the.applied.process.

wit. honesty. everyday ramblings.

Category: Travel

23.06.2011

Last stop, then ‘frisco.

I had talked to ‘The Kid’ about potentially staying with him. He’d said most likely i could but we’d see once I got there. Not a clue what that meant… I also didn’t want to bother Geordie-Mo since I knew he’d be at work by the time I arrived. I had an early flight. I was at the Victoria station by 10:30 a.m. So I decided to book a hostel for the night. Usually I’m quite complacent and I always go far beyond what I should to make sure people feel at home, but I also hate being a nuisance, even if it’s very minimal, so a hostel sounded like a sensible solution. Whether I used the room or not didn’t matter. If anything I was paying for an expensive locker in central London.

I texted both Brits and waited for their response. ‘The Kid’ suggested I just come over and drop my stuff. I did so. It was nice to see him again. Always the good host he offered me water, a cigarette, a shower, and explained that the reason why he’d said we’d see if I could stay was because last time we were a bit too loud for his roommate. Understandable.

I left promptly to do a little shopping. I ended up spending more than I should, but the damn sales had me hooked! Rick Owens for 60-70% off? Yes please! Balmain and Burberry Prorsum for half the price? Why the hell not. I also found some weird aphrodisiac pearl dust that I bought because I thought it’d be a fun novelty to drink with champagne (as the instructions read).

Deciding it was probably not a good idea to continue spending money and being a bit scared that one of my cards got blocked at some point, I headed back towards Shoreditch. Me and ‘The Kid’ had said we’d meet back at his by 1930h. I was a bit early so I went to a small coffee shop/pub with free wifi on the corner of his street and logged on to the usual. He called me to tell me he was near. I saw him walking outside then pub and went after him. We went back to his place and popped open the bottle. We skype’d with our mutual friend. It was nice to see his face, but it would’ve been nicer to actually have a drink in person. I showed ‘The Kid’ the blog, per his request, and at first I felt he was a bit weirded out by the fact that I had written about him. I wasn’t bad, but I’m sure it’s a bit weird. He said it didn’t matter. I fought my own paranoia and chose to believe him. We were supposed to meet his friends for an event at 8 p.m. We lost track of time and showed up closer to 10.

We had a coupe drinks at a really cute, kitschy bar, but left promptly. The staff was being incredibly rude. We all went to Hoxton Bar & Kitchen. I really enjoyed hanging out with all of them, but ‘The Kid’ wanted to go somewhere else, and to be honest, I kind of did to. We devised a strategy, the moment he wanted to leave he’d say the code word ‘rabbit’ and we’d pretend I was tired and I had to leave to get a good night sleep and catch my early flight.

He took me to a bar I’d been with him last time. We drank more and more. Got in stupid arguments with stupid drunks. We drank some more. He kissed me. I kissed back. Had one last drink and walked back to his place for the inevitable.

Just like last time, the details are a bit blurry but there was more kissing, and touching, and cuddling. I don’t think either of us remembers when we passed out. I woke at 6ish in the morning and we kissed and fooled around some more. We went back to sleep and I woke  up when my alarm clock went off. It was a bit later than I wanted. We kissed and cuddled more. I briefly packed taking quick breaks to give him another peck. Soft. He suggested I miss my flight. While tempted, it’s also a bitch to miss flights, I should know. I left his apartment slightly hoping I would miss it but not on purpose.

I got to Heathrow, upgraded my seat, and now I’m typing this entry. I’m a bit sad and nostalgic. I still do love Europe, especially London, and I’m sure I’ll end up living there at some point, but I’m far from done in New York. We’re about an hour and a half away from San Francisco. Not sure what to expect. I already had a brief anxiety attack. I hate it, but I hate it even more when it happens on a plane. I’m about to take one last nap. I’m craving a cigarette like nymphomaniac craves a lay. All I really want to think of in terms of San Francisco is: should I get in-n-out or rubio’s first?

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23.06.2011

Stockholm.

I woke up to the sound of my alarm clock saying it was 8:31 a.m. I hit the snooze button and started to doze off when I realized I never changed the time on my clock from GMT to Parisian time. It was actually an hour later. Fuck my plans of carefully packing, taking a shower, and catching a train to Orly, I was an hour late. I briefly thought “fuck it! I can skip my next stop and just go straight to London in a couple days”. I always seem to have this thoughts a couple hours before I have to board a plane/train/bus. I called the concierge and asked for a cab ASAP. I started meticulously shoving everything in my bag, got dressed, and sipped some water, the out the door I went. I was sure I’d forgotten something, but as long as I had my wallet, my iPad, and my passport, everything else is easily replaceable or easily forgettable.

The cab had been waiting for 11€’s worth. Thirty-four more euros later I was at the airport. I checked in with enough time to do absolutely nothing but run to the gate. I boarded the plane and off we went. The flight had a lay over, I had to switch planes at Bergen (which I later discovered was in Norway). My connection was quite pleasant as the next vessel had free mile high wifi. I grindrd 3000 feet above ground, but of course there was no one. Norwegian Air had employed an all female flight attendant team.

I landed at Arlanda at about 15h and texted my friend ‘Thunder’. She was gonna be busy for another two hours so I said I’d waste time at the airport. I got some nasty pizza, wrote on the blog, facebook’d, and grindr’d, of course. At 5 pm I got on the express train to Stockholm city. As instructed, I then took the metro to my friend’s stop where she’d be waiting for my arrival. We walked a few blocks to her place and started our very lovely evening. We drank wine, smoked cigarettes and caught up. She made some lentils for dinner, we had some more wine, and smoked some more cigarettes. I told her about the blog. She suggested I read her an entry, and she’d play me a song. She is an unbelievably talented musician. I’m not being biased here, I’m just being honest. She also speaks 4+ languages (I forget the exact number), and she’s very bright, and well traveled. But enough about her good attributes here, she’s not perfect. For instance, she doesn’t own an iPod or any sort of mac product, and she’s not on Facebook. Ha.

The night was almost perfect. It was exactly what I needed (except for the iPod situation. I, of course, had forgotten to pack my charger and had left it in Paris and my worldwide web addiction was cursing my forgetful self for depriving me of a fully charged iPad). I don’t see her that often, we write emails every now and then, but due to her credo, I am not constantly updated of her life through Facebook, nor is she of mine. She didn’t know I had a massive beard. I didn’t know she was moving to the south of Sweden.

I like the connection we have. She understands to some degree my fucked up world view, and I understand hers. More wine. More cigarettes. Bed.

The next morning we had a quick breakfast, I finalized my plans with my other Svensk friends, updated my blog, and left her apartment. It was refreshingly nice to see her and even more refreshingly nice to spend some time in ‘medieval’ (as she put it) Sweden, with no sight of iPods, and no Facebook. It’s easy to forget how dependent and attached we are to these things.

I met up with ‘Titi’ at the train station. We walked over to ‘Mr. American Gothic’s’ “if I lived in Sweden I’d want to live in a place like this” penthouse apartment. It was really nice to see both of them again, especially since last time it was under work conditions, and this time it was just for fun. And fun it was. We chit chatted a bit and promptly left his apartment for some sushi in the park and drinks. Sadly, the weather, which I was loving, was not conventionally favourable for lunch at the park, so we went back to his’ and ate and drank there.

We decided we’d go shopping. They took me to a department store where I scored a pair of Thom Browne swim trunks. We made several pit stops along the day at different bars to refuel our buzz. It reminded me of our time in New York.

We walked back to his, and drank some more. They played card games, I fed my social networking addiction. It was time for bed and so me and ‘Titi’ left to her apartment, as it was decided by them I should do. Her apartment was not too far just across the ‘river’ (sea). They kept correcting me when I referred to the large bodies of water as rivers since, apparently, unlike most other European cities, Stockholm lacks rivers.

Unlike the previous night, this one was far from pleasant. It had nothing to do with my hosts. I barely slept two hours. I had a few crippling anxiety attacks. Nothing unusual, of course, but they’re never fun.

The next day I somehow managed to lift open my eyelids despite how tired I was. Me and ‘Titi’ had a typical Swedish breakfast, as I was quickly learning this was what Sweds usually have before noon. We made plans with ‘Mr. A.G.’ to maybe go to Fotografiska (the photo museum) to watch a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit. We were late. We took a boat to the other side of this river/sea that divided their respective apartments. We briefly stopped at a couple local stores. We finally got to ‘Mr. A.G.’s’. More drinks. No museum. Instead, I’d decided I wanted to shave my beard and make a video out of it. We walked across the street to buy some clippers, and then a few blocks away to buy alcohol. Champagne bottle in one had, cigarettes in the other, and shirtless I was ready to be rid of my hair. ‘Mr. A.G.’ wore a leather blazes as he shaved my hair. I’ll eventually post the video online. I’m sure a few cliche gay men will wet themselves over it. I showered and nervously headed to a blind date ‘Titi’ had set up for me.

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23.06.2011

Grind Dates No. 5 & 6: The Griffin and The Cat.

My last day in Paris started with a lunch date. As I had mentioned, someone had recognized me on grindr the night before. After a quick memory searching I remembered him. I’d kissed him a while ago when he was in town visiting friends of my friends. That night had been a bit crazy. I kissed two or three guys, and so did he, and so did my friend, and so did his friend. It was a kissing clusterfuck. Nothing more happened, I never saw him again. ‘The Griffin’ mentioned he wanted to see me, I thought “why not?”, I was kind of intrigued to see this man in bright light. I told him I wanted to eat at this vegetarian restaurant in the marais, he offered to join. I showered and walked over to the spot. He lived close by. I was a bit late. He was waiting for me outside.

First… err… second? impression: just like shrimp, everything was good but the head. He had bad skin, but he was tall, slender, and very stylishly dressed. He asked if we could speak French, I said we’d be better off sitting in silence. We spoke English. He was nice. We discussed how small the gay world was. We formaly introduced ourselves and asked all the standard “what do you do’s”, “where are you from’s”, and “how do you know’s…” now that it was bright, we were sober, and there was no loud music. I ordered the ‘chilli sin carne‘, he ordered the ‘parmentier’ I believe. We shared some wine, and had coffee after the meal. C’est tout. ‘The Griffin’ paid for my food.

I wasn’t very sure what to think of the encounter… Did he want sex? Did I want sex?  Certainly not this early. I told him I had to meet a friend in half hour. I told him we should talk later that evening. In reality, I had another date lined up.

He walked me to the metro where I said I had to go the opposite direction as him. I lied. I had no idea where i was going but i wanted to figure it out on my own. We said goodbye and I turned the corner. I texted ‘The Cat’. He didn’t reply. I had met this one a couple days ago on grindr and we’d decided we’d finally meet after several unsuccessful attempts. I called, he answered. Between his French accent, the crappy cellphone reception, and the noise of the streets, it was hard to understand what he was saying, but somehow I deciphered he wanted me to meet him in front of Centre Pompideu. I hung up the phone and texted him to confirm. I can read French better than I can understand ESL over the phone. He realized I had texted him earlier and said he’d meet me outside the metro ‘arts et metieres’ instead since I was there and it was on his way. I waited for about 20 minutes and then I finally saw him.

To say that his picture on grindr did not accurately portray him is an understatement! On grindr, he’s this sexy, scruffy French garçon smoking a cigarette and giving a James Dean-esque look that says ‘I like rough sex’. In person, he was this frail, hunched, red head with a voice that screams ‘I’m the thing pedophile priests’ dreams are made of”. OK maybe I am being a bit rough, but I meant both statements in the nicest way. After all, he was indeed a very nice guy.  We walked and talked all the way to a coffee shop in front of Canal St. Martin, or as he put it in tourist terms “the canal where they filmed the movie Amelie”. I swear that movie must be every Parisian’s way of connecting to the world, it is certainly not the first nor the last time someone will point out something in Paris and say “have you seen the movie Amelie?…”

I ordered a beer, he ordered some coffee. ‘The Cat’ was really nice. He was smart, witty, interestingly dressed (in a good way), and well traveled (by Parisian standards). We finished our drink and he suggested we strolled along the canal. We did. It was a cute walk. There was a bit of sprinkly rain, but the sun was out, and Paris just looked like the Paris you see in movies… perhaps ‘Amelie’?

We walked back towards Republique and parted ways. He had a meeting to go to, I had a nap to take. I got back to the hotel and made plans with ‘Gong Girl’ to meet later for drinks and dancing. I woke up at 22h, we texted each other, and coincidentally met where we met the first time I saw her. She was with some friends celebrating this other girl’s birthday. There  was a beautiful French gay boy with them (he was taken) that I couldn’t stop staring at. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. My last night was short, but fun.

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22.06.2011

Back home?

J’ai arrivée à Paris. Amsterdam was nice. I was pleasantly surprised by it and glad I didn’t flake off on my trip. Paris feels like coming back home. I hadn’t been here since last year when I lived here. I didn’t have a place to stay. My friend who I was supposed to stay bailed on me. So did the girl I met in Amsterdam. I called my mother and asked for her help finding me a room. I didn’t care how much it was, I just needed a place to shower and drop my compactly packed overweight bag. She proved minimal help. I got frustrated and told her I’d figure it out. I took the train to repulique. Tried checking into the crown plaza, a place I’d been before. It was full. Walked to a couple more places around the corner and finally found a shit place. I didn’t care. I needed that shower.

They offered free wifi so of course I logged on to Facebook and grindr. I spoke to my friend and made plans to meet in a bit. I showered and headed off to see him. I knew my bearing around the area. I’d lived here before. It was a nice feeling.

I saw him outside a bar/cafe on rue de turenne like the ones you normally see all around Paris. We hugged, said hello, and enjoyed a demi. He was with some friends from work. They were nice tho I didn’t really talk much to them. We all parted our separate ways. Me and ‘Dansk J’ headed to some other bar. On the way there we met some of his other friends at a place called le progres off rue de bretagne. They were an Asian girl I’d read about before on Facebook, a German girl with a similar job as mine, and her landlord, a gay Parisian who’d spent enough time in America to have dropped the accent and the anti-American french attitude. They were all nice. As usual, I connected with them right away.

We left said bar and headed l’egoiste, my Parisian neighbourhood bar. Last year when I lived here I was a regular. More drinks. More words. We all slowly started heading out our separate ways. Dansk J had to work the next morning. The gay Parisian invited me to stick around. We did few more bars, and at about 3am I headed home. There wasn’t much action on grindr.

The next morning I met Dansk J for lunch. We went to a sample sale. I bought some unnecessary accessories. He went back to work, I window shopped around the Marais. Then I went to centre pompideu and spent a few hours looking at neon art and an Indian exhibit. I went back to the hotel and waited for D.J. to get off work. We met up at this penthouse apartment he was staying at behind Galleries Lafayette. We had a couple beers and headed off to hotel costes. We met up with his roommate, a McDonald loving snobby Parisian. We drank and expensive (23€) drink and parted ways. ‘Big Mac’ went home, we went to the outskirts of Paris to see Breakbot. The soiree was alright. Good music. Shit people.

The next day I decided not to stay with the girl from Chicago and fork out a pretty penny for my own abode. I found a room near Opera, and dragged my heavy duffle bag to said place. For the day, I planned on going to Colette, Grand Palais, Musee d’Orsay, and Rick Owens, in that order. Instead I did Colette, Rick Owens, Grand Palais, chez moi. I didn’t shop much, I just got a documentary. I called ‘Chicago’ and met her for an awful dinner at pizza pino. A thing I hate about traveling is meeting up with true tourists who avoid eating nice because they think eating nice means spending money, and thus they fall for these tourist traps where they end up spending the same amount of money and end up getting edible shit. We went to l’egoiste after and I texted D.J. It was ‘Dansk J’s’ last night in Paris. He met up with us. His friend showed up a few minutes later. We all headed to another place to meet more people. I felt weird for ‘Chicago’. She stood out like a sore thumb amidst the noir clad clan we were. Thankfully, one of the guys in the crowd brought his sister, a lovely danish girl, yet equally misfit biologist. They connected. I ate nice food and stared at the beautiful waiter.

Après, we went to a bar around the block. It wasn’t much exciting. We left promptly and waited for hours for a cab. Finally, I had the brilliant idea of heading back to my hotel lobby a few blocks away and have the concierge fetch us transport. It worked like a charm. The group dismantled. Me, D.J., the other Dane, his sister, and ‘Gong girl’ headed to a club rives gauche. ‘Chicago’ understood her place and went home.

The club was decent. It was your usual Parisian snobbyness. We didn’t stay long. We left to Le Baron. The Dansk siblings went home.

I’d been wanting to go to Le Baron. I hadn’t been since my last year incident when I got kicked out for drunkenly thinking I could get away with stealing a bottle off a desolate table. I got in without a problem. I felt validated. We met some drunk woman with a shaved head who was nice and offered us the remainder of her champagne bottle. Her beau wasn’t too pleased. At about 5 am and after spending more than I should we left. Me and D.J. took a cab to Opera and without knowing it’d be the last time I’d see him in a while, we said goodbye. I got home and logged on to grindr. I had a few message. One of them said “are you Jorge from Griffin?”. What a small gay world.

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21.06.2011

Grind Date No. 4: Twentyeight.

On my last day in Amsterdam, I woke up somewhat early. I had lots of things to accomplish that day. The previous days I had partied, rested, and dilly dallied and not really gotten anything done that should be done when you first visit a city. I fought my usual hang over the same way I usually do: juice, water, pastry.

The day consisted of the Anne Frank house, Stedelijk Museum (contemporary and modern art), the Van Gogh museum, Rijskmuseum  (Dutch history and heritage), a bike ride through the park, and eating some raw herring. I accomplished 66% of my goal. Anne Frank’s house was emotional. Stedelijk Museum was closed for renovation… or so I thought… Later I found the actual museum, not the annex, and it was quite nice. Van Gogh was overpriced, but a must when visiting Amsterdam. Rijskmuseum was educational. Back to the hostel I went. There was no bike ride or raw herring.

I logged onto grindr and started talking to a few boys. I ended up making plans with one who worked really close to my place: ‘Twentyeight’. He suggested I go eat at a place not too far away from where he lived. He said he’d meet me for a drink after I ate and after he got off work.  I googled the place and it sounded decent: a nice little vegetarian Indian place.

After my decent dinner (I’d been eating home made Indian food in Birmingham, this place stood no chance), we decided on meeting across the street at a place called ‘mustache bar’. ‘Twentyeight’ arrived promptly. First impression: he’s different and cute. He spoke really good English, unlike my previous encounter. We ordered a few rounds and had a very nice conversation.

After, he suggested we went to a karaoke place since we both didn’t feel like going out raging all night. We walked for about ten minutes to his place of choice. He’d warn me it was quite unique and with a very mixed crowd. This man spoke the truth. Unique is an understatement. Upon entering the bar I spotted two very grungy drag queens behind the bar, a few older drunk straight men, a couple of fags with their respective hags, and some average looking people. The karaoke was hilarious. We ordered drinks and chatted a bit more. It turns out his birthday is the day after mine, and his favorite number is 28. What are the fucking odds! I was starting to like this guy… not in the way that “I want to marry you”, but in the way that “yes, maybe I’ll come home with you”. After a few more rounds, I did.

He’d told me his friend signed him up for one of those “home makeover” shows, so I was intrigued to see the final result. His place was a bit messy. I didn’t mind. It was nice for being my second Dutch apartment I’d ever seen. We listened to music, drank some more wine, and started kissing. The kissing continued downstairs in his bedroom. As i was kissing him I felt bumps on his back. I was a bit concerned, but also a bit drunk and horny. The clothes came off. Another nice (although bent), big Dutch dick. Either I’m lucky or Dutch men are packing. We discussed “gay roles”. Turns out we’re both tops. ‘Twentyeight’ asked if I’d ever done poppers. I said yes. He offered. We sniffed. Smart move. Not. Fooled around some more. Oral sex. This time I did suck. He wanted me to fuck him, he claimed poppers turned him into a bottom, but to be honest, those bumps had my usual paranoia augmented. We ended up just jacking off. He bit my nipple very hard, and then came on my chest. I came on my chest as well. He rubbed my nipple after with the cum. Crazy old me started thinking the worst case scenario: he bit my nipple, I must have a minuscule cut, he rubbed semen on it, I will get HIV. He laid on my chest for a second. He asked if I’d spend the night but both my paranoia and the fact that I was leaving next morning convinced me to leave. I got dressed. We said goodbye and I started walking back.

On my way home, I texted Geordie-mo. He managed to calm me down superbly. To quote him: “unsafe sex is like fear of flying – when I get scared on the plane I just think of the trolly dollies who do it everyday”. I didn’t have unsafe sex, but the thought was comforting. I dozed off with minimal thoughts about the evening and a nice, post orgasm smile on my face.

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21.06.2011

Grind Date No. 3: Silver Fox.

Hung over. Again. My youthful body is starting to betray me. I wasn’t feeling much like doing anything so I laid in bed and went online. I managed to score a date with a 44 year old Dutch man. I didn’t have much time till my rendez vous so I got up, got dressed, bought juice, and walked to Nieuwmarkt to meet him. He asked “how will I know it’s you?”. I said “you’ll notice the beard”. He did.

We had lunch on the ‘tourist side’, as he stated, of Nieuwmarkt. I asked him for some insider tips on Amsterdam. He recommended a few spots to check out and offered to walk with me towards them since it was on the way to his place. Sly silver fox.

First impression: very handsome, despite his slimmy aura which was only enhanced by the mismatched track suit he was wearing.

We finished our food and I followed him as instructed. We got to his door step and he asked if I wanted to see what a Dutch apartment looks like. Despite my slight fear of walking into the unknown and potentially getting gang raped by a few men twice my age, or possibly ending up in a bathtub missing a kidney and having to dial 112 (that’s Dutch for 911), I obliged.

He had a beautiful apartment overlooking a quaint canal. I could tell he had money. He mentioned he had some high position at KLM (that’s Delta Air Lines in Dutch). To my surprise, although I don’t know why, ‘Silver Fox’ played some gaga. He offered a tour of his sleeping quarters. He asked to touch my, and I quote, “hairy chest”. I let him. He kept asking me to relax. I probably looked/acted a bit tense. We kissed. He felt my dick. I felt his. More kissing. Some nipple nibbling. More compliments to my hairy physique.

We got in bed. Through it all he was respectful, constantly asking me if I was ok and only doing what I wanted to do. We jacked off. He had a significantly big dick. We came and laid there for a second. He showered. We got dressed, and walked towards his gym.

He kept mentioning how “good looking” I was and what a “nice hairy body I had”. I told him he was extremely handsome, which he didn’t seem to believe. What is it about older men not being able to take compliments from us twentysomethings? It’s not the first time this has happened to me. I feel as if they think we’re mocking them when, in fact, call me crazy but I find handsome, mature men extremely arousing.

His gym was next to Rembrandthuis. He pointed the way to some photography museum I should check out. I vaguely paid attention because, really, it doesn’t make a difference. I’ll promptly forget the route given. We said goodbye and I slowly started walking towards my destination stalling so that he’d go into his gym. I wanted to take a picture of Rembrandthuis for when I’m older and I actually care about these touristy things, but I didn’t want to seem touristy in front of him (or anyone else for that matter). He dilly dallied as well so I gave up and just left.

I found FOAM (the photography museum). It was under remodelling and only half of it was open, and thus, half price. I saw some photos of an LA artist I briefly met a while ago called Luke Gilford. It was a nice surprise.

I walked back to the hostel and stopped by a tattoo shop for my mandatory ‘coordinates’ ink. I picked up a pita and some wine and ate at the ‘lobby’. That night I did the red light district pub crawl with ‘Finland’. I was supposed to go with some Canadian staying in my room, but he seemed like quite the inferior life form. Later on I discovered my first impression was on point. I had heard not much goes on on Monday nights so I figured the pub crawl would probably be my best bet at drinking myself to sleep that night, and also seeing a part of the city tourists are ‘supposed to see’. I could elaborate on the crawl, but I don’t want to give such things more importance than deserved. It was as much fun as such things can be.

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21.06.2011

BeNe(Lux)

After what one could barely called a decent nap, I woke up. I have to mention I don’t sleep much, but I’m also not as resilient as I was in my early twenties. Each time it gets progressively harder and takes progressively longer to spring back from the previous drunken night.

I went downstairs and jotted down the finishing touches to my Antwerpenian bucket list. I walked to the corner store, bought a classic backpacker’s breakfast (a pastry from the local offerings, a juice, and a bottle of water), and started walking to my destinations.

It was an eventful day. First accidental stop: Dries Van Noten, where I left my first few hundred euros and came out with an overpriced canvas and leather tote. Off I went to find a tattoo shop. The one on my list didn’t have time, but they instructed me to go around the corner to this other shop. The new shop told me to come back in two hours. I headed to MoMu (mode museum). They had a wonderful exhibition on the history of knits. At first I wasn’t as excited about it, but they did a superb job, and it turned out significantly better than I’d expected. My love for Antwerp grew.

Having 20 minutes to spare before my tattoo appointment, I went next door to a clothing store. I saw a few potential purchases, but this shopaholic is getting wiser, so I left with the intention to come back if the items were still on my mind after the tattoo. They were. Fail.

I got my tattoo. It was not executed to my steep expectations (as I assume anything permanent on your body should be), but also, I’ve learned to appreciate the slight nuances that come with getting a similar tattoo done repeatedly by different tattoo artist all over the world. Like most of my others, I’ve grown to love it.

I left the shop, shopped a bit more, and tried to find a famously good fish restaurant that, unbeknownst to me, had closed a year and a half ago. I walked back to my hostel hoping they could host me for the last night. They were completely booked. Being really exhausted and craving a place of my own where I could shit, shave, shower, sleep comfortably, and walk around with my damn balls hanging if I pleased to, I forked 150 USD for a night at a Radisson across Stadspark. Best. Fucking. Money. Spent. In. Antwerp.

I left the hostel and went to my haven. I bought a bottle of J&B and a coke, showered, grindrd, made plans to meet random strangers at random bars, made a road soda, headed out. The bar was nowhere to be found. The club sucked. My night was a fail.

The next morning, I went to MuKHA, the museum of modern art. Antwerp, I love you even more. I walked back to my hotel, picked up my bag, and stumbled to centra station. I say stumble because my bag was really heavy which hindered my walking. Off to Amsterdam I went.

Finding my way in Amsterdam was an easy task. I checked in at the hostel, and ‘climbed’ the steep stairs up to my room. No lockers again! note to self: leave iPads and Rick Owens at home next time. My roommates were friendly. I immediately started talking to a girl from Chicago and a Finnish man. “Chicago” and I went for dinner at a tapas place next door. She seemed hypnotised by my persona (which is always nice), and kept asking me about my life. It was entertaining.

Eighty euros later, we went back to the room and coerced “Finland” to join us for a beer. Grindr hadn’t proved to be too helpful this time, so we walked to a touristy spot around the corner. I drank whiskey, they drank beer. We left. They went home, I ventured to a nearby gay bar. Nothing special to report. I did, however, meet a lovely expat lesbian from New York with whom I conversed the whole night. The bar closed. I went home. I grindr’d, facebook’d, and lonely planet’d till I passed out.

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19.06.2011

Grind Date No. 2: Antwerpen.

To start off, I want to say that I was trying to come up with a nickname for the guy and nothing really stood out. Is that a bad thing?

I arrived to Antwerp on the 10th of June. On my way there we stopped at other Belgian stations. They all seemed gloomy and desolate. I was not feeling this. But then, I saw the light. Rectangular pillars of light were welcoming the train to its final stop. It was as if we had time travelled into the future the last leg of the trip. I got out and everything was pretty and modern… and then one of the most beautiful train stations I’ve seen (personal opinion, but also, I guess this has been documented). I’d arrived in Antwerpen.

I quickly switched my gaze from the majestic building, to the locals. Most dressed in effortless fashion. I could clearly see why this is one of the fashion capitals of the world. This city was getting better by the second.

I bought some fries with curry ketchup (bad choice), figured out my bearings, and headed to the hostel. Twenty minutes later, I was at my Belgian home. The hostel had “character”. It wasn’t like the rest of Antwerp. Instead, I felt like I was somewhere in the middle east. It was somewhat run down, smokey, cluttered, and ran by a White guy and an Asian lady, both with unbelievably bad teeth, who were playing some card game and smoking a cigarette. They asked me to sit down and wait. I did. A few minutes later, I followed one of them four stories up (sans elevator, of course) to “the penthouse”. They didn’t actually call it “the penthouse”, but it was the top floor, and with significant renovations, the room could become quite nice. It wasn’t much different from the average hostel room: five sets of bunk beds, white sheets, nasty comforters, and even nastier pillows… there wasn’t, however, a locker, which is an issue being as I usually travel with plenty of valuables. I quickly devices a way to lock my bag to the bedframe, laid on the bed, and started planning my evening.

As usual per this trip, I logged on to grindr. I started talking to a few people. Within minutes I sort of had a date. He didn’t live in Antwerp, but he used to. At the moment, he lived about 20 minutes away, but he offered to come pick me up in his car and show me around. We exchanged numbers, and made plans to meet in a couple hours. I went downstairs to kill time and look up other things to do.

He texted me at about 20:30 saying he was close and for me to go outside. He picked me up in a very European hatchback and we drove to old city. We parked his car at some big theatre where he works, and walked around till we came to a bar called “delux”. It was a nice gay bar with an older crowd who immediately fixed their eyes upon me. It was somewhat funny. Me and ‘Antwerpen’ ordered drinks and had a pleasant conversation. He was very open about his sexual escapades… I wasn’t sure if he was hitting on me, gauging my reaction, or just being himself, either way it was fine.

After a couple rounds of drinks we ventured to the next destination, a place called, and forgive my forgetful brain, “hessenhuis”. This place was a bit more divey and the crowd was a bit more stereotypically gay. The music was camp and dancey. Again, I felt looks left and right. We kept talking effortlessly. I wasn’t initially attracted to him, nor was I planning on sleeping with him, but the alcohol was lessening my inhibitions, and enhancing his looks. He was approached by a handful of people, who he then told me he’d either slept with, or wanted to, or denied. I told him about ‘road head’, he told me about ‘prosthetic arm’. It was getting late and he needed to head back, so we walked to his car, and he dropped me off. I gave him a peck. Not sure if he wanted more, not sure if I wanted more, but so it was. I politely texted him thanking him for the night. We kept in touch for the next few days but I never saw him again.

That night, I got home to a mess of a hostel. One of the girls who works there, not the Asian lady with bad teeth, another Asian girl, was thoroughly inebriated, half naked, and threatening to kill herself. I tried helping the guy with the bad teeth talk some sense into her head, but it just kept getting exponentially worse. A group of Dutch kids showed up. They were young and a tad pretentious. They annoyed me. I went to bed. The next morning, same group of Dutch kids woke me up being excessively loud excessively early in the day. I didn’t get much sleep.

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19.06.2011

Public Displays of A(sex)tion.

Apparently, I do porn now. I ended up on an alley just off Oxford street with my pants down having my dick (and other nether-regions) orally stimulated en plein aire. CCTV and all. Since when did such behaviour became ‘normal’ to me? Let’s back track a bit.

As soon as I got back to London, I stopped by Geordie-Mo’s flat to pick up my luggage. I had left it there because I couldn’t be bothered to drag it all the way to Birmingham and back considering I was barely gonna be there three days. I was also making plans with a friend of a friend to potentially meet up later that evening. I hurried to my hostel, checked in, left my bag in the locker provided, and quickly changed outfits (I was really sweaty and didn’t have time for s shower). I headed towards Shoreditch for my first taste of east London (among other things).

Upon exiting the tube station, I met my tour guide for the soiree: a tall, slender, aptly dresses Greek with a properly sexy British accent. Let’s call him ‘the kid’. He took me to a pizza place in the same building as Shoreditch house. We requested a table, but were told there was a 35 min. wait. We wrote down our name on their list and left to grab a drink at a nearby pub. We clicked right off the bat. Conversation flowed effortlessly. I have to say my friend had been right in stating me and ‘the kid’ would get along.

We finished our drink and headed back to the pizza place for our table. All in all, I had big expectations for the night and, coming from New York, I’d been wanting to try the ‘over the pond’ version of our famous pies. Again, not disappointed.

During dinner, I put ‘the kid’ through my usual boot camp of ‘questioning authority’, being ‘progressive’, and coming out. Basically, trying to break down whatever preconceived notions we have grown up with. He handled it well and long enough for me to notice I was doing it and to tone it down.

After dinner, he took me to a nice bar around the block that reminded me of ‘Apotheke’, a quaint little speak easy in New York with divine drinks. We downed a couple expensive libations and continued bar hopping. All in all, I was very satisfied with the east London nightlife.

We ended up at his place. It was late, we were drunk, and he suggested I spend the night rather than paying a 30+ quid cab ride. My alcohol induced amnesia prevents me from remembering the exact sequence of events, but I ended up sleeping on his bed and we kissed. No sex.

The next morning we payed in bed for a bit over an hour cuddling and kissing some more. He was soft. We got dressed and headed our separated ways. I had lunch with a friend. He had lunch with a client. We decided we’d hang out again upon my return.

Lunch with my friend was nice. I was running ubber late so, sadly, it only lasted half hour. After, I walked west along the Thames doing a bit of exploring, but also looking for the Tate Modern and Hayworth gallery. The Tate was great. Same stuff I’ve seen before, but they also were featuring a fantastic photo exhibit by a woman who’s name I forgot, but I’ll get back to you on that. I was supposed to meet my sister later that day so I skimmed through the rest of the rooms and headed off to the other gallery.

After walking for what seemed like ages (I never imagined London being this vast), I finally found Hayworth gallery. There was a Tracie Emin exhibit. I paid the pricey ticket (12£) despite being a bit reluctant to do so. It was worth every pence! I love this woman. I love her art. I love her pain.

I finally got back to the hostel. I took a shower, went on the internet, and waited for ages for my sister to come. She’d never been to London. I was planning on taking her to a nice dinner and a few bars. Unfortunately, her cheap boyfriend, and his even cheaper brother, who they were gonna stay with, spoiled my evening. We ended at Nando’s just down the road from the Victoria station. The whole time both men were complaining about money and Europe. The brother was married. His wife, a wonderful Polish girl who I connected with, saved my evening.

After being incredibly annoyed by both Neanderthalian siblings, I opted to instigate a bit by talking to the Polish girl in English about topics I was sure would hit soft spots. Being well aware that any primal male will revert to marking his territory when threatened by a more intelligent, better looking, younger specimen, I turned up the volume. He noticed. I ignored.

We finished eating and after a short, very futile attempt at finding an open pub around the area (because God forbid we venture into SoHo!) they left. I was annoyed at the waste of both my and my sister’s time. She didn’t speak up, so whatever, there was not much I could do. I was done feeding pearls to the swine.

I hurried back to the hostel to try and find someone to go out with. I phoned my mom and bitched about the evening. She saw my point. I saw this Korean girl who looked and dresses somewhat cool enough for me to consider her a possible candidate for the night, but to be honest, I was desperate, and I would’ve gone out with a crippled, albino, midget if need be. The Korean girl was with some pseudo, hippie, lezzy from Alaska, and a Korean guy she’d just met.

We took the bus to soho. Grabbed a drink at a Spanish pub and then went to good old ku bar off Leicester square. Ku bar was the first gay bar I ever went to in London the very first time I came and since then it’s always been a safe spot. I started to buy doubles. I wanted to get wasted fast. We met a French guy, a Puerto Rican, and a Brazilian. Hung out with them for a bit. Followed them to “heaven” (the club, not Jesus’s home) and then left them since they weren’t allowed in. They were incoherently drunk. We didn’t go into “heaven” either, instead we went back to hell.

Ku bar was kind of empty. There was this one guy (Coif), however, that I had seen when we first came and had made eye contact with. I bought more drinks, danced myself silly, and hung out with him and his friends. They invited me and my posse to an after party. The Koreans politely declined. The lesbian followed. At some point ‘coif’ asked me if I wanted to go with him to this place off Oxford street where you can rent a room to fuck. By this point we had already kissed. For some reason, I figured it would be fine. We ditched his friends and the lesbian and walk towards my slut closet. The place was closed. Coif grabbed my hand and took me to a nearby entryway. He pulled his pants down and so we began. He knew what he was doing. He’d done this before. We kissed, he sucked me, he rimmed my asshole and asked I return the favour. I have an issue sucking stranger dick. Asshole, on the other hand, not so much. In my head it seems ‘safer’. He wanted me to fuck him, but despite the fact that we didn’t have rubbers, I still wouldn’t have done it. I shot. He swallowed. He shot. The floor swallowed.

We walked over to get some food. Coif kept talking about his relationship with his ‘granny’, which I didn’t mind, and made me think he was a nice guy. He paid for my food. We left and walked to the bus stop. We were going opposite directions so we bid adieu.

On the way back, I didn’t think much about the incident. I think I’m relaxing my ways a bit. Whether this is good or bad I’m not sure, but it is what it is. I definitely need to monitor myself a bit more, but also, I think it’s a good thing that I’m not getting as much anxiety as I used to. There’s a saying in Spanish that goes “un clavo saca otro clavo“, it translates to “one nail takes out another nail”. I haven’t been thinking much about SF boy. I think I’m finally detoxing from his toxic bachelor ways. My newfound sluttyness must be helping. Also, I think I like a Mexican.

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10.06.2011

Britainic Suburbia.

I’m on a train on my way back to London. It’s been a nice 72 hours in Birmingham… or… I should say  Soluhill. Before coming here, I was unaware I was heading to a suburban town 40 minutes away from where I’d stay a year ago. Pleasant surprise it was. Think of it as “any given suburban town”, USA, except British. People drive on the opposite side, the rows of houses resemble old cottages, people talk extremely polite, and the roads wind and make little sense to a foreigner.

I arrived at Birmingham New Street train station and I was promptly picked up by my friend ‘Capital-G’. We made a quick stop at her mum’s for some tea. Last year, this beautiful woman hosted my ass providing me with fresh squeezed juice every morning, home made Indian food every meal, and even washed my sweaty clothes. It was better than any hotel I’ve yet to stay, so it was nice to see her again. Luckily, she gave us some food she’d prepared earlier for us to enjoy back at Capital-G’s. We left quickly and stopped in the middle of the road somewhere to say hi to her siblings. Again, lovely people. Her sister tried to set me up on a blind date. By the way they were talking about the guy I was both scared and excited. At the end, the date never happened. I couldn’t be bothered to set it up.

After a short drive, we got to her house. Her husband, ‘g-minor’, was hungrily waiting for us. She heated the food and we dove right in to the delectable meal. Amidst burning lips and glasses of water, we quickly caught up on the past few weeks, they had just come to visit me in New York. Later that evening, we went to a cute little bar in the middle of the middle of nowhere, England. I had a whiskey, he had a beer, she had a juice. Other than Americans, no one will touch a drink with a ten foot pole if they have to drive. When we left, the car wouldn’t start. We asked for some help and drove back home. Had another whiskey, talked some more, and went to bed.

The next morning, they went to work, I sorted out some of my travel accommodations and transportation, and waited for g-minor to pick me up to go for lunch. He took me to a very American, think sizzler, dinner type of place. Food was good. The stares we got by the locals were even better. We stopped by a sporting goods store where he was looking for a present, and I bought a present for my boss. We met Capital-G at home and headed for afternoon tea at a nice hotel in the English countryside. After tea, we went to g-minor’s nephew’s birthday. It was a somewhat traditional Indian affair. His family was nice. I felt a bit ‘looked at’ but I behaved. I fed his nephew some cake (Indian tradition). Shortly after, we left.

We had another home cooked dinner at their’s. The food seriously is the highlight of my trip. It is superb, to say the least. We had more drinks and went to bed. I woke up at 5am and couldn’t go back to sleep. I dillydallied for a few hours till finally I fell back asleep. Woke up again at noonish. Went to see Capital-G at work. She’s a dentist. She checked my pearly off-whites, we had lunch, and then I walked to the train station. I boarded the train relaxed, satisfied, and looking forward to come back to civilization. I need the stress of a city to feel at ease.

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