So Let's Go.: Landmarks

Showing posts with label Landmarks. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

The Return

Re-entry in : T - 16 hours.

So let's go.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

The idea of going to a Gay Pride Parade had terrified me for a very, very long time. Having gone to only one last year, I assumed that overly feminine men and overly masculine women would tromp around in heavy costumery or almost nothing at all. I assumed that everyone who participated in the parade must have been absolutely out of their mind. After all, who would ever walk for 6 plus kilometers in incredibly hot weather and body glitter?

So, of course, when the opportunity to perform in Paris' Pride Parade this year came around, I threw caution to the wind [such was the nature of this year] and agreed to be part of Aquahomo's dance float. Doing so would prove my assumptions wrong [another assumption in itself], or at least attempt to, and embrace everything the gay culture had to offer.

Instead of articulately describing what and who I saw, I present to you several handfuls of snapshots. You'll find realizations at the very end.

"Do we know yet why the group's called AquaHomo?"

"Nope."

Sounds like some friends back home. Natalia.

No butts about it.

Jock Strap?

A tolerant people, the Gays are.

"Oh, crap. We're following the Amnesty International float?"

Bonjour, Les Gais Musette! Avec José!

Dirty Dancing.

Note: Heels.

Putt-ing themselves out there: gay golfers.

God Save the Gays: Surprisingly Supportive Christian Group?

Gaysian.

Gayngels.

Our float was between Les Gais Musette and the Queer Biking group...

... and the Queer Rugby team, accompanied by a mime nun.

I WONDER what these CATs were up to.

Jasmine?

Happened in the middle of the parade,

for those who committed suicide in struggling with their identity.

Jam sesh, whilst not doing choreography.

Ye olde queeres!

This group listened to the same 5 songs [1, 2, 3, 4, 5] on loop for 6 hours.

The sun won't set. It's FRUITless to hope or to fret.

C'est Binh!

Oh, The Thinks You Can Think!

Even my cookie was happily proud!

What's a queen to do when her float stops playing music?

Start singing herself.

Ah, c'est le fin! A la Bastille!

One major highlight: Watching Kazaky perform LIVE.

... Sadly, without heels, oversized scarves, or onion heads.

Reunited with a tango professor from Buenos Aires at his workshop in Paris!

Here's what I've learned from performing in the Pride Parade:

In a world laced with criticism and disapproval, only the brave love partaking in the occasional demonstration/protest to piss off some a**holes. The Pride Parade doesn't focus solely on being gay, or lesbian, or trans, etc. It's all about taking the time to realize the many facets that make up the jewel you are, and embracing them. You might focus on one, two, or twenty things that you identify with, and spend an entire day parading around in a caricature of that/those facets. And in doing so, you own who you've become.

Yes, there might be 60,000 people oggling you and taking pictures and making videos like you're the albino giraffe at the zoo, but you'd be surprised how much you don't notice them, or even care. Not when you're doing the things and showing off the person you most love.

[Proud]

Sunday, June 24, 2012

One Day

"Joshua," he remembered his mother saying to him, a very, very, long time ago, "One day we'll go to Europe. You, me, Daddy, and Kikay." She looked back to the TV screen, where a young cartoon woman began to cry as she reunited with her long lost grandmother. He remembered not taking his mother seriously, only being interested in finding another peanut butter jellybean somewhere in the bag they bought earlier that afternoon.

"Aye, my god. Paris... London... It's always been my dream to go to all those places before I die. We'll go. One day. Maybe. When we win the lottery."

Many, many years later, as he pedaled his way past the Arc de Triomphe, past the Louvre, and past la Bastille, this tiny fragment of a memory, however minimally detailed, surfaced to his conscience. Almost colliding with a parked car, he pulled into an alley and locked his bicycle.

He had fallen in love with the City, that much was obvious. Throughout his travels, he never regretted any of the places he had gone, but was always asked,

Why did you choose to go there?

His initial answer was simple: I want to touch each continent before I die. Upon further consideration, he realized that different reasons brought him to different countries. India: where he would experience sensory overload. Uganda: where he would learn to appreciate a much more simple life. Australia: where he would find how much more he needed to grow. Argentina: where he would experience passion, firsthand. But France?

Where he would live a dream - his or his mother's, that wasn't clear - at the end of a dream year. Why the rest of his family never made it to Europe, he couldn't exactly understand. He had made it here without the lottery [although the definition of lottery was now in debate], accomplished before the end of the first quarter of his life.

"Don't worry about your mother," Betty said in Argentina, "If she didn't travel somewhere, she had her own reasons."

As he walked past the patisserie full of macaroons and tartelettes, he couldn't help but think, How fair is it that I got to live her dream before she did? A tiny pang of guilt tugged at his stomach.

In Australia, Philip had once expressed hesitation in becoming a parent. "I think the real challenge in being a parent," he argued, "would be to help my child find happiness. And if my son or daughter could say one day that they found happiness, I know I'd have done my job."

Later that night, he would take his camera out of his bag and snap a picture of himself with a flower-shaped cone of gelato. Maybe it was the mix of raspberry and chocolate, or maybe it was the first night that felt like summer, or maybe it was just the good company with whom he had dinner. Happiness had been sitting there with him so far this year, and he was sure that it wouldn't leave afterwards.

Maybe knowing that would be enough for her.

[Living There TOday]

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Recap

The Boy achieved several accomplishments, acquired copious skills, and experienced many a happenstance since He had last written from the City of Lights. Not that He had scheduled himself into a free-time-less existence; it was as if the Boy was hit with the sudden awareness that he had less

than two months.

His 'free time,' or the time spent outside of His project, had become a series of moments when He

just

felt

liberated.

Out of guilt, the Boy would come down from the clouds - or the steps of a church, or from a particularly wobbly or lovelock-encrusted bridge, or a wine-included picnic - and realize that many family and friends around the world had no idea what He lived through. Instead of attempting to write detailed pages upon pages of those adventures [later, in due time], He compiled a list of highlights recapping the past few weeks.

This was what He had done, in no particular order:

Navigate Paris. Namely, above ground, and on a bike. This involved learning to go in and out of roundabouts [particularly around the Arc du Triomphe], getting lost until 1:30 am and having to bike 25 kilometers/15.5 miles [after experiencing a brief ten minute panic attack], and being guaranteed at least 3 hours of rigorous exercise everyday.

Public bikes? Genius program, Paris.

Lived with two ballroom dancers from the Czech Republic. These two were the youngest competitors at the same-sex dance competition, and they won third place in the advanced level for men's latin. SUCH A PROUD ROOMMATE!

Somewhat related, He also started to learn choreography taught by middle-aged men for the upcoming Pride Parade. Yes, He would perform. Excited maybe?
Moved to Puteaux. New host, new scene, and new lifestyle. Interestingly, Host 2 cautioned how to pronounce the suburb, as the sounds making it may translate to "dirty water" or "dirty whore" in French. Or, as Host 2 likes to translate, "dirty whore water." Also located next to la Défense, the business district, or the place with a lot of glass buildings that reflect each other.

Rid Himself of His only pair of jeans. Sad.
Continued Argentine tango classes. Interestingly, one of His teachers from Buenos Aires would come next month...
Further developed His culinary skills. Between His two hosts, He learned to cook quiche lorraine, boeuf borguignon, rhubarb ice cream sauce, and crêpes.

Roadtripped to Lille, where the macaroons and pastries were cheaper, the weather a bit colder, and everything much more country.

Realized that Parisians aren't fantastic dressers [as is the popular belief], but are just incredibly comfortable and confident with what clothes they have. It was all in the attitude in which they wore clothes, not the price tag that made the citizens so attractive. Maybe.

Got spat on by a Frenchman whilst driving through the suburbs of Paris. He should have known something was wrong when the Frenchman opened the car door and started yelling, but He had only assumed it were typical mannerisms outside of the city.
Wore shorts that rose above the knee. Contrary to the style he had grown accustomed to in the 90s, the Boy's thighs had felt a new freedom never experienced before.
Saw the rat trap shop from Ratatouille.

Attended a house party in Bures-sur-Yvette, in which most of the attendees were either musicians or singers. To compensate for His lack of either skill, the Boy whisked around a young 20-something singer in Argentine Tango. Many older women sighed longingly. 'Twas also at this party where a wonderful french woman who bore a red-headed resemblance to Meryl Streep spoke to [and thus taught] Him only in French.
Found places that reminded him of friends from long ago...

Tong!

Coco?

Picnicked many times, either alone or with friends. During the summer, the picnic culture skyrockets and everyone saves money from going out to restaurants by buying food from markets and eating them along rivers, canals, in parks, or just on benches. Ah, romantique.
Met with friends from a long time ago, from another lifetime.
Had a Groucho Marx sighting in Notre Dame.

[Terribly Late]

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Love Lock[down]

Ah, Paris.

En francais: Ehh, Peh-rhee.

Ze city of romance [or having high expectations of finding one] has hit me hard. As my host said one afternoon over baguette sandwiches along the canal:

"Joshua, you're already in love with the city. I can see it in your eyes."

In celebration of my arrival in the City of Light and general inability to mask emotions, I've decided to post pictures [and, of course, commentary] of one of my favorite landmarks: the Pont des Arts, which links the Louvre and the Institut de France.

As a statement of everlasting love [or friendship], couples will engrave/write their names/initials onto a padlock [the Love Lock], affix them to the fence along the river, and either keep the key or throw it into the river below.

I know, a river full of keys. You'd think that the dinner boats passing beneath the bridges would eventually hit a large mountain of metal, but...