I landed early in London and went straight to my hotel, the St. Ermin, on Caxton Street. After going to my room, I headed up to the Citibank on Oxford Street, to cash a cheque the Royal Post sent me for 42 British pounds. They wouldn't cash it or let me deposit it, despite it being my bank. They suggested I got to the Midland bank, on which it was drawn. I did, and Midland said, go to the *branch* upon which it was drawn.
Ugh.
I was able to cash in Kathleens 6.5 million Turkish lira with no problem (it was just 8 pounds), but I could not get a the cheque of a major bank from the Royal Mail cashed.
Afterward, I visited Voyage Vacances and met Celine, the delightful woman who booked my trip to Paris, and I paid her in cash since the evil Chase Manhattan doubled my debit card withdrawal, and then refunded one at the same time La Celine issued a refund. La Celine had no idea her agency had not been paid.
Cash. It works.
Later, I made the near fatal mistake of having a wee snackette at Burger King, overlooking Picadilly Circus. I was served by Celine, a West Indian woman.
Then I went to the Body Shop and stumbled across some fantastic sales. Vanilla bath gel for just a pound-fifty.
Then I returned to the hotel and checked over something with, yes, Celine, the trainee behind the desk. The St. Ermin is commited to only having trainees at the front desk, at all times.
I then headed over to the QEII Centre, which is across from the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, to our conference, Application Development '99. I went to the safety training. I met overly enthusiastic volunteers. I got really tired.
I went down for a slight nap at 3 pm and woke up at 10 pm. Nothing is really open then, and having the bloody mini-bar for dinner was not all that appealing. So I ventured into the sticky evening and found a Sainsbury open. I dined on yogurt and pasta salad. Basically, it's a supermarket.
I slept well that night. The next three days were work work work, meetings, etc. Tiresome stuff I won't bore you with.
On the first evening, the vivacious Ms. Lothlorien took the lot of us out to dinner at Salsa! on Charing Cross road. It's a so-so/bad Tex-Mex restaurant that features salsa dancing. So after dinner I danced with both Ms. L and the lively wife of one of our technical advisors.
Now those of you who know me are thinking, since when does Mr. Bookey dance? Well, it happens. I have one basic move, and I deploy it carefully, and I use several speeds. It works. Ask Lothlorien.
We walked back to the hotel. In London you can walk, alone, through a public park. The biggest fear is stepping on a hedgehog.
The next night, our company sponsored a charity event for homeless youth, and it was called "A Night at the Races." We raised 8000 pounds. I won 3 pounds. I made sure no one knew my surname. I would never hear the end of it.
Danny and Susie were in from Saskatoon, Canada, for the conference. So we went to Mildred's in Soho for dinner. I love Danny and Susie. It wouldn't have been a trip to London without seeing them there. They just moved to Canada a few months ago. Danny took one look at a chocolate cake and nearly turned into Homer Simpson, but restrained himself.
Danny took us on the most zig-zagged route available, and we passed the Admiral Duncan en route to Mildred's. It has re-opened. You all might recall it was ripped apart by a nail-bomb blast in late April. The culprit is awaiting trial. Life is going on. Danny knows a woman who was on that block and easily could have been injured. Danny and Susie both worked right around there.
Danny and I spent several greenhouse hours in the press room, which is all windows and under-airconditioned. Danny and I both ask the vendors questions. Danny refers to this as, "If you weren't there, I probably would have died." Likewise. I often just sit there and listen and take notes, and then Danny turns and says, "Do you have any questions?" My old standby, for the more boring vendors, is "Who are your competitors?" Interesting answers and reactions follow.
On the third night of the show, John W. and I went to Brick Lane in the East End for Bengali food. This is another area that had a nail-bomb attack in the Spring. Of course, it's doubtful that lightening will strike in the same place twice, but I think it's important to remember that we cannot be afraid of these places. We have to jump right back on the horse and prove we are commited to living together in this world, whether we like each other or not. Personally, I like everyone (until I get to know them), and I especially like their food.
Our British office does a smashing job of it all. It's really wonderful being around such talented, dedicated folks. Jane is a wonderful manager, and her daughter, who is just 18 and helping out part-time, felt guilty about leaving to go on holiday. Kirsty, who is the right-arm of the operation, is also a marvel. I handed her her Employee of the Month plaque. She was duly embarassed and made me promise to deliver it surreptitiously and sans fanfare. Of course I did. In the movie, Jane Seymour will play Kirsty and Judi Dench will portray Jane.
On Friday we all checked out of the hotel. Lothlorien and Patrick headed off to Paddington Station; they headed to the West Country. They are taking a week to do a 70-mile walk from Penzance to Portsmouth, or some such. I headed to nearby Islington and dropped off my things at the Mucciolo's house.
I then headed back into town and had a take-away lunch with Danny, Susie, and some of Susie's co-workers. It's amazing how bad management is universal and knows no boundaries. We had lunch in Soho Square, sitting on the lawn. I munched away quietly while listening to tales of corporate woe.
Susie and I headed for book stores while Danny was busy elsewhere on an appointment. We must've gone to every other bookstore on Charing Cross Road. Susie was reluctant to buy anything, and like a good deflectionist, picked up books and said, "Look Seth, this is so pretty, and just 4 pounds." She also said, "This is a great book and I could've gotten it here for half the price." I wound up buying things in four or five stores. I used our time later at the Pillars of Hercules, a pub, to rearrange my purchases. Susie bought NOTHING.
Susie later told us the story of one of her contemporaries who's never left Saskatoon for any great length of time, and was saying how he "never helps his parents with the harvest." That's sort of the country version of not helping clean out the gutters or something. I probably wouldn't last in Saskatoon Harvest Time for very long. They also have dreadful winters that require triple-glazed windows. Personally, the only triple glaze I have ever seen is on pastry. Those below-zero temps are not for me.
I headed to Gay's the Word after parting with D&S. I had been there earlier in the week, and went back to buy two more books that I could've bought at Dillon's or Blackwell's; but I want to support small, gay stores. I had a long chat with Jim McSweeney, whom I'd interviewed for LGNY in April. He recommended some fab books and I bought 'em all.
For God's sake, SOMEONE must stir the local economy.
I had dinner with the Mucciolos and some of their British friends, who have a four-year-old boy; the Mucci's have a two-year-old. When it comes to kids, 4+2=36 killowatt hours of hyperactivity. At one point they were running around with plastic drum batons and Evan nearly put his eye out. My Nervous Jewish Mother genes were in overdrive.
Basically, a quiet evening at home...
We had fish and chips from the Trawlerman. It's a damn good chip shop. The cod was especially fresh. Lindsay seemed a bit scared that I had not one but two cans of ginger beer. Ginger beer and HP sauce are the two British delicacies I must have while I am there. Say what you like about British food. For me, it always smacks of ginger and tamarind.
I took the channel tunnel train, the Eurostar, to Paris. It's just a three-hour trip, but there's an hour time change, so you move an hour ahead when you get to Paris, and an hour back when you go to London. So on paper, it looks like a four-hour and a two-hour trip, respectively. This confused the two women in front of me like you would not believe. They just puzzled over this for the entire trip, and put a Eurostar employee through a merciless round of questions. They had never been to Paris and were leaving for London five hours after just getting there. I got the impression they never leave their London neighborhood. I got the impression they overlook the Eurostar from their flats near Waterloo Station and said, "Look, Gert, that funny yellow train. Let's see where it goes."
Once you get through the tunnel, the train goes to it's full velocity, which is prohibited by British law. It goes as fast as 300 km/h, or 180 mph. The French countryside zips along at a merry pace. It looks just as you picture it in your head. Round green hills with a thin line of half a dozen or so cypress trees along a road. A laughing cow. Etc.
What you don't know from the train is that it was hot as hell outside. Gare du Nord was pretty humid. I bought my three-day passes for the Metro and for the museums and made my way to Rue des Abbesses, to the Comfort Inn Sacre Coeur, in Montmartre. The name, Comfort Inn, was an oxymoron. The one perk I thought I had was lost upon my arrival. The concierge took me to room 41, which appeared to include, at the package price, a shirtless 22-year-old man named Jason. It turns out Jason was, like, you know, still packing? And he didn't realize the room was taken? And he like forgot the check-out time was four hours earlier?
I was very tempted to ask the concierge if Jason was meant to be the mint on my pillow, but I didn't. I went out and bought a little notebook, a jambon baguette, some cheese, two peaches, and a phone card. You cannot make a phone call in Paris, or anyplace in France, without a phone card. No coins accepted. They still have phone booths there, and they are just lovely, really. Tres chic. Except in a heatwave it's like having an individual, personal greenhouse.
The hotel has no lift and I forgot my stored bag just after disrobing. So I re-robed, got my bag, climbed the five flights, and then climbed over my toilet to get into my shower-booth. I was knackered. Thank got for showers and Body Shop products.
I headed out to the Musee Rodin. Some of Camille Claudel's works are also there. I don't know much about her except that I think she was Rodin's lover and I think she went crazy. The museum is in an old mansion and has beautiful gardens overlooked by the gold dome of Hotel des Invalides.
Then I headed to the Champs Elysees. I walked up in the bloody heat and humidity, and even went into Citibank and the post office, hoping for air conditioning, in vain. I climbed to the top of the Arc de Triomphe. It's a monument to the military glories of France. It was completed by King Louis Phillipe I, who turned out to be the last king of France. The Arc was built before France's worst humiliations, in 1871, 1914, and 1940-1945. I think they were overcompensating a bit. There's a nice breeze when you're ten stories over Paris.
I went to le Marais in the evening; it's the old Jewish area, and now a gay stomping ground. The men in France seemed stereotypically gorgeous and typically French, just like all the ads in Fashions of the Times. Everyone was running around in skin-tight shirts whose sleeves only come down as far as the beginning of the bicep. I kept looking around for the cameras; I was sure Jean-Luc Goddard must be doing a movie somewhere. And everyone seems to smoke.
I visited Les Mots de la Bouche, the gay bookstore on Rue de Sainte Croix de la Bretonnerie. This street, and many others, were not on the map. I don't think it was homophobic, but just really bad cartography. I made a few purchases and literally hunted for dinner. At one restaurant they just spurned my advances for a table for one. Bastards. I suppose if it were 1940 and I was from Dusseldorf and 20,000 of my closest Wehrmacht friends were behind me, they just might have surrendered a table.
I finally found a wonderful restaurant on Rue de Tibourg and had a wonderful meal of a baked vegetable cake in tomato sauce, and a veal fillet in some very unkosher sauce and stuffing, served with a chestnut flan. It was wonderful. It restored my faith in la Republique Francaise. They might be downright rude in Paris (everyone in the country hates Parisians) but you just can't have a bad meal in that town.
Two vicious vicious queens perched in the window seat and commented on every man who walked by. I felt like I was in New York. Turns out they WERE from New York. Hmph. There is no escape. It was like Planet of the Vicious Queens II: Visite a Paris.
I did not realize that it was a gay restaurant until I went to the little hommes room and on a table outside of it, there were numerous pamphlets and free magazines. One was a photo-novel showing the "adventures" of Pierre. He's 22 and just figured out he's gay -- a guy follows him into a train bathroom and does a Lewinsky on him, while his thought bubble says, "THIS is nice." While it is not porn, it does show erections and the proper deployment of a condom, and explores the issues facing men who have recently arrived to their sexualities. It also showed his parents, exgirlfriend, tricks, friends, and potential lovers.
It showed real life, and was government funded. You wouldn't see that in New York, where the mere mention of a girl having two mommies is verboten.
Vive la Republique -- and hide the children if you cannot deal with real life.
I was looking for a friend of a friend who owns a glacierie at the foot of the funiculaire at Montmartre. I couldn't find the place. The woman who sold me a strawberry soft-serve cone said, in French, "You don't know the names of the other business owners here, just their faces and the names of their stores."
Vive la capitalisme!
The hill on which Sacre Coeur sits is called La Butte de Montmartre. Unfortunately, on a humid Saturday night, it is littered with beer cans and people. A very drunken Brit swaggered toward me and said, "How about it, baby!?" I squeezed past him, not thinking it was important to point out that I scratched that particular itch with a man named Ken who lives in Essex.
On the funiculaire, a very pushy, obnoxious American woman made love to my love handles with her elbow the entire way down, instead of holding on to a pole. I wanted to point out to her that only a complete idiot wears a wool beret on the hottest day of the year. Hers was the only beret I saw the entire time. I also saw no less than three accordian players, and a man who was an organ grinder, but had an eight-year-old kid with him instead of a monkey, and the boy was not doing any tricks. Maybe they were pickpockets. These musical surprises, which I expect to hear non-stop when I wind up in Hell for shoplifting Playgirl magazines when I was 15, were countered by another musical surprise, which I relate below.
Mme. Lazar would have been so proud of me as I used the subjective with ease (il faut que j'aille maintenant), but as Tony says, Paris is no place to practice your French. Very few people reply in anything but English. I think it's because while eggs like me speak French and are understood, as I was, they don't understand the replies in French. So the French, known for their ability to quickly capitulate, just answer in English. Sometimes, if I couldn't hear someone because they were behind glass, and I asked them to repeat something, it would come out in English.
I must sound very francophobic, but I am not. I chose Paris over Amsterdam, because I really wanted to walk around Paris and speak French. I found myself repeating the names of stations. Miromesnil, Jacques Jaures, Glaciere, Mairie d'Issy, Varenne, Champs de Mars, Trocadero.
"A weekend away to parlez francais, well fancy that."
On Sunday I was all over the place. I went to Maison de Balzac first, in the 16th Arrondissement. It's close to the Passy metro stop. I visited the home of one of my favorite authors, Honore de Balzac. He wrote both Cousine Bette and Cousin Pons there. These are two of my favorite novels. Both Bette and Pons have some very gay elements. Pons is a single man, a music teacher, who lives with his dear friend of many years, Schmucke, and their house is filled with knicknacks that turn out to be quite valuable. They could have called the novel Cousine Marie.
They had three sets of galleys; I was fascinated to see today's proofreading marks in use back then. Now I can walk around my office, or at LGNY, and say things like, "Hey if these proofreading marks were good enough for Balzac..."
It was hot as hell, though. Really hot. I don't know how he wrote a damn thing when it got so hot; but he was alive before global warming.
I then went to the Musee d'Orsay. I was there most of the afternoon. It's fantastical; it's in an old train station. I must've taken three rolls of film inside. I take a lot of photos of statues; they know how to stay still.
There was one statue I really loved. It was Napoleon III's son with his dog, Nero. THe dog looks lovingly up at his imperial master. The sculptor who did this piece must've really loved dogs; he captured that loyal gaze so well. The Prince must've loved that dog; I suspect he insisted the dog be featured with him. I loved the sculpture. I feel verklempt. Meanwhile, that kid's father was the reason Victor Hugo went into exile for 18 years, and he was partial inspiriation to Zola's Rougon-Macquart (20 novels about France under the Second Empire, 1851-1871). But I still like the statue. that sort of boy-and-his-dog love transcends time.
There was a temporary exhibit of a Swedish impressionist named Jansson, featuring many bleak, dark blue landscapes of and around Stockholm. Later, when he was in a long liaison with a man named Knut, very bright scenes of all-male bathing pools appeared. His best work. The exhibit had no problem pointing out that he had a long relationship with Knut and affairs with some of the models in his male nude paintings. The French are not "liberal" or "progressive." They are just realists who realize gay people are part of life, and not some fascinating, exotic exception. Vive la Republique.
Hide the children.
I had a lovely overpriced baguette on the roof terrace of the D'Orsay, overlooking the Louvre.
Then I headed to the Maison Hugo.
The museum devoted to Victor Hugo is at 6 Place des Vosges, one of the most spectacular squares in all Paris. It's homogenous, and features a park in the middle, with a big old statue of Louis XIII in the center.
Victor Hugo is what we would call a Major Big Deal in France. Here in America, he's the inspiration for many a sequinned sweatshirt featuring Cosette of Les Miserables.
Victor Hugo suggested a coup d'etat when Napoleon III declared himself emperor, but it didn't happen and instead he wound up in exile in Guernsey, a Channel Island that is the spot in England closest to France without being in France itself.
Victor had four children. Leopoldine was his favorite, and when she drowned, he told Adele, "It should have been you." Adele went nuts after sleeping with a British soldier, and she stalked him from Guersey to Halifax to Barbados. Mind you, this was a transoceanic stalking in the mid-19th Century. This is the sort of thing you don't even see on One Life to Live, like when Cassie terrorized Barbara for shooting her.
Adele went mad and was brought home and her father had to send her to a nuthouse, where she pretty much lay bedridden until her death in 1943. There is a lot of Leopoldinalia in the museum, but very little of Adele. In the one photo of her, she's looking down. All you can see is the top of her head, but you can tell how wretched her life was. Why is it that great men of literature and profound humanists are such crappy fathers sometimes?
Poor Adele.
After leaving Maison Victor Hugo, I heard some lovely music from the colonnades where a crowd gathered. It was a ten-person string orchestra playing Brahms's Hungarian Dances. it was enchanting. They were great. You don't see that in New York. Mayor Giuliani would have them hauled off to jail for disturbing the peace. In London, hordes of beer drinkers swelled on the sidewalks to enjoy the warm weather. You know our Mayor would have gone berserk and called in the National Guard.
A lot of people looked at me funny all day. I started to realize that in shorts and a green Hawaiian shirt, I must have looked like Big Daddy Varner Goes to Gay Paree. Oh well. It was hot as hell and humid and I just wanted to die. Instead, I took Edward and Richard up on their suggestion and walked around Ile de la Cite (home of Notre Dame) and Ile Saint Louis at sunset. It was really lovely. I had sorbet. I had flavors you don't have in New York, like Pear and Raspberry. I also paid prices you don't pay here either.
I never got to go to the third story of the Eiffel Tower (back in 1981 on an exchange trip), and I got to spend 60 francs and two hours of my life waiting on lines full of loud, obnoxious Americans for the honour, and it was hardly worth it. All Parisians hate the Eiffel Tower, and with its countdown to the Year 2000 sign facing the Trocadero, I don't blame them. But it's a magnificent structure that overlooks the City of Light until 1 am. The lights really are nice, and even more so from the second level.
I immediately spotted a gay couple, the taller of the two basically fondling the shoulder of the second one nonstop. Paris is full of love and lovers and even a hardened heart cannot help but find some vicarious joy in displays of affection that would annoy us anyplace but Paris. One woman was, however, very clearly Hiding the Children.
Excusez moi. If you don't want your kids to see people in love, don't go to Paris. Go to the monster truck rally in Monmouth Country, NJ.
The Eiffel Tower was built without a single fatality, but it nearly did me in. I was there from 22h15 to 0h15, and all the while, I was convinced that I would miss the last metro and have to take a cab and get even more ripped off. Some helpful lesbians who refused to out themselves to me directed me to a quicker route to the metro, and I got home safe and sound, to a TV with no sound. As I packed, bad American TV movies and German phone sex ads played silently on the screen; the TV sound was inoperative.
On my final day, I stored my luggage at Gare du Nord and went to the Pantheon. It's the coolest place in Paris. Literally. The stone crypt underneath the structure devoted to the Great Men of France (i.e., no broads) is nice and cool. My hero, Emile Zola, is entombed next to Father of the Year 1863, Victor Hugo. I read a history of the "controversial" inclusion of Zola to the crypt, as his pro-truth, anti-racist defense of Dreyfuss made him a national pariah on many levels. I was all verklempt.
I found some of those Paille D'Or biscuits Edward likes -- filled with raspberry jam -- en route to lunch with Ms. P.
I met Ms. P and her Prince Charming at Bir Hakeim, and we had lunch. Of course, the waiter was rude. This was not the gay restaurant of the other night, after all. Unlike New York, not all waiters in Paris are gay.
Ms. P is a former co-worker who hails from Alabama, and met and married a Frenchman. So she got engaged during the company's holiday hiatus, announced her resignation, and lives the dream of every American girl and some gay men: Find a rich prince and run off to Europe. Believe me, I'd do it to. Where do I sign up?
My own idiotic fantasy involves an industrialist from Umbria named Fabrizio, who needs me to move to his piazza to help raise his motherless children, Livia and Claudio, and yell at the servants nonstop. In the evenings we'd have friends over, and discuss why Gore Vidal refuses my invitations. I'd yell at the servants in the kitchen and offer everyone some more wine, and spy the children watching us from the balcony, because what romantic fantasy doesn't involve a balcony, after all?
Meanwhile, in real life, I am sweating up a storm in a green Hawaiian shirt on the metro while American kids scream their heads off and all I can think it, "In France, where do they sell duct tape?"
After lunch, Ms. P and her husband returned to the Enchanted Cottage and I went to the Louvre, after an unsuccessful and hot schlep to L'Orangerie, which would entail an hour-long wait. It might have been the Jardins des Tuileries, but it felt more like Planet of the Apes's desert scenes. The Louvre is overrun with every known tourist group. I weaved and bobbed through people in five languages. I discovered that saying "Scusa" at a highly exasperated level works on everyone but Japanese tourists. I am saying "Scusa!" in their ear, and they are looking around and not moving.
Diagnosis: Paris in Summer is New York in Summer, but cubed.
After escaping Louvre, where I only looked at the Victore de Samothrace, her dismembered hand, and a hall of Roman imperials (where Antonious is openly recognized as Hadrian's "favorite" -- Hide the Children), I headed for Place de la Bastille. I visited 3 rue Keller, where the gay and lesbian center is. The president and I spoke at length about the Centre and how America is okay on gay adoption but not marriage, and in France it is vice versa. The whole domestic partnership issue has brought out every bigot in la France to loudly declare that homosexuals are all pedophiles. Apparently, the discussion of sexuality has just really begun, whereas before, it was sort of accepted in a "don't ask for your rights and we won't tell you what to do" sort of way.
The French still have to work on the Egalite part.
And so I left Paris at 18h19 on the Eurostar. I really did love wandering around Paris, living from one bottle of Fanta to the next. I learned to accept Evian in the face of no alternatives. I laughed, I cried, I tried to speak French.
The wonderful Lindsay read every article in every LGNY I brought her -- at her request-- and her number one question was about the word Queer. I use it pretty regularly in my writing for LGNY. She thought it would be an offensive term, and I went through the lengthy explanation about "reclaiming" the word. Etc. When you get right down to it, I am not afraid to call myself anything any of my enemies are willing to throw at me. Frankly, they would be more terrified to be labelled queer or fag or a nancy boy. Go ahead, call me a cocksucker. I mean, that's sort of the point, isn't it? I mean, pretty accurate so far, sweetie.
I also explained that personally, with the idiotic alphabet soup of LGBTTSQH making acronyms longer and longer, Queer makes more an more sense. I mean, we are pretty queer, different. Even those assimilationists, going through great pains to convince everyone how much they are like everyone else are going to great lengths to convince everyone, and that's pretty queer, if you ask me.
On Tuesday I met up with the Bernard and Beryl combo and we drove to Blenheim, a magnificent and overdone yellow stone palace built by the Duke of Marlborough. Queen Anne and Parliament gave the Duke much acreage and money and said, "build yourself a suitable house." It's quite a place, but everything was a la carte. Want to see the Duke's private residence, "only possible today?" Four pounds, on top of the 8.50 pounds paid at the gate. They force you to exit through a gift shop. There are also the Pleasure Gardens, also extra. The Duke and Duchess pretty ancient, and the photo says it all. It's circa 1974. Big hair, Burbury jacket, etc. It's something of a fashion nightmare and a drag queen's dream.
Bernard is a determined fellow (fairly bloodyminded, actually), and insisted we visit a pub in Noke. Noke is a town that is basically a road lined by 12 houses and a church at the end of the road. There was no pub, and no one in sight. It's hard to feel like you've invaded when the entire town has gone to work for the day. We turned the car around and invaded another pub, where the Bookeys outnumbered the pubmaster 3 to 1.
After that, we went to Oxford, which was also overrun by tourists of many nations. After walking around a bit, Bernard and I returned to the car park to find Beryl. It started raining, finally. We visited my cousin and her two children. Daniel refrained from pointing out how fat I am, calling me burly, or asking me why I don't have children. I couldn't very well tell him, "Because no bloke'll have me, sweetie." But I got through the visit without interrogation, although imparting the notion of America to a four-year-old boy in a London suburb was not easy. We got into the "yes, the Earth is round" thing. Galileo Bookey.
Bernard told me that the younger one recently approached a woman on the street who was wearing a tres chic black rubber raincoat and told her, "You're lucky. Your bin liner's got pockets!"
While the boys finally wound down from trying to do each other in with hula hoops, we three Bookeys left and returned to Radlett for dinner. Beryl cut me some flowers from her garden to bring to Lindsay. I had never seen lavender before (now that's rich irony), and Bernard said, "Lad, you are divorced from nature!"
Well of course I am. I'm a native New Yorker. I was born here. I live here. And there's an excellent chance I will be found dead here.
And that's about it. I had a wonderful time. It was great seeing my family and friends. It was nice gorging myself on British chocolate and French peaches. On the tube to Heathrow and on the plane home I finished reading Holding the Man, but the late Australian playwright Timothy Congrave. My jaw clenched up from holding back the tears. It's the best book I have ever read, I think, on the dual coming out, of being gay and being HIV+. I wrote an article about AIDS memoirs, in longhand, on the plane home, while some middle-aged man next to me kept interrupting me with requests on how to operate his Virgin Atlantic inflight entertainment console. He was particularly interested in the sky map. That's the feature that shows you were you are in the world as you fly home. It's also the sort of thing the evening news shows when the plane goes down.
That inspired article number two: How to avoid chatty seatmates.
Once again, travel has proven to be a wonderful gift. If I had not gone to Gay's the Word, I would not have spoken with Jim McSweeney, who would not have recommended the Conigrave book. The book itself is a gift. It has inspired my next big public works project: The Books That Change Queer Lives. More to come. Write me if you want details.