Le grand amour, or the real true love in one’s life , of mine (at least until now. Have no idea how many grand amours one can actually have in life) was intimately linked to Paris. OK, he was not Parisian (but from the province not far from Paris. Anything outside Paris by the way is called the province), but our love blossomed in Paris (as I guess would say all lovers who come to Paris) and many of my memories with him took place in Paris. Like the time we walked late at night on the Pont des Arts: The lampposts simmering in the fog and rain, the river Seine reflecting the lights of the city, and his warm hand holding mine. I thought that if this was not love, I would still die a happy man! Then there was the time we met after a month separation at the Gare du Nord. Among the crowd I spotted him and everyone else ceased to exist and I felt such happiness rose from my stomach to my chest and eventually all over. I looked at his face and could not believe how much I loved him and, as the cliché says, could have sworn that I heard La Vie en Rose playing at the station. ha ha.
I also remeber the night we were at the terrace of the Banana Café when he came out to his best friend and introduced me as his Grand Amour de sa vie (the love of his life)! He was happy as a lark having for the first time ever blurted out his non heterosexuality to his stunned best friend who sat there jaws practically on his lap. And then, of course, there were walks in le Marais and long kisses at a corner table at l’Amnesia café.
We lived on the fifth floor walk up apartment in Goncourt (which explained I guess why i had adorable behind at that time) where in the mornings I used to wake him up with a steaming cup of hot coffee and fresh wet kisses. For the first time in my life, I had no desire to have sex with other men. This must be love, I told myself; that must be love, everyone around me told me. In the cocoon of our apartment, we lived in our own world as if the morning sun was there to whisper Bonjour just for us.
But the real world reared its head and broke us apart from the inside (and not exactly knocking on the door as I anticipated or knocking us apart from the outside). He was soon torn between his family who wanted a heterosexual son and a lover that could look like RuPaul on a bad hair day (or even no hair day!). We would be together in Paris and he would be feeling guiltier by the minute, resenting me by the second and finally running to take the train to his hometown, only to call me not long after he arrived to say he missed me and did not know what in hell he was doing there away from me. He shuttled between Paris and his hometown like a crazy pingpong ball being bounced and pulled by different parts of himself that just never seemed to find its rightful place wherever he was. It was no wonder he cracked: He left Paris (in fact, France), married the first girl that looked presentable, and got fat.
So there we are: A happy family in the province that could be proud of his son, an unhappy man with a presentable wife a long way from France, and a lost person wondering the streets of Paris late at night wondering if the Grand Amour will say Hello out of the blue foggy night.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Friday, December 14, 2007
Paris weather, the homeless, birthday & lovers
Weather and the homeless
Today is the 14th of dec. 2007. Paris experiences one of its coldest days. In the afternoon, I looked at the t displayed on a building and saw it was only 3 (Ok, people from Hamilton NY will probably laugh saying that 3 degrees Celsius is cold). Tomorrow morning, they expect -3 ! Though nothing compared to what we could have in New York or NJ or Massachusetts (or Canada), Paris does not really see itself as a cold weather city which means that heating system is not as effective as one might find in North America. My first apartment, for instance, did not have any heaters (I had to buy portable ones. The law has since changed though, specifying that heaters are to be present in rented apartments). But even heating professionals would look at you as if you had just spoken to them in Chinese if you talk about central heating. Snow is even rarer. My first year in Paris, everyone was up in arms with traffic jams and accidents on autoroutes around Paris because of an inch of snow! Never mind the kind of snow we get in upstate NY.
During this cold time, metro stations might be left open (they usually close just after midnight) to be used as shelters for homeless people. The number of homeless people in Paris has increase exponentially since I arrived here 9 years ago. Many new ones I notice in my neighbourhood (they still look very well kept and have few possessions, whereas the longtime homeless people may look unkempt and carry many things from boxes to supermarket caddy). This is a rather shocking situation in a society that is very social(ist, with socialized medical system) and concerned with human issues. Though housing problem has been discussed often on tv, little news concerns the homeless (unless the weather gets very cold like these days). In a true French tendency to render unpleasant things less unpleasant, these homeless people are called SDF or sans domicile fixe or, literally, without fixed address as if they change address everyday! Actually, more accurately they should be called simply sans domicile or without home!
Birthday and lovers
Tomorrow is my birthday. As the (self-made) tradition calls every year, I celebrate it by making love. Last year, I had to wait till the day after my birthday for the love making with my married lover. This year I start early, so, thank you to Michel and to Mario who have made my day and my evening. Both had to come from outside Paris to help me celebrate the day that most gay men beyond a certain age would rather forget! Malik came just before midnight to lessen the pain of the symbolic passage of the age on the midnight hour. These men helped me forget aging, aging and aging. Memorable past birthdays include Marc, my lover who with his youth managed to make me feel younger (assimilation) or, sigh, older (contrast). Marc is gone from my neighbourhood (and from my life) now. But I still remember his likes and dislikes that are not always conventional (like finding a secluded park on a cold night when my apartment is all nice, warm and cosy, to make love in). But hey, to each his own and if that makes him happy I am not averse to a spot of love among trees (nature lover that I am) on a beautiful park in a small island where Paris first came into being, stranded by the river Seine on both sides (hint: Ile de st louis).
With birthdays, one cannot help but count the time until one finally reaches one’s goal of finding Mr. Right instead of Mr Right There. But for now again, Mr. Right There is better than no one right?
Today is the 14th of dec. 2007. Paris experiences one of its coldest days. In the afternoon, I looked at the t displayed on a building and saw it was only 3 (Ok, people from Hamilton NY will probably laugh saying that 3 degrees Celsius is cold). Tomorrow morning, they expect -3 ! Though nothing compared to what we could have in New York or NJ or Massachusetts (or Canada), Paris does not really see itself as a cold weather city which means that heating system is not as effective as one might find in North America. My first apartment, for instance, did not have any heaters (I had to buy portable ones. The law has since changed though, specifying that heaters are to be present in rented apartments). But even heating professionals would look at you as if you had just spoken to them in Chinese if you talk about central heating. Snow is even rarer. My first year in Paris, everyone was up in arms with traffic jams and accidents on autoroutes around Paris because of an inch of snow! Never mind the kind of snow we get in upstate NY.
During this cold time, metro stations might be left open (they usually close just after midnight) to be used as shelters for homeless people. The number of homeless people in Paris has increase exponentially since I arrived here 9 years ago. Many new ones I notice in my neighbourhood (they still look very well kept and have few possessions, whereas the longtime homeless people may look unkempt and carry many things from boxes to supermarket caddy). This is a rather shocking situation in a society that is very social(ist, with socialized medical system) and concerned with human issues. Though housing problem has been discussed often on tv, little news concerns the homeless (unless the weather gets very cold like these days). In a true French tendency to render unpleasant things less unpleasant, these homeless people are called SDF or sans domicile fixe or, literally, without fixed address as if they change address everyday! Actually, more accurately they should be called simply sans domicile or without home!
Birthday and lovers
Tomorrow is my birthday. As the (self-made) tradition calls every year, I celebrate it by making love. Last year, I had to wait till the day after my birthday for the love making with my married lover. This year I start early, so, thank you to Michel and to Mario who have made my day and my evening. Both had to come from outside Paris to help me celebrate the day that most gay men beyond a certain age would rather forget! Malik came just before midnight to lessen the pain of the symbolic passage of the age on the midnight hour. These men helped me forget aging, aging and aging. Memorable past birthdays include Marc, my lover who with his youth managed to make me feel younger (assimilation) or, sigh, older (contrast). Marc is gone from my neighbourhood (and from my life) now. But I still remember his likes and dislikes that are not always conventional (like finding a secluded park on a cold night when my apartment is all nice, warm and cosy, to make love in). But hey, to each his own and if that makes him happy I am not averse to a spot of love among trees (nature lover that I am) on a beautiful park in a small island where Paris first came into being, stranded by the river Seine on both sides (hint: Ile de st louis).
With birthdays, one cannot help but count the time until one finally reaches one’s goal of finding Mr. Right instead of Mr Right There. But for now again, Mr. Right There is better than no one right?
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Paris Los Angeles
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Having spent some of my formative years in Los Angles, it is no wonder that I miss LA from time to time. There is this feeling that I get as soon as the plane touches down in LAX that could only be described as a feeling that one may have upon arriving ‘home’ after a long and tortuous journey or day.
No other two cities can be more different to each other than LA and Paris.
Whereas LA does not really have a city center and is spread out, Paris is compact and almost all of Paris can be considered the center (at least the first 8 arrondissements, which only leave us 12 that are not properly speaking center of Paris). Whereas LA downtown (if we insist on having a center in LA this is the most likely candidate, at least theoretically) is deserted and actively avoided once the sun goes down, Paris center becomes even more lively later in the night. The perception of city center and suburbs and where the rich and the poor live also could not be more different. Talking to a friend in LA about social problems, he talked about the inner city whereas I talked about the banlieus or the suburbs!
So, once in a while I would scrape a few dollars or euros from my miserable salary to get myself an airticket to LA. Bizarrely, it is not that easy to get a non stop direct flight between the two cities. So, one may have to stop in Chicago, New York, Detroit (yes, Detroit! Go figure) or Washington. Arriving in LAX, my first stop would be to the outside walkways to the right and the left of the Tom Bradley international terminal: Here, I had spent many hours watching airlines from all over the world parked at their gates and dreaming of far away places that someday I might visit (I have done most of them now).
Next is the city bus that would take me along Century boulevard towards Hawthorne boulevard. This will take me past the X book store I used to go to (and cruised) when I was young in Inglewood. And the bus will take me to my old hood Hawthorne.
Now, you may get advised not to go anywhere near Hawthorne or Inglewood because of gang problems etc. But I can walk there feeling free as a bird as I recognize every corner that had stayed the same or remember it as it used to be: Like the bleachers at Hawthorne HS athletic tracks where we all used to do naughty stuff whilst the HS athletes are huffing and puffing on the track chased by the coach or the bus stops where I probably spent most of my non driving years and wasted my youth waiting or missing buses, or the mall where I used to hang out and whiled away the time.
LA vs Paris: public transport and superficial friendship
Whereas public transport is the norm in Paris (as in many other large cities such as NY and London), in LA public transport used to be pronounced with so much spite it was no wonder I was floored when I finally realized public transport could be efficient and useful, as when I moved to NYC. In LA, cars are necessary and even though everyone would have spent hours on 12 lane freeways turned into a veritable parking lot during rush hours, the idea of a public transport would give Angelinos a mini heart attack or nervous breakdown. The day I got my driving licence (after a hair raising road test) I felt like a new person. I was able to go to West Hollywood wherever I wanted without having to spend hours waiting for buses and missing the connections. I was able to go to the beach and walked on the sand (about the only place where one can walk in LA actually). Walking is a common everyday activity in Paris and, indeed, one has to walk and just wonder if one wants to discover Paris. Walking in LA can be dangerous to your health (try to cross a boulevard in one go, or as Parisians are apt to do, to cross when the little man is red….).
Whereas LA is colourful, Paris is more sedate. Just look at the Los Angelinos, they tend to wear bright colors (or in the case of little old ladies in my old neighbourhood, pale green and cotton candy pink hair!). In Paris, better not go out with green fluorescent shorts and yellow t shirt or people will look at you curiously (and a tad of disdain for ruining the harmony in Paris) or simply tag you as tourist from outre atlantique (the other side of the Atlantic) with amusement. Los Angelinos are optimists by nature, whereas the smiley and happy people you see in Paris may very well be the tourists. Whereas Angelinos suffer from the reputation of being superficial (rightly or wrongly), no one will ever (dare) say Parisians are such. In fact, the most often heard criticism of Parisians concerning Americans concerns their supposed superficiality. How many times have I heard Parisians say Sure it is easy to start friendship in the US, but it is sooo (with the lift of the shoulder that indicates once and for all that they are so right) superficielle. In Paris, they continue, it takes time to build friendship but it goes much deeper and last forever. Hm ok. Well, that explains why everyone seems to have kept their friends from childhood and how difficult it is to break into existing friendship. There are always friends and FRIENDS!
Paris vs LA: Muscle men
LA men cannot be more different than their counterparts in Paris. You go to any gay bars in West Hollywood or walk around Santa Monica or Venice beach, you probably see muscle men all over the place. In Paris, men tend to be less muscled and skinny. I guess culture does have a lot to do with the idea of sexiness and beauty. If bulging muscles are what’s important in underwear nights in an LA bar, the elegance of the underwear you wear (if it’s classe or not) is what is important in a Paris bar. In Paris, though the cute guy may at first be the centre of attention, at the end, it’s the guy who can hold his own in conversation that will probably be invited again! Conversation is an important part of French life and the French appreciate those who stick to their own even if they don’t agree. So, forget the dream guy who gets on his knees when you walk into the room and speaks only when spoken too. The ideal guy here would not only be able to talk to you about Sartre but also wears D&G underwear.
No other two cities can be more different to each other than LA and Paris.
Whereas LA does not really have a city center and is spread out, Paris is compact and almost all of Paris can be considered the center (at least the first 8 arrondissements, which only leave us 12 that are not properly speaking center of Paris). Whereas LA downtown (if we insist on having a center in LA this is the most likely candidate, at least theoretically) is deserted and actively avoided once the sun goes down, Paris center becomes even more lively later in the night. The perception of city center and suburbs and where the rich and the poor live also could not be more different. Talking to a friend in LA about social problems, he talked about the inner city whereas I talked about the banlieus or the suburbs!
So, once in a while I would scrape a few dollars or euros from my miserable salary to get myself an airticket to LA. Bizarrely, it is not that easy to get a non stop direct flight between the two cities. So, one may have to stop in Chicago, New York, Detroit (yes, Detroit! Go figure) or Washington. Arriving in LAX, my first stop would be to the outside walkways to the right and the left of the Tom Bradley international terminal: Here, I had spent many hours watching airlines from all over the world parked at their gates and dreaming of far away places that someday I might visit (I have done most of them now).
Next is the city bus that would take me along Century boulevard towards Hawthorne boulevard. This will take me past the X book store I used to go to (and cruised) when I was young in Inglewood. And the bus will take me to my old hood Hawthorne.
Now, you may get advised not to go anywhere near Hawthorne or Inglewood because of gang problems etc. But I can walk there feeling free as a bird as I recognize every corner that had stayed the same or remember it as it used to be: Like the bleachers at Hawthorne HS athletic tracks where we all used to do naughty stuff whilst the HS athletes are huffing and puffing on the track chased by the coach or the bus stops where I probably spent most of my non driving years and wasted my youth waiting or missing buses, or the mall where I used to hang out and whiled away the time.
LA vs Paris: public transport and superficial friendship
Whereas public transport is the norm in Paris (as in many other large cities such as NY and London), in LA public transport used to be pronounced with so much spite it was no wonder I was floored when I finally realized public transport could be efficient and useful, as when I moved to NYC. In LA, cars are necessary and even though everyone would have spent hours on 12 lane freeways turned into a veritable parking lot during rush hours, the idea of a public transport would give Angelinos a mini heart attack or nervous breakdown. The day I got my driving licence (after a hair raising road test) I felt like a new person. I was able to go to West Hollywood wherever I wanted without having to spend hours waiting for buses and missing the connections. I was able to go to the beach and walked on the sand (about the only place where one can walk in LA actually). Walking is a common everyday activity in Paris and, indeed, one has to walk and just wonder if one wants to discover Paris. Walking in LA can be dangerous to your health (try to cross a boulevard in one go, or as Parisians are apt to do, to cross when the little man is red….).
Whereas LA is colourful, Paris is more sedate. Just look at the Los Angelinos, they tend to wear bright colors (or in the case of little old ladies in my old neighbourhood, pale green and cotton candy pink hair!). In Paris, better not go out with green fluorescent shorts and yellow t shirt or people will look at you curiously (and a tad of disdain for ruining the harmony in Paris) or simply tag you as tourist from outre atlantique (the other side of the Atlantic) with amusement. Los Angelinos are optimists by nature, whereas the smiley and happy people you see in Paris may very well be the tourists. Whereas Angelinos suffer from the reputation of being superficial (rightly or wrongly), no one will ever (dare) say Parisians are such. In fact, the most often heard criticism of Parisians concerning Americans concerns their supposed superficiality. How many times have I heard Parisians say Sure it is easy to start friendship in the US, but it is sooo (with the lift of the shoulder that indicates once and for all that they are so right) superficielle. In Paris, they continue, it takes time to build friendship but it goes much deeper and last forever. Hm ok. Well, that explains why everyone seems to have kept their friends from childhood and how difficult it is to break into existing friendship. There are always friends and FRIENDS!
Paris vs LA: Muscle men
LA men cannot be more different than their counterparts in Paris. You go to any gay bars in West Hollywood or walk around Santa Monica or Venice beach, you probably see muscle men all over the place. In Paris, men tend to be less muscled and skinny. I guess culture does have a lot to do with the idea of sexiness and beauty. If bulging muscles are what’s important in underwear nights in an LA bar, the elegance of the underwear you wear (if it’s classe or not) is what is important in a Paris bar. In Paris, though the cute guy may at first be the centre of attention, at the end, it’s the guy who can hold his own in conversation that will probably be invited again! Conversation is an important part of French life and the French appreciate those who stick to their own even if they don’t agree. So, forget the dream guy who gets on his knees when you walk into the room and speaks only when spoken too. The ideal guy here would not only be able to talk to you about Sartre but also wears D&G underwear.
Tired in Paris
Finally things have calmed down a lot. I am so tired of working, searching for an apartment and life in general. The new French president talks about working more and earning more, with all the law reforms that supposedly will take place. Yes, brilliant as an idea, but already I am working day and night and cannot fathom the idea of working even more (and cannot, even if I want to!).
The thing that really ticks me off is that I don’t remember ever having worked so hard in my life. What’s more, I don’t even think that I am more productive and sometimes think that I am even less productive than when I worked less. Many of our time indeed is spent negotiating how to do our work (calming down colleagues who get nuts thinking we were up to some no good or something that could have negative impact on them in comparison which seems to lead to the idea better make sure others do as little as me), leaving not much time to do the work itself (and too tired).
Working environment cannot be more different between Australia or the US and France. If the default assumption among my American colleagues was trust (for example, I cannot make it to the meeting, and I don’t expect that I will be fucked over just because I was not there), here the assumption is distrust and méfiance. Meetings become extremely important because everyone expects to get the worst end if not present. But of course the important decisions have been discussed outside among cliques. But this does not prevent everyone to have their say in very long discourse that goes right, left, up and down until everyone including the speaker often forget what is being talked about. This explains why meetings tend to drag on and on. And what’s surprising is that often whilst someone is talking the others would discuss loudly among themselves!
As is the rule in French conversation, people don’t wait for a gap to jump in verbally. No, they just speak louder and drown the other speaker (who in turn would turn up the volume too). This will take some time to master for Anglophones who tend to wait for a gap (and of course, among Anglophones, they say that in conversation, the opposite of "speaking" is really "waiting", and not "listening"!).
Back to my complaint, now I work much more for less of a salary than what I had when I was more junior in other countries that seem to pay their workers more. But, I tell myself, I am in Paris (and I look longingly at all the lovely apartments that those moneyed or well connected seem to have). And Paris is Paris is Paris!
That’s probably what you’re thinking too, complaining when one lives in Paris? Actually, these are the moments when I remember fondly being a tourist in Paris. Then, Paris was indeed the romantic city that holds a lot of mysteries, the Parisians did not bug me because you project onto them your ideas formed from films and novels (charming, secretive, daring, impulsive, but always romantic). Well, the more you know them the less you rely on these images and, frankly, like everywhere else, the reality often lags behind the ideas…Indeed sometimes I see a person that would activate the image I used to have of Parisians, but the person has to really fit this image...otherwise, it's just other people like me doing boulot, métro, dodo (translation: work, subway, sleep).
The thing that really ticks me off is that I don’t remember ever having worked so hard in my life. What’s more, I don’t even think that I am more productive and sometimes think that I am even less productive than when I worked less. Many of our time indeed is spent negotiating how to do our work (calming down colleagues who get nuts thinking we were up to some no good or something that could have negative impact on them in comparison which seems to lead to the idea better make sure others do as little as me), leaving not much time to do the work itself (and too tired).
Working environment cannot be more different between Australia or the US and France. If the default assumption among my American colleagues was trust (for example, I cannot make it to the meeting, and I don’t expect that I will be fucked over just because I was not there), here the assumption is distrust and méfiance. Meetings become extremely important because everyone expects to get the worst end if not present. But of course the important decisions have been discussed outside among cliques. But this does not prevent everyone to have their say in very long discourse that goes right, left, up and down until everyone including the speaker often forget what is being talked about. This explains why meetings tend to drag on and on. And what’s surprising is that often whilst someone is talking the others would discuss loudly among themselves!
As is the rule in French conversation, people don’t wait for a gap to jump in verbally. No, they just speak louder and drown the other speaker (who in turn would turn up the volume too). This will take some time to master for Anglophones who tend to wait for a gap (and of course, among Anglophones, they say that in conversation, the opposite of "speaking" is really "waiting", and not "listening"!).
Back to my complaint, now I work much more for less of a salary than what I had when I was more junior in other countries that seem to pay their workers more. But, I tell myself, I am in Paris (and I look longingly at all the lovely apartments that those moneyed or well connected seem to have). And Paris is Paris is Paris!
That’s probably what you’re thinking too, complaining when one lives in Paris? Actually, these are the moments when I remember fondly being a tourist in Paris. Then, Paris was indeed the romantic city that holds a lot of mysteries, the Parisians did not bug me because you project onto them your ideas formed from films and novels (charming, secretive, daring, impulsive, but always romantic). Well, the more you know them the less you rely on these images and, frankly, like everywhere else, the reality often lags behind the ideas…Indeed sometimes I see a person that would activate the image I used to have of Parisians, but the person has to really fit this image...otherwise, it's just other people like me doing boulot, métro, dodo (translation: work, subway, sleep).
Monday, December 3, 2007
Aging in Paris
Sitting in a Paris café and watching people go by or the other clients, one cannot help but think about things and be a bit reflective (like, when is the arrogant waiter going to ever notice me?). One day, at Place de la Marie in the 4th arrondissement, I watched a group of old ladies sitting on a bench in front of the café, talking, laughing and just passing the time in each other’s company. Everyday after that day, I saw them on the same bench at the same time. I started thinking about growing old. Yes, something that gay men fear most of all. How do you expect to land Mr. Right with wrinkled skin, sagging ass and soft erection? Worse yet, with failing vision, you would probably have a hard time spotting Mr. Right even if he was a mere meter from you.
What getting old means
I wished now that people had told me more about getting old. So many
things that I did not anticipate or expect that their sudden appearance can put anybody in a light depression. I noticed my sight was going when I had a bit of trouble reading the small map of Paris métro. I used to love this little map that fits into my wallet. Now, I need a map the size of Manhattan to easily read the names of the station or buy a magnifying glass and keep the little map in my wallet.
Gay men, like adolescents, are avid sms users too which are practical to set up sex RDVs. But now I am obliged to buy the high tech and rather large cell phone because the little cute ones (yes, size does matter, though for once, the smaller the better) that we like so much are becoming too difficult to read!
To top it off, how many evenings have I spent at dinner table without my glasses (thinking I look cuter without them) blind as a bat conversing with someone that looked cute only to find out he was far from it when I took a peek with my glasses whilst he was asleep next to me in my bed?
Being old was something that scared me and of which I tried to think as little as possible. I could not imagine being 30 when I turned 21, let alone turning 40. In subways and buses I would look at old men thinking that I would NEVER get that age. This is an interesting phenomenon as I often imagined myself being rich (unlikely to happen), yet never imagined being old (sure to happen). What does that say about how we think of ourselves in the future? I looked at older gay men in bars thinking that at their age I would probably be at home watching tv with Mr. Right with whom I would have bought a house, a car and raised a dog together. Wrong. I still frequent gay bars looking for Mr. Right and often end up with Mr. Available, still don’t own a house and what’s more I am getting kicked out of my miniscule apartment in Paris. Life can be so cruel!
Being old, being wise?
I don’t know about wise, but certainly old means you know more than you care or ever want to know. The day I finally FELT I perfectly understood the phrase Youth is wasted on the young I knew I did not belong to this group any more. Worse, I very nearly physically felt the saying Now I get up with a stiff back and a soft dick (instead of the other way around!). So, we know more with age, but this is the knowledge that I can do without really.
In most gay circles, being old means you’re finished, done, out. That’s probably why many gay men act young despite their wrinkled skin and sagging behind. They still wear tight jeans (at least in Paris) with t shirt that is at least 2 sizes too small. They shaved their head. They wear the latest Converse on their feet (Hey, it’s like looking in the mirror, writing this).
However, being older does have its advantages. We don’t get all worked out thinking about what other people think of us. We know who we are. Having been there and done that, there’s always something in our past to which we can turn to deal with any situation. We get out of uncomfortable situations more easily and by being nice! A concrete example, after making love and needing my beauty sleep though the guy I was with seemed to still be keen on playing, I probably would not have known what to do when I was young. Now, I can say in my most Blanche (from the Golden Girls, for you who are not of age to know this wonderful series) voice if I could call a taxi for him…Hey, service with a smile! And I assure you that I did not learn that in Paris!
What getting old means
I wished now that people had told me more about getting old. So many
things that I did not anticipate or expect that their sudden appearance can put anybody in a light depression. I noticed my sight was going when I had a bit of trouble reading the small map of Paris métro. I used to love this little map that fits into my wallet. Now, I need a map the size of Manhattan to easily read the names of the station or buy a magnifying glass and keep the little map in my wallet.Gay men, like adolescents, are avid sms users too which are practical to set up sex RDVs. But now I am obliged to buy the high tech and rather large cell phone because the little cute ones (yes, size does matter, though for once, the smaller the better) that we like so much are becoming too difficult to read!
To top it off, how many evenings have I spent at dinner table without my glasses (thinking I look cuter without them) blind as a bat conversing with someone that looked cute only to find out he was far from it when I took a peek with my glasses whilst he was asleep next to me in my bed?
Being old was something that scared me and of which I tried to think as little as possible. I could not imagine being 30 when I turned 21, let alone turning 40. In subways and buses I would look at old men thinking that I would NEVER get that age. This is an interesting phenomenon as I often imagined myself being rich (unlikely to happen), yet never imagined being old (sure to happen). What does that say about how we think of ourselves in the future? I looked at older gay men in bars thinking that at their age I would probably be at home watching tv with Mr. Right with whom I would have bought a house, a car and raised a dog together. Wrong. I still frequent gay bars looking for Mr. Right and often end up with Mr. Available, still don’t own a house and what’s more I am getting kicked out of my miniscule apartment in Paris. Life can be so cruel!
Being old, being wise?
I don’t know about wise, but certainly old means you know more than you care or ever want to know. The day I finally FELT I perfectly understood the phrase Youth is wasted on the young I knew I did not belong to this group any more. Worse, I very nearly physically felt the saying Now I get up with a stiff back and a soft dick (instead of the other way around!). So, we know more with age, but this is the knowledge that I can do without really.
In most gay circles, being old means you’re finished, done, out. That’s probably why many gay men act young despite their wrinkled skin and sagging behind. They still wear tight jeans (at least in Paris) with t shirt that is at least 2 sizes too small. They shaved their head. They wear the latest Converse on their feet (Hey, it’s like looking in the mirror, writing this).
However, being older does have its advantages. We don’t get all worked out thinking about what other people think of us. We know who we are. Having been there and done that, there’s always something in our past to which we can turn to deal with any situation. We get out of uncomfortable situations more easily and by being nice! A concrete example, after making love and needing my beauty sleep though the guy I was with seemed to still be keen on playing, I probably would not have known what to do when I was young. Now, I can say in my most Blanche (from the Golden Girls, for you who are not of age to know this wonderful series) voice if I could call a taxi for him…Hey, service with a smile! And I assure you that I did not learn that in Paris!
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