the gay gays

Having never stepped foot into a gay dance club until Saturday night, I quickly realized that I really was missing out on something quite marvelous. For the first time, I was fully immersed into the gay culture, completely raw and unmasked. The men and women that are socially inclined to ensconce their identity from the often-not- accepting-of-gay-culture in which we reside were allowed to be themselves. No homonymic coincidence, these folks were truly gay, as in blithe, lighthearted and carefree.

It occurred to me that they epitomized the essence of being gay gays. Walking around shirtless, embracing the same sex, unrepressed dancing--it was thrilling, exciting and an anthropological study all in one fell swoop. Anti-gay provocations were unwelcome and the truly elated energy abounded within the walls of the premises...if only everyone in our myopically minded society was more accepting.

the eponymous piece

 

Shakespearean quotes and Quixotic spirits--both literary eponyms--are currently the source for my personal inspiration and solace for understanding my crazy life.

Shakespeare often quips about the realities and wiles of life--his everlasting words so relevant. "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances..." This is one of my favorite monologues, which comes from the pastoral piece, As You Like it,2.7.139. There are many interpretations of what Shakespeare was trying to convey through Jacques' words; but, I prefer to think of it as the roles that we "play" in life. We all have "roles." Gender, social, household, etc.

As a player on the stage of life, my role has yet to be determined, but in the meantime, I will assume the creative, even somewhat pedantic role. The dreamer (like Cervantes' Don Quixote), the writer, the lover of romance languages, the photographer, the traveler, and the explorer describes my many performances thus far. My stage name , as I shall call it--Lady Quixote--is utterly apropos in light of the aforementioned quote. The portrait title, Lady Quixote was inspired by the quixotic nature of my expression and the colorful chaos abounding everywhere in the frame.

This piece conveys the true essence of my spirit: creative, curious, and capricious--not yet committed to any one specific "role," except the adorer of alliteration. Alas, I have finally decided to reveal the self-portrait that inspired my eponymous nom de plume and is fitting for a player such as myself.

Oh, the Places I Shall Go...

In reference to my aforementioned statements about my blog, I wanted to follow up with some explanation about the last year. Back in September of 2008, I moved to Italy for an indefinite amount of time because I wanted to travel and explore the enigmas of other cultures. Originally, my blog was intended to be a travel blog, where I wrote only about my destinations; however, I decided that I am now going to change my original intent and write about whatever I feel like. Almost like my personal rant, rave, or whatever capricious whim I may want to craft as prose. I will definitely be writing about any place that I see because traveling is my true love.

Please enjoy my thoughts.

the sign

 

Inspiration comes to us in a variety of ways. Mine was in the car, a Kia to be exact. I was driving in Nashville, just lost in my thoughts and praying that my pop can with an engine would provide me with more safety than the reputation that precedes her. Boom! It hit me like an iron fist (figuratively, of course). Staring at me right in the face like a glowering auspice was a rectangle sign that seemed to speak only to me. A speed limit sign reading “24”.

To most people this is just a metal sign used to prevent people from breaking the law. To me, it was the enormous wake up call. I was 24. Not old, but not a kid anymore. It hit me hard, very hard. That damn sign was my ugly harbinger. Here I was 24 years old with absolutely no direction and utterly unsatisfied with my life. Only the apropos nature of a “speed limit” sign would explain how I felt right at that moment, which was “damn, it has gone by fast.” Reality reared her ugly head, yet it somehow led me to my epiphany about my passion, joy and purpose: writing.

The one gift that I have is also the one thing that truly makes me inspired. Yes, inspiration comes to us in a variety of ways. Perhaps my “Speed Limit 24” sign was more of a wake up call, but it led me to writing this today. Oddly enough, that was the one and only time I ever saw a “24” limit sign.

à double-entendre a la south

What is with the South? I am not even referring to their reputation for inbreeding or their overall responsibility for the majority of this country's obesity problem. (Side note: Fried food is not a food group).
Perhaps it is my naughty mind or my keen sense of observation, but there was more what the French call double-entendre in the South than in a vaudeville performance with Mae West. My first encounter with this occurred while I was visiting the Dukes of Hazard museum called Cooter's. . Cooter's? Really? I do not care if it was not a euphemism for a female organ back when "Crazy Cooter" was working on General Lee. We all know what a Cooter is now and so it just sounds wrong. A picture says 1000 words, so I will merely portray my version of double-entendre a la South with imagery...

P.S. Tolerating the traditional fatty fare and the sweltering air are truly small prices to pay when visiting the antebellum charm or the historical monuments of the South. Merci Beaucoup.

A Street Car Named Desire

The drops were light and refreshing. Not unwieldy, aqueous weepings from the clouds above, but simply charming little accents that added to the ambience of this mysterious place. Only the bien-pensant stroller sauntered with an umbrella, for the rest of us wayfarers chose the path less taken—an appreciation for puddles and water-beaded hair. I, myself, chose that path. Having never ventured to this end of the country, I appreciated the novelty of everything just that much more…

Alas, the cable car approached but not before the herald by the legendary bell gave us fair warning of her imminent arrival. I boasted my ease of boarding this ingenious mode of transportation and almost fought for the less-coveted standing position. Grasping onto that bar as if it was the difference between salvation and death, I leaned my face into the moist Bay breeze and prayed for a chinook—a subtle homage to my Rocky Mountain homeland.

As we plodded up a Russian and sailed down a Nob, almost like an apprehensive clipper in an unsteady sea, I felt transported—in a Proustian flash—to an era in my childhood in which the fondness of a roller coaster ride could not be surpassed by anything. That excitement and thrill seeking adrenaline from my childhood was the same that day on the cable car, except for one thing: I was not 12 anymore.

Over a decade after my fondness for roller coaster escapades, I was still enjoying the same concept on a streetcar. Reminiscent thoughts rarely occupy me for long; so again, I picked up where I left off, which was on an imaginary boat that clutched to Python-size cables…

Surrounding my tenacious little cable car were the dollhouse-like structures that outlined the narrow streets on both sides, like a hem keeping the streets accountable for their pre-destined path. Unlike any architecture that I have ever seen, the San Franciscan style was a fascinating site on its own. From the commercial buildings built on an incline to the narrow homes adjoined by another built on a decline, the colors and stylish structures followed the ebb and flow of the streets. Then, before I knew it, my flashbacks and awe-struck moments ended at “pier number something indivisible by 3.”

It only seemed appropriate that my schooner on wheels—or cable, rather—concluded at the sea. Tingling with adrenaline, my body felt the remnants of the pulsating cable car as I slowly got off to explore the ever-popular Fisherman's Wharf. Even more akin to a sea ride, you might say I had sea legs, or cable car legs; nevertheless, there was a Wharf that begged upon me to discover something. Unfortunately, this adventure did not include my Desired Streetcar, so to speak…

Rules and Reminiscent Rides

As I am writing this, I am sitting on the train staring at the crater-like Dolomites. The sun is peering through the silver lined clouds and illuminating the snow-capped peaks and the mid-morning steam murmuring from the summit is akin to my “tre al giorno caffé.” Coming from the Rocky Mountains, I am not completely speechless, but, nevertheless, there lies a uniqueness that each natural wonder bestows to the world. That being said, as I sit back and reminisce about each voyage via train, each landscape was quite a sundry of scenery and hence, utterly distinguishable. In Firenze, there were the rolling hills, sprinkled with the slender, delicate Cyprus trees that compose that picturesque Tuscan landscape; or, the lush Piedmont vegetation in Torino where the best chocolate (in my opinion) happens to be crafted; or, even the blend of Fascist and Modern architecture with hints of Neoclassical nodes that illuminate the city of Milan. Oh, Milano.
Yes, I bid adieu to Milan today. As cliché as this may sound, it seems like I said goodbye to my home in Denver “just yesterday.” It went by incredibly fast, too fast. All good things must eventually end, and Milan was a “good thing,” for several reasons. Perhaps I am different now. I can’t see how I would be the same after being abroad for some time. I will miss it terribly, though. Not the fashion or the extravagant indulgences, like deciding if I want this season’s limited-edition Prada bag in “celestial” blue or perhaps hold off until Gucci launches the must-have “ambrosia” evening clutch. God. I definitely wont miss that nonsense; but, that “pleasure seeking through luxurious details” exists everywhere, but Milan happens to be the Mecca where the deal is made and the decadence ensues. My Pilgrimage to Milan was not to visit every flagship store of the world’s most popular Italian luxury brands and trend set myself back to Denver with Milanese prêt-a-porter threads. Yeah right. I am a Coloradoan at heart because believe me, after one week here, I realized just how “un-fashionable” I was. Honestly, I would gladly wear my gym clothes all day and be completely content (sorry, Mom) but that is not necessarily a great quality either: comfort and haute couture via gym wear. Some things never change. After all, you cannot break into a sprint or walk the concrete jungle in a pencil skirt and stilettos, but somehow the Italians do it elegantly and poised everyday. I envy their strength and perseverance to always put fashion before ease. Because after one night in my heels, they definitely never saw the light of day again; and, I don’t think my feet talked to me for a week.
No, but, seriously, my cause was very different from the typical rationale behind living in Milan. Some might say, “why the hell would you go to Milan, why not Florence or Rome?” Good question. Or, I love this one, “Why the hell do you want to learn Italian?” Another good question that I don’t have a suitable answer to. My qualified answer is usually just “Well, because I want to.” Truly, every time I hear the language spoken it sounds like a harmonious blend of rhythm and poetry. The intonation and the stress of certain syllabi and even the stereotypical hand gestures that accompany the language emulates the art of singing, and thus, it is music to my ears… Ok, enough of the sappy rambling, but I really do think that Italian is a handsome spoken language. Back to my original point, pre-tangent, that perfectly eligible question that I hear time and time again is usually followed by something to the tune of, “I don’t know if you know this, but Italian is only spoken in Italy, so it is not that useful outside of here.” I would usually respond, puzzled and slightly smart-assed “Really?” or in Italian, “Davvero?” Why does every action need an accompanying definitive purpose before it is qualified as a worthy move? This is not a chess game, although the “life is akin to a chess game” is certainly a practical analogy—you should be completely strategic and deliberate with your moves. Every move counts. Yes, this is true. Every move does count and you need to take those calculated risks to advance to the next phase. Well, if my life is a chess game, then I will make the rules.
Rule #1: There is always a reason for everything and a purpose, even if it happens to be covert, it will eventually become known (Coming to Italy in the first place). Rule #2: Take risks and try something new as often as possible (Traveling da sola not knowing more than ciao and grazie initially & exploring the rest of the country da sola). Rule #3: Sometimes negate Rule #2 and create a routine where comfort resides that will never fall to monotony and boredom (Going to the same coffee bars everyday and meeting some great people that always made me feel at home in this foreign place). My drafted and proposed purpose for coming to Italy prior to leaving was the following: #1 I wanted to learn another language (I chose Italian) and #2 I wanted to live abroad. Quite simply, those were my reasons, but undoubtedly, the experience led to other self-discoveries that will continue to manifest as I gradually make my way back to the States. See, for me, I know that I acquired many more lessons learned than just how to say hello and goodbye in another language (I can say more than that, by the way). Now I am off to try to figure out German for a few days…Ich spreche kein Deutsch…