying in a cabin in Ragged Point as raccoons stared in and we stared back. The city visits were not as fun. Gary’s primary objective was to check out the gay bars, of which there were more back then. I didn’t see the point. He never danced; just sat on a stool, smoking one cigarette after another while keeping a growing bar tab. Part of me was insecure. Why did we have to be immersed in gays when we had each other? I’d hoped being in a relationship meant I could stop going to bars. But then Gary was the alcoholic, not me. He was getting something out of it, not me. 

 

Gay bars on holiday? Not me.

 

I also have never planned my travels around Pride celebrations. I’m not a parade guy. I love dancing, but I’m not a raver. Pride would, in fact, be a reason for me to reschedule my trip to a different weekend. I know this makes me sound sad or sour. I am neither. I did the Rose Bowl back in 2010 when my school, TCU, won the game. That won’t likely happen again in my lifetime. Mardi Gras, Mexico City’s Day of the Dead and anything to do with Carnival in Rio are the only parades left on my bucket list. Carnival is a distinct event. Pride in Amsterdam or Munich or Taipei? Pass. I don’t need to see how they do queer parades in London or compare the abs of twenty-two-year-olds atop floats in Barcelona versus Sydney. With Pride generating big turnouts more than ever, hotel prices are bound to be higher and the non-Pride events may have larger crowds. These are the same reasons I don’t travel to Europe in summer. I love taking photos and I don’t want every shot of Mona Lisa or the Trevi Fountain photobombed by people’s shoulders. 

 

This has been my fifth trip to Sweden which I broadened to include bits of Finland and Estonia. I know I am safe in Sweden. I know I don’t have to repress mannerisms that might be viewed as stereotypically gay. Swedish society is incredibly progressive. More than that, they give you space and leave you alone unless you approach them. My gayness is not an issue. 

 

Helsinki harbor

I felt Finland would be similar. Nothing about my stay made me worry or think I should tone anything down. If you’ve read this much, you probably think this non-raving, parade hater, hookup app critic has nothing to tone down. You might say, if I toned things down more, I  would be flatlining. I do like good conversation, good times and big laughs, all just on a smaller scale.

 

Perhaps I should have read up on gay rights in Estonia. It is, after all, a former Soviet Socialist Republic. The Soviets weren’t known for individuality or freedom of speech and expression. 

 

Here is my belated research on the status of a couple basic gay rights in each of the countries I visited, with Canada (where I live) and the U.S. (where I’ve lived) thrown in for comparison.   

 

Here are the relevant countries ranked based on when homosexuality was decriminalized at the national level: 

              Sweden – 1944

      Canada – 1969 

      Finland – 1971

      Estonia - 1992

              U.S. – 2003

 

Here they are ranked based on when marriage equality became a national right:

              Canada – 4^th in world, since 2005 

              Sweden – 7^th, 2009

              U.S. – 17^th, 2015

              Finland – 20^th, 2017

              Estonia – 35^th, Jan. 1, 2024

 

With a few countries having gay marriage pending, we’re at about forty countries in the world that allow this. It says something that, yes, Estonia is now on the list. It may say even more that homosexuality was decriminalized so soon after the fall of the Soviet Union and more than a decade before the U.S. 

 

Yes, a safe trip. They speak gay in Finland. I’d say they speak it in Sweden, too. Estonia as well. Assumptions, to be sure, Finnish pamphlet notwithstanding. Quite honestly, I spent this trip with my mind on the frequency of Ukrainian flags more than gay men. How does anyone visit Helsinki and use a gay pamphlet as a conduit to all-things-gay without considering how Finland shares a border with Russia. Same for Estonia. 

 

Awakening Faun by Finnish artist
Magnus Enckell

I also went to several art museums, my mind focused on how hard it is for a talented, successful artist in one country to have their work seen and appreciated elsewhere. I saw much that was on a level with Rembrandt, Picasso, O’Keeffe and Warhol. Presumably, the Finns and Estonians know and are proud of their own art wunderkinds. If only the art world were better at broadening the platform and elevating the exposure and status of painters like Finns Sam Vanni, Tyko Sallinen and Magnus Enckell as well as Estonians such as Henn Roode, Olga Terri, Peet Aren and Eduard Ole.   

 

Beyond that, My Big Non-Gay Vacation involved lots of cafés where I wrote and people watched, bike rides to get me beyond city centers and runs through the forest, along the Baltic and in my favorite park spaces in Stockholm. 

 

I didn’t speak gay this trip. I didn’t speak Finnish or Estonian either. I read small amounts of Swedish but didn’t dare speak it despite five years of daily practice. The only different speaking turned out to be French which I slogged through with a lovely straight couple from Normandy while we tried to navigate how to use public transit to reach the Tallinn airport. Bus drivers didn’t speak gay or English or maybe even Estonian. They just stared gruffly, a very clear form of nonverbal communication. 

 

Speaking anything is not always necessary.

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[1] The actual pamphlet is a listing of a hundred businesses throughout Finland…a few gay bars but mainly restaurants and hotels. There is reference to a pledge these businesses take to show their commitment to the LGBTQ+ community. The closest I could find to a pledge on their website is the following:

“We stand together against homophobia, transphobia and all kind of discrimination. We are working for a safer and more inclusive society.” All good. 

  

IN A RELATIONSHIP, TRAVELING SOLO

A dear friend of mine is a seasoned international traveler. She and her husband are both teachers and they take every fifth year off to see the world. (Oh, what a luxury: job security!) Her adventures are documented through professional-caliber photos and enchanting blog entries. She has a way about her that allows her to connect with virtually anyone. Even close to home, an ordinary stop in a bookstore becomes a meant-to-be interaction with a stranger, both of them clearly benefiting from the experience. We could visit the same place in the world, one of us starting out five minutes ahead of the other and we’d have entirely different experiences, mine fun but ordinary, hers a captivating tale. (I keep telling her she’s got what it takes to be published as a travel writer, but she’s a humble soul, quick dismiss my praise.) 

 

One of the things I admire most about her and her husband’s travels is that they spend much of their travel year apart. One year she chose to see India while he headed for Peru. At some point, they met up in Costa Rica. I’ve always loved that they can be happily married—which has always been apparent—and yet they can maintain an individuality, nourishing their own curiosities, continuing to grow alone while ultimately thriving together.

 

I want that.

 

At least, that’s what I’ve always told myself. 

 

The biggest obstacle has been obvious. Oftentimes, I haven’t had a partner with whom to travel separately. Hey, fictional boyfriend (who, as a fictional image, I’ll say is a doppelgänger for Ryan Reynolds), enjoy your three months in South Korea while I’m in Slovenia. Meet me in Morocco. Alas, I waited and waited for days in Marrakesh. My Ryan was a no-show.

 

Another obstacle has been that travel has never gone well when I’ve had a partner. Weekend in San Francisco? Disaster. Nostalgic visit to Dallas and Fort Worth where I lived for eight years? Our “special” dinner after hours of bickering in the rental car which didn’t seem to have functioning headlights? Subway sandwiches, for god’s sake. Road trip to L.A.? He wanted to head home without me.

 

So, yeah, maybe just the travel alone while in a relationship. I’ll “like” each of your Facebook pics from Cleveland, Doppelgänger Ryan, if you “like” each of mine from Budapest. (Yes, I’m damn well going to have a better trip than Ryan.)

 

I’m in a relationship now. (Hallelujah!) Evan and I have traveled well together so far. Our second date was an entire weekend in a quaint rural part of northwestern Washington. We’ve spent another fabulous weekend together in central Washington and had a romantic four days in New York City. The blips have been few. One, maybe two. I swear I cannot even recall what they were about.

 

At the moment, we’re both traveling but in separate places, an ocean between us. He’s visiting parents and friends at his Airstream trailer in Taos, New Mexico while I’m spending two weeks in Iceland and Sweden. His trip had been planned months before we met. His parents duly booked a nearby Airbnb. He likes schedules and looking far ahead. Evan’s joked about merging our calendars—okay, I don’t really think he’s joking—but I keep saying my calendar is always blank. I’m perhaps an anti-planner. Whims work. I didn’t start looking into my trip until two weeks beforehand and was still making reservations while at the airport in Vancouver.    

 

So there it is. I got what I asked for. A guy in my life and a trip on my own. Healthy. Enlightened. Far from codependent.  

 

And yet it’s glitchy. We’ve only been together three months. It should be merely a slight extension of the reality of our relationship. Time apart is something we deal with on a weekly basis. We live in different cities. There is already an international border between us. That sounds more dramatic than it is. Seattle and Vancouver are three hours apart when the traffic flow is good and the border wait isn’t so bad. Things have evolved into us having long weekends together such that we see each other four days a week. 

 

The gayest part of my trip has 
been taking a photo of Rainbow
Street (which is not much more
than a crosswalk) in Reykjavik.

Instead of three days apart, it will be nineteen. That’s a big chunk in a new relationship. I think we feel as secure as we can be with this early test of time and distance. Still, there are what ifs. We’ve given each other plenty of reassurances. For my part, I’ve made it clear that dashing to a city’s gay bar or cruising locals on my phone has never been my thing. When I travel, I go to art museums, I map out scenic runs and bike rides, I search for quirky local color and I set out to find the best pour over coffee. Basically, I seek solitude. I love the fact that everyone is a complete stranger and the introvert in me recalls what my parents and teachers instilled in me when I was five: Don’t talk to strangers. Yes, I know I’m missing out on fascinating interactions that my teacher friend falls into but, even if I were to engage in talk, it would only make me break out in a sweat and I’m already stressed over the fact that public laundromats are nonexistent in Iceland and Sweden. The most engaging conversation I had during my six days in Iceland was with a couple of sheep that wanted their picture taken. (Apparently, they haven’t mastered the selfie.) 

 

View from walking along the crater
of Hverfjall in northern Iceland.

I’m still enjoying my adventures. I’m thankful that no one is saying, “How ’bout sleeping in tomorrow?” or “Let’s make today all about Vikings” or, gasp, “ABBA is overrated.” I only have myself to blame over getting sick immediately after eating the dal plate at that vegan restaurant in Reykjavik and no one had to bear my frequent wincing the evening I injured myself in a poorly laid out hotel bathroom in Akureyri. Again, my choice of accommodation. No finger pointing over the broken toe. But Evan comes to mind frequently each day. Swans! (Evan loves swans.) Lilacs all over Visby. (Evan loves lilacs, too.) He’d have loved hiking along a volcanic crater (though maybe not four of them; Iceland is teeming with them). Oh, how we’d have laughed at the room I booked on a ship in Stockholm. The boat was more like a tin can that floats (for now, at least) and the room felt more like a dog’s crate. 

 

He would have laughed, wouldn’t he?

 

I’ve been sharing pics. It’s not the same. I miss the guy. 

 

Atop another volcanic crater, this one 
Eldfell on Haiemay Island off the
southern coast of Iceland. Windy 
conditions and, when going solo, 
I didn't have to fret about 
every hair being in place.

The time difference makes communication challenging. I have photos and texts awaiting me when I awake each morning and the same goes for him. We’ve tried a daily FaceTime chat but the connection has been spotty and, for the last two days, nonexistent. It’s rare that I look forward to a trip ending, but aside from giving my credit card a rest, there’s a silver lining in going home. I’ll have one full day to recover in Vancouver before another weekend road trip to Seattle. It will take more discipline than usual to stick reasonably close to the speed limit.

 

It's less than a month before the next trip. Colorado. Both of us. Together and apart. Weirdly, my sister’s home and his family cabin happen to be only thirty minutes away from each other. We may spend a day in separate spaces but, compared to the distance between Gothenburg and Taos, or even Vancouver and Seattle, it’s like we’ll be neighbors. We may even run into one another in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. Time will tell how we’ll negotiate travel. I foresee more solo treks but, I suspect it will be easier once our relationship is more firmly established.

 

The bike I rented, propped up
against the charming hotel I
stayed at in Visby on Sweden's
Gotland Island in the Baltic Sea.

For now, I’m in transit to Uppsala, Sweden and thankful no one is tapping my shoulder, trying to persuade me to venture five kilometers out of the city to see the site where humans were sacrificed in pagan rituals of the 11^th century, their bodies left hanging and rotting in trees. Nope. Not a chance. I’ll be at the botanic gardens (Linnéträdgården) instead. I prefer trees adorned rather basically…leaves, maybe a lovely little nest. And for dinner, I’m good with picking up knäckebröd (crispbread) and cottage cheese at the ICA two blocks from the hotel. Sometimes I think Evan’s rather relieved he’s not traveling with me.

 

 

 

 

 

  

WHAT HAPPENS IN NEW YORK CITY...

I don’t relate to my hair stylist. She’s twenty-four and it can be painful trying to carry on a conversation. When I first started going to her a year ago, I was firm about scissors only. No razors. (I’d had a traumatic experience not once but twice with a surfer/hair cutter twenty-five years ago. He took a razor to the whole back of my head when I’d gone in for a trim.) I’m starting to think a razor might be good. It would speed up the encounter. The problem is, whenever she says something, I’m at a loss for how to respond. “Uh-huh” is all that comes to mind.

Oh, my God! I so hate honey. My mom will try to slip it in a shake or something and I just know. I’ll say, “You put honey in this” and she knows she’s busted. Honey is just really so disgusting.

Uh-huh.

I don’t even have an entry point with her topics—Hipsters (they’re like honey), broken artificial fake nails (somehow they’re very painful), televisions in kitchens (Certain channels are okay, but I didn’t follow with the explanation.).

She goes to Cabo San Lucas every year and she knows all the really nice hotels, but she doesn’t stay there because the party hotel is way better. It’s where things happen.

Uh-huh. I could have said more. I could have said, “All I want is a decent night’s sleep.”

Uh-huh.

And that’s my problem. Okay, it’s not a problem, but it makes me feel different from not only my hair stylist but from most gay men. Not gay men my age—although quite a few of them, still—but gay men at some point in their lives. Younger. Nearer to the time they came out. I’ve heard the stories. The twink in Sydney. The threeway in New Orleans. The hors d’oeuvre, the main course and the late night snack in London.

When away from home, have at it. Hook up. Let a local show you his bedroom (or dark alley) hospitality. Bring someone back for hotel sex.

I don’t have a problem with it. Do what you want. My only qualifier is, if you’re in a relationship, you honor it and whatever agreements you and your partner have made before the trip. Have a good time. I want to be clear that I’m not a prude. (Maybe a little.) I entertain the fantasy of hotel sex or something else (probably not the alley though). Wouldn’t it be freeing?! No strings! Or maybe a same-time-next-year kind of arrangement.

When I’m single, I think about this possibility before every trip. And on my trip last week to New York City, I felt open to it. But the same thing happened that always happens. I arrive and I am absolutely certain that’s not what I want. I don’t even Google gay places anymore—clubs, baths, piano bars. I know I’m not going.

I’ve thought back on all my trips and I realize I haven’t had a What Happens in Vegas/Stockholm/Dublin/Peoria experience…ever. Where’s the possibility of a relationship? I get the sense that makes me an anomaly. Again, not a prude. (Can you detect the defensiveness?) The idea is exciting but I know myself too well. The experience would be empty. Good in the moment but then…nothing. I’d rather try for that decent night’s sleep so I can pack more things in during the next day, taking in art, green space, coffee culture and observing the similarities and differences in how people interact and get around in the place I’m visiting. Nowadays it’s easy enough to have a hookup at home. The ensuing emptiness seems more fitting to deal with there than messing with my mind and time on vacation.

Without any defensiveness whatsoever, I can say I thoroughly enjoyed my trip to The Big Apple. What happened in New York may bore the hell out of some gossip-hungry gays at a Vancouver gay bar but, no surprise, I’m not going there either. So, yes, I can entertain the thought of something random here on home turf, but, as you might imagine, I think I still would prefer trying for more sleep time.

Uh-huh.

RECONSIDERING THE GAYCATION

Once upon a time, long, long ago, I was part of a series of long-term relationships. Travel was an exciting part of being with a partner. I wanted to have our pictures taken in distant places. Look at us! We have our arms around each other! We’re smiling! We’re happy! We’re in love!

Photos don’t lie.

I loved the idea of sharing a king-size bed and waking up each morning chatting about we’d do without the distractions of work, our regular social circle and “Live! with Regis and Kathie Lee”. (Okay, only one of us needed an update about little Cody and big Frank. (And I told you it was a long time ago.))

Travel also included risks. What if we got tired of being around each other 24/7? What if he insisted on checking out every outlet store? What if he got upset if I couldn’t eat at that highly recommended restaurant that lacks a vegetarian option?

The trips were never exotic. While we talked of India, Portugal, New Zealand and Botswana, we only got as far as San Francisco, Dallas and Whistler. None of the vacations prompted me to start scrapbooking our Romance on the Road. Each trip included heated arguments and nights spent sleeping at opposite edges of the roomy mattress. We always made up before heading home, but the excursions never lived up to all we anticipated. It was as if he were supposed to be sprinkled with fairy dust once reaching our (not so) foreign destination and, when Tinkerbell proved to be a no-show, well, we were doomed to disappointment.

One recurring source of friction involved the daily itineraries. Invariably, my partner wanted to find the gay ghetto and take in a Pride Parade, eat a mediocre hamburger at a gay restaurant or a jiggle a glass of ice at a gay nightclub.

Almost always, I resisted. Didn’t we have enough of the gay scene back home in Los Angeles or Vancouver? Why did we need to immerse ourselves in homo havens when we had each other? How much love did we have if we had to dress to impress other gays or sneak peaks at our “foreign” “community”?

I was defensive and insecure, it is true. But I also genuinely wanted to tour museums and galleries, drive off on day trips and try eateries that didn’t necessarily have campy or beefy waiters. I wanted a break for The Gay Life.

For the past nine years, I’ve had full power to set my own itineraries. My travel choices are only limited by those damn “Based on double occupancy” qualifiers and unexpected, budget-sucking car repairs that pop up just as I get the itch to wander far afield and see...Seattle.

Gays sites are not on the agenda. I can shop all the trendy stores I want, take my time pondering oh-so-modern scribble art in fine museums and curiously chew mock veal parmigiana at the token vegan dive restaurant.

When I spent a weekend in Portland a couple of summers ago, I booked a room at the Ace Hotel, a place I’d discovered online in a post about the Funkiest Hotels in the U.S. From the write-up and from its own website, I knew I would never convince a friend (or, should it ever happen again, a partner) to stay in a glorified dorm room so this felt like an opportunity. An advantage of traveling solo is there is no one to negotiate with. I could do it all My Way.

Nothing in what I read indicated that the hotel was directly across the street from a gay nightclub. It amused me at 3 p.m. to see clusters of gay men having cocktails on the outdoor patio. For a moment, I entertained the idea of popping by later that night. As a single man living in isolation from All Things Gay, I thought a look, a nod or even a brief conversation would be a welcome opportunity to renew my homo credentials before the expiration date.

But then as night came, I pictured myself sitting alone, sporting a strained smile, trying to sell the look of perfect contentment as nondescript house music pulsated (What do you mean you don’t have “Dancing Queen”?!) and others laughed around me.

Why bother? Why do that to myself? I had no answer. I passed.

Four years ago when I went to San Francisco, I attended a football game and a pumpkin festival. Not exactly an update on Tales of the City.

I am beginning to rethink things. The lack of any gay component of my life makes me feel stagnant. I am as full of life as a run-of-the-mill earthworm, asexual and all. The Homo Card lapsed. Seems I don’t even know where to get an application form for reinstatement.

Perhaps a gaycation is indeed in order. I am not thinking about the extreme scenario of being stuck on a cruise ship full of Fake ‘n’ Bake twinks and daddies who squeeze into sherbet-shaded Speedos and hoot loudly as some form of a desperate mating call. Notice me! No, I’d rather be on one of those Carnival sea adventures with no power and boxes of stale Saltines to ration as Kathie Lee Gifford sings “On the GoodShip Lollipop.”

Man overboard!

Still, a weekend wandering The Castro or Chicago’s Boystown might be what I need to revive a dormant component of my identity that I had once fought so hard to understand and embrace. I can’t get my gay back from watching The Saga of Kurt and Blaine. And I daresay that it isn’t good enough to sit back and await Anderson Cooper’s next giggle fit.

Seems I am in need of a full gay immersion. Maybe a sweet man named Pablo will snap my photo as I don a dollar store necklace of rainbow beads and stand in front of Tulsa’s top gay club. I’ll smile broadly and download the pic, reminding myself that I was there. Yep, I’m gay.

Like I said, pictures don’t lie.