J*l_28
voices-
MAY 20, 2011
Recently, Komo and I sat in one of my favor
ite restaurants, La Bottega, an Italian cafe in
downtown Vancouver that doubles as a deli and
wine shop. O ur conversation veered into a
heated recap of my most recent relationship and
inevitably morphed into an exhaustive evalua
tion of my all-time most significant pairings.
An epiphany befell my friend, mid-sentence.
Komo offered this succinct summary: No mat
ter where a relationship ends up, I strive to live
in, to maintain, the fairy tale beginning. I trea
sure the earliest, most romantic moments, ig
noring less palatable, current truths staring me
in the face.
In short, I’m always (mistakenly) Julia Rob
erts to someone’s Richard Gere. I’m enchanted
by initial courtships: first dates, first words,
how my boyfriends and I met. Partly, I fall in
love with a beginning that, usually, unravels
and dissipates; I bask in the relationship’s most
fecund point, despite monotonous or trouble
some dynamics that emerge.This was definitely
the case with my live-in partner: Years of
friendship, I believed, meant we were star-
crossed, long-lost lovers. I remained commit
ted to the cause because it seemed cosmic
forces willed it. W hen it came to the demise, I
was last on board—as usual. I blame a too-
early and frequent diet of Ms. Roberts’ films—
the schlocky bill of goods her drivel sold.
In short, I’m always (mistakenly) Julia
Roberts to someone’s Richard Gere.
The only dynamic that rivals romantic affairs
is my connection to home. Thus, similarly, I
often ignore the uglier parts of my hometown,
Vancouver. It’s a less intense version of the
blind love I cling to during courtships, but
hopes which impede a real come-to-Jesus re
main. There’s plenty bad to be said— and much
justified. Suburb after suburb creates the kind
of endless sprawl The Arcade Fire must have
envisioned (or sauntered through) when writ
ing their last album. Chain restaurants, mini
malls: soulless, barren. Tucked away— almost
secretly—around the 1-5 corridor is a bastion
of relief from the countless suburban blights, a
community populated with professors, artists,
entrepreneurs and other open-minded folk.
La Bottega is there. After our meal, Komo
and I crossed the street to my favorite coffee
shop, Mon Ami. (Another friend dubs such
excursions “Vancouver Safaris.”) We moved
from one beloved hotspot to another, past the
towering pink church, up the tree-trimmed-
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lifetime of people in safe havens intentional
ly—or not— upending them: aunts trying to
fix me up with marketable females in front of
my boyfriends, others oft-suggesting conver
sion therapy, camps, more who compared my
“affliction” to alcoholism and drug addiction.
Managing the mix o f past and present, I de
clared, “No, you’re wrong, and we’re moving
toward more progressive theories now. I am
gay, it’s not in my head, and, yes, this deep vee
is meant to attract men, not women. But you’re
free to peek.” I took the southernmost point of
my vee and pulled it down further. Finally si
lent, she scurried away, muttering.
Those around me marveled at my ability to
not unleash a profanity-laced tirade. (I did,
too.) And, despite the old-woman-as-blight-
on-landscape, I maintain that Downtown
Vancouver is a reprieve from the sprawl around
it, much like Portland has its own much-need
ed reprieves. And maybe loving a fairy tale isn’t
so terrible sometimes— relationships or other
wise, as long as the hurt isn’t unbearable. In
stead, let’s label such affections “seeing the
good in others,” even if it’s selective vision.
Even though we can’t revisit old relationships,
or make them evolve, we can certainly go home
again. And there, sometimes, the good out
weighs the bad—just enough. J0]
street; I pointed out favorite dive bars, filled
with professional, all-day drinkers. We pushed
Mon Ami’s old, creaky door open, ambling
past locals hard at work on laptops, or en
grossed in conversations like ours. We eased
our way to the counter, past the art-lined
walls, where urban, friendly, but not-behold-
en-to-Starbucks’-“boost your patrons’ self-
esteem ’-mantra baristas occupied their usual
positions. An old woman, dressed simply in
grays and high-waisted blue jeans, stood next
to me, intent on procuring one o f her many
free coffee refills.
Kate, barista de jour, joked, “Bringing scan
dal and cleavage wherever you go, Daniel.”
(The combined gay that is my bright, plunging
t-shirt plus Komo might count as scandal.) I
responded, “Showing off the goods in my life
long quest to land a husband.” The older
woman, lurking, listening, hissed, “You need a
wife, not a husband.” Oddly calm, staring at
her, I shot back, “No. I assure you, I am quite
gay, and I need a husband, not a wife.” Ner
vously grasping her dull, ratty cardigan, she I'm never more delighted than when my plunging
mustered, “No, no, it’s all in your head.”
t-shirts initiate conversation. Email d a n i e l @
I paused. Instantly, the woman represented a j u s t o u t . c o m .
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