IN THE BLIND SPOT

I learned early. Don’t stare, it’s rude. I was probably four or five and I’m sure I wasn’t actually looking at a person. Just the ice cream cone they held while my mother gripped my hand. For decades I followed established social etiquette. It was easy. I was far more challenged by occasions in which eye contact was required.

When I first started going to gay bars in West Hollywood—it was the only place to meet back then—I mastered totally ineffective cruising techniques. I had a knack for stealing sneak peeks when I sensed a guy I was interested in was looking away. Of course, it got me nothing. I’d often heard of people meeting while passing on the sidewalk, both men looking back at the same time. I liked the idea of that but my shyness made the maneuver feel too risky. Good god, if our eyes met, then what?! I’d pass a guy after leaving the clubs and wait ten seconds before going through the motions and looking back when I knew full well that any possible moment had safely passed. Then I’d drive home alone, bemoaning the fact I couldn’t meet a guy.

But that was then.

I stare all the time now. Ice cream remains an attention grabber but I stare at people too. Men.

I tested it out this fall while I spent close to a month in Stockholm. I figured I was in a different country and Swedes were known for being non-confrontational. Besides, I was spellbound by what seemed to be a clean Swedish look: well-coiffed hair, combed back and parted on the side, and classic, understated clothing, every garment warming a closet hanger for six months at most. I told myself my watchful eye was about picking up a few style tips.

At least that’s how it started. Quick looks and then that necessary look away. But then I dared to gaze a fraction of a second longer, then an entire second. No one glared. At first, I attributed it to consummate politeness—on their part, not mine.

And then it became a game. While still intent on picking up a sense of Swedish style, I wanted to be caught staring. I wanted there to be a silent exchange: I see you looking at me. It wasn’t long before the experiment stopped being fun. The sense of daring evaporated. Reality set in. I had an epiphany. It came while having fika, a sort of afternoon coffee and cinnamon bun break, but with a sense of something more—the fact that I don’t know what that “something more” is only proves I’m no Swede. What I got out of fika was utter amazement that all these people could indulge in sugary pastries on a daily basis and be markedly slimmer as a society than Canadians and Americans. But that’s not the epiphany (although I too lost weight while wholly embracing fika. Maybe it’s just something in the northern air). As I sipped my oat milk latte and noshed on a cardamom bun, a close cousin to the beloved Swedish cinnamon bun, I looked at the good-looking man at the table across from me for more than a couple of seconds. I did it again and again, extending my gaze to five, then ten seconds. As fika is not a rushed thing, I got a lot of looks in. Yep, that blond hair was natural. That sweater was navy, not black as I’d initially thought. How did he get that tiny sliver of a scar on his chin?

Thinking that perhaps my eyes had fallen on one particularly oblivious (or focused) blond Swede, I picked a new target at fika the next afternoon. Brown hair, neatly groomed beard, lovely smile, thick wool navy sweater. (Sweden seemed to be having a navy moment.) This forty-something chap chatted with two women as an open notebook balanced in his lap, never once written in. Empty dessert plates and coffee mugs filled the small round table between them. As luck would have it, I had a head-on view of him. I noshed on my blueberry bun—a lovely variant on the cinnamon bun that I only found at this particular spot—as the cursor on my open laptop blinked in place for twenty minutes. I took in the bustle of the bakery but mostly I studied him, creating a story of his life and daydreaming about how I would fit into it. He looked up several times, his gaze in my direction, but not once did he notice me noticing him. I simply did not exist.

By the time I’d finished the trip, my Swedish experiment had been thoroughly tested, leading to one solid conclusion: as an aging gay guy, I can stare all I want.

I repeated the experiment in Seattle and several times in Vancouver. Cafes, the gym, the art gallery. Always the same result. My looks don’t register.

I’m not sure it’s in my repertoire, but I could ogle if I wanted to. Leer even. I could cast my squinty-eyed approximation of conveying lust and it wouldn’t even cause someone to say, “Excuse me, sir. Do you have something in your eye?”

There’s nothing exhilarating about this newfound freedom. There is a sense of loss instead of a gain. Before, when casting my eyes upon someone, there was always a bit of a thrill. Would I get caught? In a flash, I could mold my stare into a look of pensiveness, a writer with an open laptop, searching the air for a precise word or phrase. Better yet, would the guy return my gaze? There was always the possibility, however remote, that that single daring peep would lead to a conversation, a date and then somewhere down the line a ceremony along with a blurb in the Vows section of the New York Times, including the statement, “The two met in 2019 while sitting at neighboring tables at a cafe in Vancouver.”

That just spilled out of me. Total randomness. It’s not like I’ve ever thought of such a thing.

Now, with unchecked staring privileges, it’s clear that will never happen. I don’t rejoice in realizing I’ve become the human equivalent to the color beige. Present, at least in a technical sense.

Alas, gone are the days of an interventionist admonishing me: “Don’t stare!” Society has come up with a colder approach: Just ignore it and it will go away.

Well played, guys,...well played. I think this is about the time when I’m supposed to make the transition to sandals with knee-high brown socks, all-weather shorts that ride up above my navel and sweatshirts with permanent stains (mustard?). It’s freedom, yes, but it does come with a price.

HELLO STRANGER

For awhile now, I’ve felt that Vancouver and I are a mismatch.  But then I saw myself in a series of articles the Vancouver Sun ran a month ago.  Vancouverites are disconnected.  They avoid contact, even simple greetings while walking the seawall.

And I thought it was just me.

When I lived in an apartment in Vancouver’s West End, I never acknowledged the neighbors.  I guess I always assumed that was my intensely reserved nature, but then I remembered the quick hellos—nothing more—with neighbors in L.A.  I can even recall some of their faces.  Not so my West End mates.

The Sun series proves I didn’t start the antisocial thing.  It’s a Vancouver way of being.  And I certainly embraced it.  Why tax the vocal cords, eh? 

Oh, I am self-aware enough to know this is not healthy.  I have chided myself for regularly staring at my shoelaces and random spots on elevator walls.  What’s the harm in “hello”?

Still, I regularly rationalize my (in)action.  I am not the chitchat type.  The weather is self-evident.  My commentary—“Sure is sunny today”—adds nothing.  Maybe Vancouver folk are exceedingly rule oriented.  We were raised with “Don’t talk to strangers” and it just stuck.

I’ve actually stopped going to a Starbucks in West Van where the baristas are too friendly.  Just the coffee, thank you.  I’m not awake enough to tell you how my day’s going.  And you don’t really care.  Do you? 

Schmoozers make me cringe.  I know they don’t care where I got my worn out shoes.  Off-season Canuck talk is utterly irrelevant.  And, no, I have no opinion about whether Tiger Woods is back to his old self and whether you mean on or off the links.

If you want to talk about a work issue or gay marriage or the prospects of an NDP-Liberal merger, I’m in.  Conversation with purpose.  Your weekend plan to repaint the bathroom?  No thanks.  Again, just the coffee.

But I didn’t need a newspaper series to point out the obvious.  Give nothing, get nothing. 

At forty-seven, I wonder if this old dog can change.  I have made the first step, acknowledging that I am part of the problem.  It’s now up to me to follow the mantra on some mass-produced inspirational poster:  Be the Change. 

It’s hard to break my efficiency way of thinking.  It’s okay for talk to be mindless, I tell myself.  It doesn’t matter that I may never see the person again.  People are supposed to be social creatures.  Hermits are the exception. 

This past weekend, I went for a drive with the dog, heading for a hiking spot a couple of hours away.  Hadn’t been in years.  One of the things I particularly love about the destination is there is a bakery five minutes into the walk, a charming What-the-Hell-Is-This-Doing-Here stop.  I didn’t need a snack, but the place was a part of the experience.

I ogled the tarts and scones, waiting for the guy in front of me to get his refill.  Impatience simmered as the customer chattered with the counter guy about the drive out from Ontario and his daughter’s growing postcard collection.  One of the dinosaur place in Alberta, one from Moose Jaw,...got it. 

I tried to make eye contact with the counter guy who extended the conversation, talking about running the bakery for the past thirteen summers and winter travels to Mexico with his wife and son. 

This would have been the perfect time for me to practice my greetings.  Only my hello would have come off with an edge, a frustrated alternative to “Yoo-hoo?!”  Instead, I shuffled on my feet, pretended to rethink my choice of pastry and wondered if I had, in fact, asked for this state of invisibility.

When the time finally came for me to order, I realized the tourist wasn’t totally to blame for the gift of gab.  The owner tried to engage me in a yakfest, too.  “Was I spending some time in the park today?”  Isn’t that self-evident?  “Was I hungry?”  Uh, again, let’s go with self-evident.  “Was the barking dog mine?”  Yes.  And he wasn’t barking for the first five minutes.  I said as little as possible, paid and got on with the solitary hike.  (That beast, pictured on the path, is my dog, leading the way away from civilization.)

Okay, so my casual social skills are a work in progress. 

Yesterday, at my coffee stop in town, I asked the server, “How was your weekend?” 

“Good,” she answered.  “How was yours?”

“Good.”

And this is getting somewhere, right? 

I’ll keep at it.  If I ever do make a big move, to a city other than Vancouver, I may need to actually know how to say something.  And nothing.