Gay London should be familiar stomping ground but scenes, of course, change over the years so it was interesting to explore the unfamiliar and new sites.
The one main change that has occurred is the amount of backrooms and saunas with sex-on-site facilities that have sprung up. This is a major development since the British sex laws didn’t allow it before. Now all you need is a licence from the local council, planning hearings and all. This may lead to some comic situations such as the one where the (mostly gay) clergy of Southwark Cathedral objected to a (straight) fuck club being opened next door. Never mind that the venue currently houses a (gay) club called Hard On (which used to be called Fist). Such are the absurdities of officially sanctioned sex regulations. Or is it payback for all the anti-gay harassment of the past?
What did I sample? First up was Man Bar, which had a boots-only night on. Get in for £7.50 with a free drink, strip and have fun. This is a simple formula and of course it works. Unpretentious, non-attitudinal and uncomplicated fun was had by all.
The saunas are a different scene altogether. Overpriced (£11) with few (free) facilities. The Pleasuredrome had vaulted cubicles, where I several times hit my head on the ceiling, and a tiny video room with a plasma screen, but the videos were in black and white. Colourless porn sure looks arty, but I bet it was unintentional. If you want a private room with several video channels (in colour, I presume) you have to pay extra. The steam room was far too cold and the sauna boxes were overcrowded, but they were actually sufficiently heated. The men came in all shapes and sizes and I was blown away by some tattoos I noticed. One had ‘bitter’ and ‘sweet’ written under each nipple, which sort of made me wonder what scene he was into, but he said he had his done, along with half a dozen others on his chest and arms, when he was straight a decade ago (if this was really true then his nipple tattoos should have read: ‘bitter’ and ‘lager’). He was sure making up for lost time! (That’s when I hit my head on the ceiling).
Chariot’s, a franchised sauna chain with several branches around town, was full of muscle marys, who were doing a spot of live S&M (Stand around & Mimic your own escort advert picture) on Sunday afternoons. Nothing much happened on my watch. Renaming the sauna chain ‘Starfucks’ may be a bit premature.
Contemporary sauna designers should leg it to the Museum of London’s Roman section, where there are scale models of the bathhouses they built for the legionnaires stationed in Londinium. They featured under-floor heating systems, efficient plumbing, spacious rooms with varying temperature levels and a sensible lay out – all far more sophisticated than their 21st century counterparts. They may not have had the porn videos but I am sure that a couple of buff Roman soldiers would have more than made up for that shortcoming!
When exploring the gay side of a city I always like to take Dante as my guide to this inferno. It’s always easy to find the 7th ring where the sodomites have their parties, and in London it’s called the King’s Cross Cruising Club. Now this one was the best value for money, if you discount the free all-you-can-eat buffet of Hampstead Heath. Ring the buzzer at a non-descript boarded up shop front in a lugubrious part of town and £5 gets you into a converted shop and basement where you can pretty much do whatever takes your fancy – but bring your own toys. The men were all very keen and willing, since there was no pretence that anybody was there for anything else than shagging as many men as possible – even though the nibbles and snacks could have fooled you there was some kinky tea party going on. Highly recommended if you have an adventurous outlook in your sex life.
The funny thing was that most of my friends in London were curious to hear about all these places because they have never been there – and my friends are no prudes! I guess it takes a tourist to show the locals where the places to go are, they pretty much stick to cruising on gaydar (sigh! I prefer my meat live, red, erect and throbbing, rather than in byte size).
One disappointment was the lack of gay history in the newly opened Museum in Docklands. Port cities have without fail queer stories to tell but not a squeak here. At least they should have acknowledged the traffic that took place by west end toffs riding on a late bus to the east end for a spot of nookie with the local lads, who worked on the docks or were on leave from the merchant navy. A classic model perfectly illustrating British class society.
September 28, 2003
September 25, 2003
Edinburgh
A Scots accent gets you everywhere with me, so our gracious hosts, Jean-Luc and Angus, took us around the delights of Edinburgh. Although it has only half the population of Auckland, there are more pubs to drink in and better clubs to dance - although Auckland wins on the steamie front.
After a few quiet bevvies at The Regent, a very pleasant local gay pub, we all decamped to a monthly club night called Mingin', which had us all gyrating on a word-less five hour hard dance track, smoke machines and all. OK, I confess. It's the only time in my life I have taken my shirt off on a dance floor. Of course, nobody noticed cos they were all off their faces, so I gathered it would be safe to make a fool of myself without having to suffer the consequences over breakfast. And no pictures to show off on the net either!
JL and Angus's friends we were introduced to were all way up on the spunk-o-meter and they didn't even wear a kilt. Being such a small scene everybody gets acquainted really fast - and the vast internet popularity of gaydar and worldskins to exchange profiles helps too. JL knew most of the Edinburgh entries!
After such a long Saturday night out it's customary here to visit the local sauna for some detox on Sunday afternoon. It wasn't hugely impressive by Auckland standards (insert your own definition of those here): smelly steam room, cold cruise areas, hard seating in the video room. Only the professional (German) masseur was up to scratch, according to Ewen, but he required an additional £25 on top of the £13 entry!
Of course, Edinburgh does do real culture well too, it wasn't all fun and sleaze. There was a special exhibition at the Castle on the Union of the Crowns: it's 400 years ago since Scottish King James VI became King James I of England too after Elizabeth I died. Plenty of stuff about his life was on display in the Royal Apartments of the Castle where he was born (his mother was Mary, Queen of Scots). As we all know, he was not averse to boys and made several of his favourites noblemen, but that was almost impossible to glean from the exhibition. Only an adolescent infatuation with his cousin Esme Stuart was referred to. Pity, cos he was the most successful homo monarch we have had so far. His own written letter complaining about his wife turning bitchy was quite funny to read (he blamed her pregnant condition). He was obsessed with witchcraft in his kingdom, which sounds like hysteria to me.
Over at the Museum of Scotland (which has a section on the history of emigration to New Zealand, very nice) there was an interesting display of the various torture instruments used on the unfortunate wenches accused of being witches. Safely locked away behind glass, so we couldn't try them out for real!
After a few quiet bevvies at The Regent, a very pleasant local gay pub, we all decamped to a monthly club night called Mingin', which had us all gyrating on a word-less five hour hard dance track, smoke machines and all. OK, I confess. It's the only time in my life I have taken my shirt off on a dance floor. Of course, nobody noticed cos they were all off their faces, so I gathered it would be safe to make a fool of myself without having to suffer the consequences over breakfast. And no pictures to show off on the net either!
JL and Angus's friends we were introduced to were all way up on the spunk-o-meter and they didn't even wear a kilt. Being such a small scene everybody gets acquainted really fast - and the vast internet popularity of gaydar and worldskins to exchange profiles helps too. JL knew most of the Edinburgh entries!
After such a long Saturday night out it's customary here to visit the local sauna for some detox on Sunday afternoon. It wasn't hugely impressive by Auckland standards (insert your own definition of those here): smelly steam room, cold cruise areas, hard seating in the video room. Only the professional (German) masseur was up to scratch, according to Ewen, but he required an additional £25 on top of the £13 entry!
Of course, Edinburgh does do real culture well too, it wasn't all fun and sleaze. There was a special exhibition at the Castle on the Union of the Crowns: it's 400 years ago since Scottish King James VI became King James I of England too after Elizabeth I died. Plenty of stuff about his life was on display in the Royal Apartments of the Castle where he was born (his mother was Mary, Queen of Scots). As we all know, he was not averse to boys and made several of his favourites noblemen, but that was almost impossible to glean from the exhibition. Only an adolescent infatuation with his cousin Esme Stuart was referred to. Pity, cos he was the most successful homo monarch we have had so far. His own written letter complaining about his wife turning bitchy was quite funny to read (he blamed her pregnant condition). He was obsessed with witchcraft in his kingdom, which sounds like hysteria to me.
Over at the Museum of Scotland (which has a section on the history of emigration to New Zealand, very nice) there was an interesting display of the various torture instruments used on the unfortunate wenches accused of being witches. Safely locked away behind glass, so we couldn't try them out for real!
September 23, 2003
Paris
Is it a coincidence that the gay ghetto in Paris is in a neighbourhood called Le Marais (or "The Swamp")? For all the Dionysian excesses that go on here, it is no wonder. Gay ghettoes can be a pain - witness the contrived village atmosphere in SF's Castro - but here it actually works. Gay businesses sit happily together with others, and all of them are straight-friendly. Since there is so much competition, all staff are extremely friendly and welcoming and the quality of the service and food is superb. No more talk about snooty Parisian waiters, please. Ours at the AOC Café, where we had evening dinner and breakfast the next morning, was quite flirty (although I still can't figure out where friendliness ends and flirtations begin with these Latin people), but what was more, when we saw him on the street two days later he actually recognised us and said hi.
My friend Erwin, who came over from Belgium for a weekend in Paris, took us to a restaurant (I'm sorry I didn't note down the name), where the food was superb. It didn't matter whether the place was gay owned, run or cooked, the quality of their service was what counted. It showed when other restaurants in the area were deserted. Competition on quality works, Auckland take note.
Culture-wise (of the non-sexual variety) we got our fair share too. Highly recommended is the Carnavalet Museum about the city's history. It has the actual bedroom of Marcel Proust where he wrote all those interminable books after he spent his youth as a party boy. The bed he wrote in didn't look particularly comfortable, so I guess that played a part in his torturous writings. On another floor they had the whole history of the French revolution depicted in artefacts from the time, including a hair lock from Marie Antoinette (presumably from before she lost her head) and the bedroom of King Louis XVI from his prison in Le Temple, including a miniature pool table and chess set. All very sad, but I caught myself humming the Marseillaise when wandering through.
We're off now to the brand new exhibition on Jean Cocteau in the Centre Pompidou. Now if there ever was a French guy who was important to gay aesthetics, he was it, and no, Jean-Paul Gaultier doesn't even come close. The exhibition was comprehensively massive but only contained one rude drawing. Even so, this alone is worth buying a plane ticket to Paris for.
My friend Erwin, who came over from Belgium for a weekend in Paris, took us to a restaurant (I'm sorry I didn't note down the name), where the food was superb. It didn't matter whether the place was gay owned, run or cooked, the quality of their service was what counted. It showed when other restaurants in the area were deserted. Competition on quality works, Auckland take note.
Culture-wise (of the non-sexual variety) we got our fair share too. Highly recommended is the Carnavalet Museum about the city's history. It has the actual bedroom of Marcel Proust where he wrote all those interminable books after he spent his youth as a party boy. The bed he wrote in didn't look particularly comfortable, so I guess that played a part in his torturous writings. On another floor they had the whole history of the French revolution depicted in artefacts from the time, including a hair lock from Marie Antoinette (presumably from before she lost her head) and the bedroom of King Louis XVI from his prison in Le Temple, including a miniature pool table and chess set. All very sad, but I caught myself humming the Marseillaise when wandering through.
We're off now to the brand new exhibition on Jean Cocteau in the Centre Pompidou. Now if there ever was a French guy who was important to gay aesthetics, he was it, and no, Jean-Paul Gaultier doesn't even come close. The exhibition was comprehensively massive but only contained one rude drawing. Even so, this alone is worth buying a plane ticket to Paris for.
September 21, 2003
Bad Herrenalb
If you thought it could not get any tinier, here we were in the middle of the Black Forest, in a little town (pop. 3500) called Bad Herrenalb, just south of Karlsruhe. Don't ask why we were there or stayed 2 nights, but we did.
As the name implies, it is a spa town with many natural springs, some of them hot. Since we are suckers for spa pools and saunas we legged it to the local thermal baths. I like to imagine that it was again the Romans who got there cos there was free hot water, and fought the German tribes for the right to a hot bath. And of course I also like to imagine what the Centurion awarded to his cohort that actually found the hot spring first...
So we followed in a good tradition, and the Germans don't do things by half: no, the massive Finnish sauna, Turkish, Russian and Black Forest steam baths were all textile free and also mixed gender. This meant there were very few signs of any cruising (if any at all was happening, the delectable guys were held on a tight reign - a naturist one of course - by their wives and girlfriends). Just comes to show again that any males trying to expand and explore their sexual freedoms are actively being sabotaged by their women - but that is my theory anyway.
The staff was quite active in a non-erotic way: one woman poured the scented water over the heated stones and waved her towel creating a heat blast that sent the temperature gauge to 95C and it actually singed my nipple hairs! I hadn't quite realised that the Finns have invented a whole S&M scene by themselves. If purgatory is like this I'd like to stay a while!
We stayed at this biker chick's place and of course her biker boyfriend had us drooling like a spring in Springtime. Blond mohican haircut and eyebrows, and I really wished he kept his arms down by his sides cos I was really feeling weak at the knees - maybe too much Finnish sauna heat. The biker chick also had a son of 17 who was quite curious about the girls in NZ. He fancied himself quite the ladies' man, and he really pulled it off, having more dress sense and bigger moussed hair than many a gayboy. I guess that's what metrosexuals look like.
As the name implies, it is a spa town with many natural springs, some of them hot. Since we are suckers for spa pools and saunas we legged it to the local thermal baths. I like to imagine that it was again the Romans who got there cos there was free hot water, and fought the German tribes for the right to a hot bath. And of course I also like to imagine what the Centurion awarded to his cohort that actually found the hot spring first...
So we followed in a good tradition, and the Germans don't do things by half: no, the massive Finnish sauna, Turkish, Russian and Black Forest steam baths were all textile free and also mixed gender. This meant there were very few signs of any cruising (if any at all was happening, the delectable guys were held on a tight reign - a naturist one of course - by their wives and girlfriends). Just comes to show again that any males trying to expand and explore their sexual freedoms are actively being sabotaged by their women - but that is my theory anyway.
The staff was quite active in a non-erotic way: one woman poured the scented water over the heated stones and waved her towel creating a heat blast that sent the temperature gauge to 95C and it actually singed my nipple hairs! I hadn't quite realised that the Finns have invented a whole S&M scene by themselves. If purgatory is like this I'd like to stay a while!
We stayed at this biker chick's place and of course her biker boyfriend had us drooling like a spring in Springtime. Blond mohican haircut and eyebrows, and I really wished he kept his arms down by his sides cos I was really feeling weak at the knees - maybe too much Finnish sauna heat. The biker chick also had a son of 17 who was quite curious about the girls in NZ. He fancied himself quite the ladies' man, and he really pulled it off, having more dress sense and bigger moussed hair than many a gayboy. I guess that's what metrosexuals look like.
September 19, 2003
Middelburg (Old Zealand)
From Antwerpen we went on a short side trip to Middelburg, the capital of the Dutch province of Zeeland, after which, of course, Kiwiland is called. It just does not look like anything in New Zealand.
Middelburg is a very small medieval port town that was bombed to bits by the Germans in 1940. It only has about 30,000 people, so you may think me of the masochist persuasion trying to find gay life there. But you would be surprised that we did (and that I am not a total Dr Masoch fan). There was a prominent gay pub, Café Goudwaard, on one of the main streets, not hidden away in some back alleyway like in many other small towns. Nope, a proud rainbow flag was flying, with a picture of a torso embossed on it, and it was right opposite the tax bureau where all the good Middelburghers come to pay their dues to the state. Unfortunately it only opened at 8pm so we could only get a glimpse from the outside, fairly standard pub stuff it seemed, but hey, if a tiny town can have a proud pub, why don't world centres such as Napier?
The locals are a very different gene pool compared to southern Europe, all such tall men, big chins and big bones. Must be all that bicycling into a stiff headwind off the North Sea!
Speaking of wind, 2003 is the anniversary of the terrible storm floods that hit Zeeland in 1953. The local museum mounted an excellent exhibition of photographs, press reports and video eyewitness accounts, and it struck me how some imagery could be construed and interpreted as quite gay friendly - considering how conservative Holland was in the early 1950s. There was a very tender picture of two young men huddling together in the straw after being pulled to safety from the storm waters and they were looking after their wet dog together. It was quite sweet considering the ordeal, and perhaps it was just my interpretation. 1800 people drowned in the freezing cold floods that February and my father recalled going to visit the area afterwards when the water was pumped out of the polders and a massive clean up could begin. Another striking photograph had this guy with a 50s quiff, brylcreem and all, not a hair out of place, when he was saved. An amazing style statement in a moment of lethal distress.
We really behaved like tourists and we must have looked the part when this window cleaner, his tight jeans wrapped around his arse, halfway up his ladder (which had us of course salivating like dogs), spotted us and started bantering about where we were from. He recommended we rename New Zealand as Fake Zealand since he called Zeeland the Real Zealand. When window cleaners can retort one-liners like that without missing a beat in (for him) a foreign language, I got hope again for the Dutch!
Middelburg is a very small medieval port town that was bombed to bits by the Germans in 1940. It only has about 30,000 people, so you may think me of the masochist persuasion trying to find gay life there. But you would be surprised that we did (and that I am not a total Dr Masoch fan). There was a prominent gay pub, Café Goudwaard, on one of the main streets, not hidden away in some back alleyway like in many other small towns. Nope, a proud rainbow flag was flying, with a picture of a torso embossed on it, and it was right opposite the tax bureau where all the good Middelburghers come to pay their dues to the state. Unfortunately it only opened at 8pm so we could only get a glimpse from the outside, fairly standard pub stuff it seemed, but hey, if a tiny town can have a proud pub, why don't world centres such as Napier?
The locals are a very different gene pool compared to southern Europe, all such tall men, big chins and big bones. Must be all that bicycling into a stiff headwind off the North Sea!
Speaking of wind, 2003 is the anniversary of the terrible storm floods that hit Zeeland in 1953. The local museum mounted an excellent exhibition of photographs, press reports and video eyewitness accounts, and it struck me how some imagery could be construed and interpreted as quite gay friendly - considering how conservative Holland was in the early 1950s. There was a very tender picture of two young men huddling together in the straw after being pulled to safety from the storm waters and they were looking after their wet dog together. It was quite sweet considering the ordeal, and perhaps it was just my interpretation. 1800 people drowned in the freezing cold floods that February and my father recalled going to visit the area afterwards when the water was pumped out of the polders and a massive clean up could begin. Another striking photograph had this guy with a 50s quiff, brylcreem and all, not a hair out of place, when he was saved. An amazing style statement in a moment of lethal distress.
We really behaved like tourists and we must have looked the part when this window cleaner, his tight jeans wrapped around his arse, halfway up his ladder (which had us of course salivating like dogs), spotted us and started bantering about where we were from. He recommended we rename New Zealand as Fake Zealand since he called Zeeland the Real Zealand. When window cleaners can retort one-liners like that without missing a beat in (for him) a foreign language, I got hope again for the Dutch!
September 17, 2003
Antwerpen
My old stomping ground, Antwerpen, where I have spent most of my life before coming to NZ. It's quite a cosmopolitan place with some good gay life, but in general the atmos has been soured lately by some fascists dickheads who have been trying to take over the town council.
I didn't check out the latest gay clubs and pubs, but my good local sources told me they are still thriving.
Belgium - and Holland - has this gay marriage thing going in real time for a while now. The snag is that they can only marry Belgians or Dutch, or a citizen from a country where gay marriage is allowed too. Bit of a bummer if you were planning to snag a Belgian or a Dutchman, him/her being your ticket to a Euro passport. Belgians marrying Dutch seems a strange concept since we make jokes about each other (sort of like kiwis and aussies). Don't let it put you off loving one for a while, say, an hour or so (if you want him all night, you gotta serve him breakfast!)
I watched some gay TV too. It was on far too late at 11:30pm. It was also furiously fast. It had about 20 coming out stories by 'famous' Dutch people (from boy band members to lesbian comedians) but split up in one sentences each, so it certainly made no sense if you didn't know any of them. Nice try but not good enough, methinks.
I didn't check out the latest gay clubs and pubs, but my good local sources told me they are still thriving.
Belgium - and Holland - has this gay marriage thing going in real time for a while now. The snag is that they can only marry Belgians or Dutch, or a citizen from a country where gay marriage is allowed too. Bit of a bummer if you were planning to snag a Belgian or a Dutchman, him/her being your ticket to a Euro passport. Belgians marrying Dutch seems a strange concept since we make jokes about each other (sort of like kiwis and aussies). Don't let it put you off loving one for a while, say, an hour or so (if you want him all night, you gotta serve him breakfast!)
I watched some gay TV too. It was on far too late at 11:30pm. It was also furiously fast. It had about 20 coming out stories by 'famous' Dutch people (from boy band members to lesbian comedians) but split up in one sentences each, so it certainly made no sense if you didn't know any of them. Nice try but not good enough, methinks.
September 15, 2003
Luxembourg
Europe is littered with a score of small countries, leftover from history. They range from the serious (Luxembourg) to the dreadful (Liechtenstein), from camp (Monaco) to the Bitch from Hell (Vatican City) and so we decided on this really cute one to visit.
Luxembourg used to be a superpower. Honest. It decided and delivered Emperors to the Holy Roman Empire (which was really neither holy or Roman, but that's another story), and now it rules the European Union, with various EU bureaucracies based inside its tiny borders. It has about 350,000 people and its capital has 100,000. So you may think it might be a challenge to find any gay life there, especially if you don't like your sex Eurocratic. So we tried. There is a gay association website called - very witty this, you must admit - Rosa Luxemburg (and she was neither a lesbian or a Luxembourger in real life). The site gave us a small list of bars and restaurants, and a gay swim meet on Tuesday nights near the French border. Plenty to choose from, you may imagine.
Since we were famished after a whole day on the TGV from France, we headed for the listed restaurant but it had been closed since June. Not a good sign. A neighbour (who spotted us immediately as fellow travellers) suggested some other venue in the Old Town, so not to mistrust the knowledge of a local, we tried out the ‘Colour's Bar’. Nice enough, possibly gay-friendly and definitely trendy. There were a couple of glamorous women sitting on the terrace, and you could have sworn they were drag queens, but their labels were real.
Luxembourg has an army of 500 soldiers and I would suspect even one enterprising prostitute could have serviced them all. (Wouldn't sexually servicing a whole nation's army make the Guinness book of records?) If she has not, I'm volunteering! One of the soldiers was guarding the Grand Ducal Palace. Now why can't we have that in New Zealand? Forget about becoming a republic, let's have a Grand Duchy instead. So much queerer, so much more attractive. And the tourists loved him too.
Since this is the richest country on earth (#1 in the OECD income rankings) you expect the bums and homeless people to wear branded sports shoes, and yes, they do. Even the local punks and drunks didn't look grubby at all.
Luxembourg used to be a superpower. Honest. It decided and delivered Emperors to the Holy Roman Empire (which was really neither holy or Roman, but that's another story), and now it rules the European Union, with various EU bureaucracies based inside its tiny borders. It has about 350,000 people and its capital has 100,000. So you may think it might be a challenge to find any gay life there, especially if you don't like your sex Eurocratic. So we tried. There is a gay association website called - very witty this, you must admit - Rosa Luxemburg (and she was neither a lesbian or a Luxembourger in real life). The site gave us a small list of bars and restaurants, and a gay swim meet on Tuesday nights near the French border. Plenty to choose from, you may imagine.
Since we were famished after a whole day on the TGV from France, we headed for the listed restaurant but it had been closed since June. Not a good sign. A neighbour (who spotted us immediately as fellow travellers) suggested some other venue in the Old Town, so not to mistrust the knowledge of a local, we tried out the ‘Colour's Bar’. Nice enough, possibly gay-friendly and definitely trendy. There were a couple of glamorous women sitting on the terrace, and you could have sworn they were drag queens, but their labels were real.
Luxembourg has an army of 500 soldiers and I would suspect even one enterprising prostitute could have serviced them all. (Wouldn't sexually servicing a whole nation's army make the Guinness book of records?) If she has not, I'm volunteering! One of the soldiers was guarding the Grand Ducal Palace. Now why can't we have that in New Zealand? Forget about becoming a republic, let's have a Grand Duchy instead. So much queerer, so much more attractive. And the tourists loved him too.
Since this is the richest country on earth (#1 in the OECD income rankings) you expect the bums and homeless people to wear branded sports shoes, and yes, they do. Even the local punks and drunks didn't look grubby at all.
September 13, 2003
Vers (France)
After the adventures in the tapas fleshpots of Spain it was time for a restful week at our friends Mark & Scott’s place on the border of the Provence and the Languedoc regions in the South of France. They have an art gallery here right in the middle of the old medieval village, selling paintings, sculpture and ceramics by local and international artists. The house and gallery look like an classical Roman design, complete with enclosed courtyard. The village is tiny, only about 1500 residents, but a lot of tourists pass through because it is near the Pont du Gard, the highest Roman aqueduct in existence, which was built to deliver water to the local Roman provincial capital Nimes. Despite being about 2000 years old, it has survived the recent terrible floods, so tribute needs paying to the Roman engineering genius.
We arrived on Tuesday from Barcelona on the Talgo train. At the border with France they have an ingenious device to change the rail gauge size. The wheels get pushed closer together so passengers do not need to be disturbed. (You just knew there had to be again some trainspotting involved). The train was 20 minutes late but they held the TGV to Geneva for us so we got to Nimes on time. Mark & Scott picked us up from the station, and we lounged for the rest of the afternoon and the whole of the next day, resting up after our Spanish adventures.
Wednesday night, another friend, JP, arrived by plane from London, so there was a lot of catching up to do after not seeing each other for several years. JP visited NZ in 1997 and even came to Waiheke with us before we had even built Jungle’s Edge. Ewen showed all of them the short video he had made of the new house and a general introduction to the island.
On Thursday, Mark had to hang up posters in shops and hotels for a gallery exhibition, so we tagged along to Nimes. It’s a quite well preserved Roman town, even though the buildings that are left could do with a bit of a spruce up and a clean. The old pedestrianised streets have a great atmosphere and if we had dressed up in togas we would not have looked out of place. The tourist authorities should do some whimsical things like dressing up their town and museum guides in classical garb. There is a large Collisseum-like arena still in use today for corridas, operas and concerts and a few ruined temples and city walls dating back 2 millennia. It’s amazing they have not closed off more inner city streets to traffic because it would enhance the experience so much.
M&S cooked wonderful dinners and lunches for us, and it’s great to be able to break our holiday with doing absolutely nada.
Today we went out to Arles, where Vincent Van Gogh spent some time (not all the time lucid or painting), and a very touristy, postcardy village called St Remy de Provence. The ice cream was the only thing that did something for me there. We got back to Vers for lunch and afternoon siesta.
The weather is sunny but rather cool due to the strong Mistral wind that has been blowing for the last few days. It dries everything quickly, including your skin and throat, due to the almost zero humidity level.
Not a lot of openly gay activity, as you may have suspected, since it is a sparsely populated area. Nimes has a long classical history, so that's always good in the camp stakes: Roman camps then, Foreign Legion camps now - it is home to the largest contingent of Legionnaires in mainland France, so chances are legion, as it were, that you see some of those hunks off duty but on the street. I had to dab my chin, I can tell you now. Reliable sources told us that the local sauna is worthwhile but since we were on a resting day we didn't go there. The ruined Temple of Diana, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect setting for a classical gay party. The alcoves and dark alleyways underneath the temple could be put to good use, and there is ample room for live statues for classical poses in the Greek style, if you get my drift. The park next door, an 18th century terraced affair, is a major cruising ground at night, we hear, and we could see that that would work perfectly. The city has a working arena/amphitheatre, where they do corridas, concerts and operas, but my favourite bloodsport - since the venue is there to use – would involve Christians and lions...
On Saturday morning we got up early to go to the market in Uzes, a charming town which has been restored to its former glory. Saturday is market day and the town was full of locals and tourists shopping for fresh food, clothes, shoes, books and nick-nacks. After a lovely lunch we visited the medieval garden, where they still grow medicinal and other herbs. Later that afternoon we got a closer look of the Roman aqueduct at Pont du Gard. Very impressive from close by too, pity you could not clamber up to the top to get a feel of what it has been like when under construction and how it worked. A descent of 40 centimetres per kilometer is damn good, even without computers!
M&S had bought little pies with locally grown wild mushrooms and they tasted delicious. Two course dinners and cooked lunches - we must have gained some weight!
JP left for London on Saturday night, and on Sunday Mark showed us some aqueduct fragments that were near the village.
On Monday, we did an excursion to Fountain La Vaucluse, a hidden source of a river surrounded by massive rocks in the Provence proper. Quite a little medieval town with lots of touristy things, but also a still working paper mill that uses the river water and power to make handcrafted paper. We had a perfect French lunch of trout, duck, grilled fish and prawns, and just delicious apple tart. Cost 113 euros for 4 but worth every cent. Mark did some postering for the gallery in the local antiques-laden village, and on the way home we skirted the still intact medieval wall of Avignon.
Avignon, of course famous as the home of the medieval anti-popes, a fine tradition that should be revived. That's something anti-globalisers should do: a rival power centre to that arch-doyenne of the multinational creed, the Catholic Church.
Not far to the west in the Languedoc is a small town called Albi, where the Albigensis sect started, also known as the Cathars. They believed in free love and life sans culottes, so, unsurprisingly, the pope ordered a crusade against them (this was even before the crusades to Jerusalem), and the queers were duly eliminated. United Future Party policy in action.
We arrived on Tuesday from Barcelona on the Talgo train. At the border with France they have an ingenious device to change the rail gauge size. The wheels get pushed closer together so passengers do not need to be disturbed. (You just knew there had to be again some trainspotting involved). The train was 20 minutes late but they held the TGV to Geneva for us so we got to Nimes on time. Mark & Scott picked us up from the station, and we lounged for the rest of the afternoon and the whole of the next day, resting up after our Spanish adventures.
Wednesday night, another friend, JP, arrived by plane from London, so there was a lot of catching up to do after not seeing each other for several years. JP visited NZ in 1997 and even came to Waiheke with us before we had even built Jungle’s Edge. Ewen showed all of them the short video he had made of the new house and a general introduction to the island.
On Thursday, Mark had to hang up posters in shops and hotels for a gallery exhibition, so we tagged along to Nimes. It’s a quite well preserved Roman town, even though the buildings that are left could do with a bit of a spruce up and a clean. The old pedestrianised streets have a great atmosphere and if we had dressed up in togas we would not have looked out of place. The tourist authorities should do some whimsical things like dressing up their town and museum guides in classical garb. There is a large Collisseum-like arena still in use today for corridas, operas and concerts and a few ruined temples and city walls dating back 2 millennia. It’s amazing they have not closed off more inner city streets to traffic because it would enhance the experience so much.
M&S cooked wonderful dinners and lunches for us, and it’s great to be able to break our holiday with doing absolutely nada.
Today we went out to Arles, where Vincent Van Gogh spent some time (not all the time lucid or painting), and a very touristy, postcardy village called St Remy de Provence. The ice cream was the only thing that did something for me there. We got back to Vers for lunch and afternoon siesta.
The weather is sunny but rather cool due to the strong Mistral wind that has been blowing for the last few days. It dries everything quickly, including your skin and throat, due to the almost zero humidity level.
Not a lot of openly gay activity, as you may have suspected, since it is a sparsely populated area. Nimes has a long classical history, so that's always good in the camp stakes: Roman camps then, Foreign Legion camps now - it is home to the largest contingent of Legionnaires in mainland France, so chances are legion, as it were, that you see some of those hunks off duty but on the street. I had to dab my chin, I can tell you now. Reliable sources told us that the local sauna is worthwhile but since we were on a resting day we didn't go there. The ruined Temple of Diana, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect setting for a classical gay party. The alcoves and dark alleyways underneath the temple could be put to good use, and there is ample room for live statues for classical poses in the Greek style, if you get my drift. The park next door, an 18th century terraced affair, is a major cruising ground at night, we hear, and we could see that that would work perfectly. The city has a working arena/amphitheatre, where they do corridas, concerts and operas, but my favourite bloodsport - since the venue is there to use – would involve Christians and lions...
On Saturday morning we got up early to go to the market in Uzes, a charming town which has been restored to its former glory. Saturday is market day and the town was full of locals and tourists shopping for fresh food, clothes, shoes, books and nick-nacks. After a lovely lunch we visited the medieval garden, where they still grow medicinal and other herbs. Later that afternoon we got a closer look of the Roman aqueduct at Pont du Gard. Very impressive from close by too, pity you could not clamber up to the top to get a feel of what it has been like when under construction and how it worked. A descent of 40 centimetres per kilometer is damn good, even without computers!
M&S had bought little pies with locally grown wild mushrooms and they tasted delicious. Two course dinners and cooked lunches - we must have gained some weight!
JP left for London on Saturday night, and on Sunday Mark showed us some aqueduct fragments that were near the village.
On Monday, we did an excursion to Fountain La Vaucluse, a hidden source of a river surrounded by massive rocks in the Provence proper. Quite a little medieval town with lots of touristy things, but also a still working paper mill that uses the river water and power to make handcrafted paper. We had a perfect French lunch of trout, duck, grilled fish and prawns, and just delicious apple tart. Cost 113 euros for 4 but worth every cent. Mark did some postering for the gallery in the local antiques-laden village, and on the way home we skirted the still intact medieval wall of Avignon.
Avignon, of course famous as the home of the medieval anti-popes, a fine tradition that should be revived. That's something anti-globalisers should do: a rival power centre to that arch-doyenne of the multinational creed, the Catholic Church.
Not far to the west in the Languedoc is a small town called Albi, where the Albigensis sect started, also known as the Cathars. They believed in free love and life sans culottes, so, unsurprisingly, the pope ordered a crusade against them (this was even before the crusades to Jerusalem), and the queers were duly eliminated. United Future Party policy in action.
September 09, 2003
Consumer guide for sexually active Barcelona guys
Unlike Madrid, the gay scene here is far more spread around town, so
it´s not easy to get from one place to another. So we didn't really
explore the commercial gay scene, as I was more interested in the
historical aspects of this harbour city, cos we all know that sailors
and seamen want some good times while ashore.
The Raval district, which is on the bad side of the Rambla in the old city, used to be a notorious haunt with gambling dens, whorehouses and dodgy dealings galore. Like every city, it seems, they now want to renovate it out of existence, so out go the drug dealers and the whores, and in come the designer flats and, of course, gay households. So it was a bit of a search to find what we were looking for. But we didn't have to wait very long to see that the district still lives up to its former self. When having a coffee on a terrazza, a thief stole the handbag of the woman at the next table. Her boyfriend went in hot pursuit and retrieved the goods with luckily nothing missing. If it sounded like a bad chapter of "A Thief´s Journal", it probably was.
Jean Genet was a resident of this area. The Time Out guide describes him as the district´s most famous rentboy who robbed his clients and who dressed up as a girl to perform in some of the clubs. Of course, he got away with it, since every punter knows that when you go out on the town, you take the amount of cash that you are prepared to lose. (In that sense, going to the whores is no different from going to the casino). Genet is one of my all time favourite gay heroes, even though he would recoil at that description, and I was pleased to see that they have named a square after him where he had his adventures. The whorehouses in the 20s and 30s were described as catering for all sexual tastes, including necrophilia. I say we live in less enlightened times, because I can´t see any references to those kind of tastes in Tim Barnett´s prostitution law!
Speaking of taste, the only nightlife we tried out was the local branch of The Eagle, mainly because it was within walking distance from our accommodation. A standard looking 1980s leather bar with cruising area, but it’s much bigger than its Madrid brother. The doorman said they didn´t open during the day cos the locals don´t cruise in the afternoon! No, they all go shopping instead for furnishings of their Eixample Gaudi flats.
Catalonia has one of the most advanced gay relationship recognition laws so gentrification of that aspect of gay life is well advanced too. No wonder there is little left of the underground subculture.
And the meat? Well, my catch was called Miguel, a hirsute snake-hipped hillbilly who came down from the Catalan mountains for the night for some R&R (he was really a Catalan civil servant who lives with his sister in the mountains and drives a late model car, but hey, S&M is based on fantasy play anyway). The hospitality (even in the dark) is without equal. He even gave us a lift home after we had all been invited to the after-party (that´s when the fossils have been sent home and the staff can join in the fun).
The Raval district, which is on the bad side of the Rambla in the old city, used to be a notorious haunt with gambling dens, whorehouses and dodgy dealings galore. Like every city, it seems, they now want to renovate it out of existence, so out go the drug dealers and the whores, and in come the designer flats and, of course, gay households. So it was a bit of a search to find what we were looking for. But we didn't have to wait very long to see that the district still lives up to its former self. When having a coffee on a terrazza, a thief stole the handbag of the woman at the next table. Her boyfriend went in hot pursuit and retrieved the goods with luckily nothing missing. If it sounded like a bad chapter of "A Thief´s Journal", it probably was.
Jean Genet was a resident of this area. The Time Out guide describes him as the district´s most famous rentboy who robbed his clients and who dressed up as a girl to perform in some of the clubs. Of course, he got away with it, since every punter knows that when you go out on the town, you take the amount of cash that you are prepared to lose. (In that sense, going to the whores is no different from going to the casino). Genet is one of my all time favourite gay heroes, even though he would recoil at that description, and I was pleased to see that they have named a square after him where he had his adventures. The whorehouses in the 20s and 30s were described as catering for all sexual tastes, including necrophilia. I say we live in less enlightened times, because I can´t see any references to those kind of tastes in Tim Barnett´s prostitution law!
Speaking of taste, the only nightlife we tried out was the local branch of The Eagle, mainly because it was within walking distance from our accommodation. A standard looking 1980s leather bar with cruising area, but it’s much bigger than its Madrid brother. The doorman said they didn´t open during the day cos the locals don´t cruise in the afternoon! No, they all go shopping instead for furnishings of their Eixample Gaudi flats.
Catalonia has one of the most advanced gay relationship recognition laws so gentrification of that aspect of gay life is well advanced too. No wonder there is little left of the underground subculture.
And the meat? Well, my catch was called Miguel, a hirsute snake-hipped hillbilly who came down from the Catalan mountains for the night for some R&R (he was really a Catalan civil servant who lives with his sister in the mountains and drives a late model car, but hey, S&M is based on fantasy play anyway). The hospitality (even in the dark) is without equal. He even gave us a lift home after we had all been invited to the after-party (that´s when the fossils have been sent home and the staff can join in the fun).
Barcelona
Friday found us up reasonably early to give us enough time to get to the station and our train to Barcelona. The area from Madrid to Guadalajara is mostly light industrial sprawl, as the outskirts of Madrid are a suburban sprawl fo medium rise apartments.
From here the train went north towards Zaragoza through quite hilly country, very scenic barren and rocky. But from the train went east instead of north to Illeida. We have no idea why this was, but it did make for a much slower journey as it was all single track and we had to keep waiting to pass other trains. Luckily there was airconditioning.
Arrived 40 minutes late to Barcelona after passing up the coast from Tarragona.
Our room is one let by just one guy, whose apartment is adjacent. The room has a view straight across Placa Gaudi to the Sagrada Famila, his triumphal cathedral. Even though it is still a work in progress ofter more than a hundred years, it is certainly a thing to behold. I can stare at it and never be bored.
We went out for piza (very good) and a drink, after a well needed rest. To bed and sleep!
Up by 8am. I believe my tummy to be better! First on the agenda was a trip to the station, Sants to change our tickets for Nimes, as I had inadvertently booked for Wednesday not Tuesday!! Then on to the Chino district in Raval, adjacent to the old city. This area was and still is to some extent the seedier side of Barcelona: arrow streets and working girls even in the mid morning! Hans insisted on having his picture taken in Jean Genet Square. Had a beer in an Irish bar full of football fans. Back down the Ramblas to the Palace of Palau Guell, designed by Gaudi. I felt this was well worth while, a very interesting insight to how people lived at the end of the 19th century. Well, that is to say the wealthy ones who could afford to patronise the arts.
A short walk away is the old city where we wandered until hunger got the better of us and we took lunch on the terrace of a cafe just outside the cathedral. I had tropical salad (kiwifruit, mango, lettuce and a good dose of dressing) followed by pork in a lemon and cream reduction accompanied with rice, yum! Hans had spag followed by sole meuniere. All washed down with chardonnay from Valencia, not at all fruity like the NZ ones. Now replete we caught a bus back to base for a kip.
Our last night in Barcelona tonight, tomorrow we are heading for France. Sunday was a real quiet day here, not many people about, just tourists like ourselves doing the tourist traps. Barcelona is of course Gaudi City, and he really takes a bit of getting used to. Every morning we wake up with a view of the Sagrada Familia Temple, and every night it´s lit up like a fairground. Ewen likes the building but I find it a bit too heavy going, all that squatness and heavy bottoms, I thought Gothic meant light and defying gravity visually, but that is not the case here, especially on the outside (the church is basically still a shell with the nave under construction, they reckon they´re about halfway finished now, you can give donations by credit card). The architecture inside is much more interesting, with the pillars branching out like trees at the top. Gaudi is pretty much an organic architect, taking forms and mathematical expressions from nature. He invented a clever way of calculating the load bearings needed using lead weights and mirrors to see whether a construction literally would stand up. A bit complicated to explain precisely here how he worked but you get my drift.
We went to the Parc Guell, a subdivision in the hills north of the city, designed as a property speculative venture, but that went rather badly. It´s now a park only with some typical Gaudi designs such as the snaking park bench made from shards of pottery and porcelain along the rim of the hillside. It´s very much postcard territory, and I think it looks actually better on postcards than in real life (we were there in a thunderstorm, and everything was muddy and wet).
Down in the Eixample district, an ostentatious 19th century middle class urban planned part of town, strictly rigid but with flights of Gaudi´s and other modernist architects´ fancy, we went into La Pedrera, a block of flats designed by Gaudi but the owners had second thoughts about the finished product. It looks very much ahead of its time but sure is a fine place to live in today, with very spacious apartments, light and airy, broad doors and plenty of rooms. The locals hated it (hence the name Pedrera, or stone quarry) because it looked unattractive on the outside. The walls are not load bearing, instead big pillars do the trick, so the flats inside can use all the space rather than having to build big walls 5 floors up. One of my favourites!
We had lunch on the top floor of the El Corte Ingles department store. Fine dining it was more like, heaps of waiters and bone china dinner sets. Ewen had lobster and chicken and I had salted cod with roast spuds. We truly have not had a bad meal in Spain (bar the unfortunate tuna sandwich) but it´s not very cheap. But hey, it´s a holiday: can´t go hungry! What they really do well here is coffee. So smooth, I could drink cortados all day long (that´s a short black with a little bit of steamed milk).
After lunch we took the bus to the Catalonian Art Museum, but I misread the guide book and it was closed on a Monday. We went further along to the beach instead. A stretch of sand abutting the city, and it´s not very attractive. Imagine a beach next to Auckland´s Viaduct Harbour 10 years into the future, and you get the picture of a faded urban redevelopment that has not aged well.
From here the train went north towards Zaragoza through quite hilly country, very scenic barren and rocky. But from the train went east instead of north to Illeida. We have no idea why this was, but it did make for a much slower journey as it was all single track and we had to keep waiting to pass other trains. Luckily there was airconditioning.
Arrived 40 minutes late to Barcelona after passing up the coast from Tarragona.
Our room is one let by just one guy, whose apartment is adjacent. The room has a view straight across Placa Gaudi to the Sagrada Famila, his triumphal cathedral. Even though it is still a work in progress ofter more than a hundred years, it is certainly a thing to behold. I can stare at it and never be bored.
We went out for piza (very good) and a drink, after a well needed rest. To bed and sleep!
Up by 8am. I believe my tummy to be better! First on the agenda was a trip to the station, Sants to change our tickets for Nimes, as I had inadvertently booked for Wednesday not Tuesday!! Then on to the Chino district in Raval, adjacent to the old city. This area was and still is to some extent the seedier side of Barcelona: arrow streets and working girls even in the mid morning! Hans insisted on having his picture taken in Jean Genet Square. Had a beer in an Irish bar full of football fans. Back down the Ramblas to the Palace of Palau Guell, designed by Gaudi. I felt this was well worth while, a very interesting insight to how people lived at the end of the 19th century. Well, that is to say the wealthy ones who could afford to patronise the arts.
A short walk away is the old city where we wandered until hunger got the better of us and we took lunch on the terrace of a cafe just outside the cathedral. I had tropical salad (kiwifruit, mango, lettuce and a good dose of dressing) followed by pork in a lemon and cream reduction accompanied with rice, yum! Hans had spag followed by sole meuniere. All washed down with chardonnay from Valencia, not at all fruity like the NZ ones. Now replete we caught a bus back to base for a kip.
Our last night in Barcelona tonight, tomorrow we are heading for France. Sunday was a real quiet day here, not many people about, just tourists like ourselves doing the tourist traps. Barcelona is of course Gaudi City, and he really takes a bit of getting used to. Every morning we wake up with a view of the Sagrada Familia Temple, and every night it´s lit up like a fairground. Ewen likes the building but I find it a bit too heavy going, all that squatness and heavy bottoms, I thought Gothic meant light and defying gravity visually, but that is not the case here, especially on the outside (the church is basically still a shell with the nave under construction, they reckon they´re about halfway finished now, you can give donations by credit card). The architecture inside is much more interesting, with the pillars branching out like trees at the top. Gaudi is pretty much an organic architect, taking forms and mathematical expressions from nature. He invented a clever way of calculating the load bearings needed using lead weights and mirrors to see whether a construction literally would stand up. A bit complicated to explain precisely here how he worked but you get my drift.
We went to the Parc Guell, a subdivision in the hills north of the city, designed as a property speculative venture, but that went rather badly. It´s now a park only with some typical Gaudi designs such as the snaking park bench made from shards of pottery and porcelain along the rim of the hillside. It´s very much postcard territory, and I think it looks actually better on postcards than in real life (we were there in a thunderstorm, and everything was muddy and wet).
Down in the Eixample district, an ostentatious 19th century middle class urban planned part of town, strictly rigid but with flights of Gaudi´s and other modernist architects´ fancy, we went into La Pedrera, a block of flats designed by Gaudi but the owners had second thoughts about the finished product. It looks very much ahead of its time but sure is a fine place to live in today, with very spacious apartments, light and airy, broad doors and plenty of rooms. The locals hated it (hence the name Pedrera, or stone quarry) because it looked unattractive on the outside. The walls are not load bearing, instead big pillars do the trick, so the flats inside can use all the space rather than having to build big walls 5 floors up. One of my favourites!
We had lunch on the top floor of the El Corte Ingles department store. Fine dining it was more like, heaps of waiters and bone china dinner sets. Ewen had lobster and chicken and I had salted cod with roast spuds. We truly have not had a bad meal in Spain (bar the unfortunate tuna sandwich) but it´s not very cheap. But hey, it´s a holiday: can´t go hungry! What they really do well here is coffee. So smooth, I could drink cortados all day long (that´s a short black with a little bit of steamed milk).
After lunch we took the bus to the Catalonian Art Museum, but I misread the guide book and it was closed on a Monday. We went further along to the beach instead. A stretch of sand abutting the city, and it´s not very attractive. Imagine a beach next to Auckland´s Viaduct Harbour 10 years into the future, and you get the picture of a faded urban redevelopment that has not aged well.
September 07, 2003
Cordoba
Had a drink in a gay bar tonight, and then went for dinner in a vegetarian restaurant. My food came out and it was spag!! I had ordered salad, as my tummy is still on the blink! When it finally arrived a just couldn't face it and beat a hasty retreat!! Never mind.
Up early and caught the 8:30 Ave high speed train for Cordoba. The trip was great, I love going at 300km/hr.
Decided to take the video-camera this time, we are such tourists! Passed through very arid countryside, stunted corn, and then in the southern hills, lots of olive groves. Breakfast was served on the train.
First up today we visited the Alcazar, home of the Catholic kings after the Moors had left. Here there are wonderful gardens with fish ponds, citrus trees, date palms, fountains, the lot. Everything one expects of a Moorish garden, one of the best in Andalucia, so the guide book says.
From here it was on to the Mezquita, the site of the original Mosque of the Moors. Of course the Christians came along and built their Cathedral right in the middle of it. The King regretted it later apparently.
There are still over 800 pillars still surviving from the original Mosque, which was built in the tenth century! That would have to be the oldest thing Ewen has ever seen, oh except for (perhaps there is a joke in here somewhere?) maybe some Roman ruins.
After this we ambled our way through the old Jewish quarter, with streets so narrow cars tyres squeaked against the curbs on both sides, and you have to stand in doorways to let them pass!
We lunched inside a wonderful courtyard with air conditioning, vines hanging from the upstairs windows and marble tiles on the floor. Lunch was gazpacho, even better than mine!! This was accompanied by water and bread.
As heat of the day took its toll, we took shelter in a wee cafe under topiaried lemon trees. It is amazing how the Spanish men are quick to appreciate the women. The workers across the Plaza were whistling all the time and clasping themselves in a surprising manner!
We have a two hour wander back to the train station through yet more municipal gardens, maybe even a kip under some trees would be good.
Up early and caught the 8:30 Ave high speed train for Cordoba. The trip was great, I love going at 300km/hr.
Decided to take the video-camera this time, we are such tourists! Passed through very arid countryside, stunted corn, and then in the southern hills, lots of olive groves. Breakfast was served on the train.
First up today we visited the Alcazar, home of the Catholic kings after the Moors had left. Here there are wonderful gardens with fish ponds, citrus trees, date palms, fountains, the lot. Everything one expects of a Moorish garden, one of the best in Andalucia, so the guide book says.
From here it was on to the Mezquita, the site of the original Mosque of the Moors. Of course the Christians came along and built their Cathedral right in the middle of it. The King regretted it later apparently.
There are still over 800 pillars still surviving from the original Mosque, which was built in the tenth century! That would have to be the oldest thing Ewen has ever seen, oh except for (perhaps there is a joke in here somewhere?) maybe some Roman ruins.
After this we ambled our way through the old Jewish quarter, with streets so narrow cars tyres squeaked against the curbs on both sides, and you have to stand in doorways to let them pass!
We lunched inside a wonderful courtyard with air conditioning, vines hanging from the upstairs windows and marble tiles on the floor. Lunch was gazpacho, even better than mine!! This was accompanied by water and bread.
As heat of the day took its toll, we took shelter in a wee cafe under topiaried lemon trees. It is amazing how the Spanish men are quick to appreciate the women. The workers across the Plaza were whistling all the time and clasping themselves in a surprising manner!
We have a two hour wander back to the train station through yet more municipal gardens, maybe even a kip under some trees would be good.
September 06, 2003
Madrid
Well, we made it after the 36 hour odyssey from Waiheke Ferry to our hotel in Madrid. The flight went well, we suspect that the sleeping police in Roma caused our flight to be over an hour late! We would advise not to use the Metro here in Madrid if you have large and heavy bags as we did! Many many steps and stairs and a long way to walk in the airport.
The hotel is rather basic but has all the things we need. Took a walk this afternoon in the siesta, all was very quiet, and the temp only 34C with a pleasant breeze.
Our stroll took us through the Habsburg area of old Madrid, all within easy walking distance of hotel. The architecture is not too over done in the baroque style. Saw the Royal Palace and the large Cathedral opposite.
It was then back to the hotel for our late siesta, slept like there was no tomorrow. 8:30pm found us back out on the the streets looking for a drink and somewhere to eat. Everything at this time of day of course is so much more alive. The time now is 10:30, and we still have to find some place to eat. It will then be back to bed and more sleep!!
Our second day in Madrid started off in glorious sunshine although it has been cooler (30C) than in recent weeks, even the locals seem pleased with the passing of the 40C heatwave.
We started off with a walk to the Atocha station where we will leave from on Thursday for a day trip to Cordoba on the super fast Ave train (yes, call us trainspotters, but call us).
Then off to the Royal Botanic Gardens, masses of pictures there, some New Zealand plants too.
The Prado museum was next but we restricted ourselves to Flemish and Dutch masters (and the sole Caravaggio), it´s far too massive to do it all and there is only so much religious art one can take in. I loved the Bosch hallucinating paintings, they are great fun - you can easily see where Dali got his inspiration from.
Then on to the Thyssen-Boremisza Museum, a formerly private painting collection of excellent range, from early Italian renaissance to late 20th Century painters. My favourites were an atmospheric moonlit view of a wintry evening in a 16th Century Dutch village, and a painting of an art dealer´s shop in Antwerp, where two foppish gentlemen (one dressed in ´purest green´ - Percy-style) stand too closely together discussing one of the works. You can imagine they are mightily bitching about it. It´s fun to create your own stories and attach them to the imagery. I thought the whole museum was worth seeing, and we did, it was not too large!
We got back to the hotel and Ewen wasn´t feeling too well after eating a tuna sandwich, dear oh dear, so I got to do the internet duty. We haven´t eaten much in general, it´s a bit too hot to be hungry and I guess we need to acclimatise some more first. The jet lag was over soon after a good night sleep with the help of air conditioning.
Well I seem to have recovered from my ordeal yesterday! NEVER eat tuna! After a sleep, Hans and I were both wide awake at 1am, so we decided to go out for a walk, both heading in the direction of the gay district without a word to each other. This journey took us through a red light district, where the city fathers have seen fit to turn out the street lights! Back to the hotel by 3 am.
Today saw us up by 8:30am and off to see the archaeological museum. On the way we stopped for coffee and a bite to eat as the food at the hotel is a little inadequate. Having taken a chronological trip through Spain's past habitation we headed for the Retiro Mediodia Park. Here we strolled along paths beneath the shade of horse chestnuts, that are just showing a little autumn colour. Out of the park and along a street side book fair (permanent) to Atocha metro station where we took a train back to Plaza Puerto Del Sol. Found a Belgian cafe to have lunch in, I couldn't yet manage to eat all my Tapas fria, cold meats and cheese, Hans said that it wasn't as good as the one in Vulcan Lane.
The hotel is rather basic but has all the things we need. Took a walk this afternoon in the siesta, all was very quiet, and the temp only 34C with a pleasant breeze.
Our stroll took us through the Habsburg area of old Madrid, all within easy walking distance of hotel. The architecture is not too over done in the baroque style. Saw the Royal Palace and the large Cathedral opposite.
It was then back to the hotel for our late siesta, slept like there was no tomorrow. 8:30pm found us back out on the the streets looking for a drink and somewhere to eat. Everything at this time of day of course is so much more alive. The time now is 10:30, and we still have to find some place to eat. It will then be back to bed and more sleep!!
Our second day in Madrid started off in glorious sunshine although it has been cooler (30C) than in recent weeks, even the locals seem pleased with the passing of the 40C heatwave.
We started off with a walk to the Atocha station where we will leave from on Thursday for a day trip to Cordoba on the super fast Ave train (yes, call us trainspotters, but call us).
Then off to the Royal Botanic Gardens, masses of pictures there, some New Zealand plants too.
The Prado museum was next but we restricted ourselves to Flemish and Dutch masters (and the sole Caravaggio), it´s far too massive to do it all and there is only so much religious art one can take in. I loved the Bosch hallucinating paintings, they are great fun - you can easily see where Dali got his inspiration from.
Then on to the Thyssen-Boremisza Museum, a formerly private painting collection of excellent range, from early Italian renaissance to late 20th Century painters. My favourites were an atmospheric moonlit view of a wintry evening in a 16th Century Dutch village, and a painting of an art dealer´s shop in Antwerp, where two foppish gentlemen (one dressed in ´purest green´ - Percy-style) stand too closely together discussing one of the works. You can imagine they are mightily bitching about it. It´s fun to create your own stories and attach them to the imagery. I thought the whole museum was worth seeing, and we did, it was not too large!
We got back to the hotel and Ewen wasn´t feeling too well after eating a tuna sandwich, dear oh dear, so I got to do the internet duty. We haven´t eaten much in general, it´s a bit too hot to be hungry and I guess we need to acclimatise some more first. The jet lag was over soon after a good night sleep with the help of air conditioning.
Well I seem to have recovered from my ordeal yesterday! NEVER eat tuna! After a sleep, Hans and I were both wide awake at 1am, so we decided to go out for a walk, both heading in the direction of the gay district without a word to each other. This journey took us through a red light district, where the city fathers have seen fit to turn out the street lights! Back to the hotel by 3 am.
Today saw us up by 8:30am and off to see the archaeological museum. On the way we stopped for coffee and a bite to eat as the food at the hotel is a little inadequate. Having taken a chronological trip through Spain's past habitation we headed for the Retiro Mediodia Park. Here we strolled along paths beneath the shade of horse chestnuts, that are just showing a little autumn colour. Out of the park and along a street side book fair (permanent) to Atocha metro station where we took a train back to Plaza Puerto Del Sol. Found a Belgian cafe to have lunch in, I couldn't yet manage to eat all my Tapas fria, cold meats and cheese, Hans said that it wasn't as good as the one in Vulcan Lane.
September 05, 2003
Consumer guide for sexually active Madrid guys
Now, for the Spanish men. Such snake hips! Such tiny butts! Whichever
came first, Ewen demanded to know. The lovely thing about Spanish men
is that they are very tactile (that is, above the chest only, and one
person doing the touching at any one time - so no holding hands or
cuddling, please, we´re not queer like that). Of course, the fagboys
take things a bit further, and it was nice to see two twinks crossing
the main road (Madrid´s equivalent of Auckland´s Queen Street), one
slipping his hand in his bf´s pants and they were tonsil-hockeying even
before they reached the other side of the road. The waiting traffic
literally didn´t give a hoot.
Once in the gay ‘hood, Chueca, which looks a bit like Amsterdam minus the canals, we tried to find a quiet place to have a drink or two - as Frankie sang to Nancy – and found La Acuarela, which looks and feels as arty as its name. Full of arty looking tattooed boys and their fag hags, but quite friendly.
We tried the leather bars, leather being an attitude rather than a dress code here - Madrid is far too warm for dressing up in leathers or rubber, so the men do a lot of sports gear scenes here. All very odd, of course, cos it´s not often that adidas shoes get licked in Auckland, at least not in the places I frequent.
I was pleased to see that no Beckham shirts were on display, even though he is a local boy now. We went to Leather and The Eagle, which also has a branch in Barcelona - more of that in a later report. The cruise bars were open in the afternoon, which makes siesta time far more interesting and less boring with all the other shops closed. Good to take that weight off your slingbacks after all that hard shopping and sightseeing.
My personal favourite venue is called Into The Tank. It looks rather new and industrial with lots of steel girders and grey walls. They do dress codes but we were a bit overdressed, as it were. The place is run by a guy called Gom, who treated us rather well, being foreigners from such a faraway place. I must say the punters were quite sociable and chatty and curious about us, something kiwis could learn from. Ewen went home early (about 1am) but I stayed till about 4 cos it was my birthday and they all insisted on celebrating it in style.
We stayed in a hotel marketing itself as a gay place but we failed to see much gay info there. It was a short walk to Chueca, and the route went through one of the red light districts of Madrid, where the girls parade their wares at all hours of the day and night. We were always blown kisses by them and I must say it has been a VERY long time since I have been called ´chico´. When we indicated that we were not that interested in them, one of them sounded surprised that we were together. She spoke perfect English and then went back giggling with her mates. The guys openly negotiate on the street, there is only foot traffic and the cops don´t seem to care much. If only the punters knew that up the road they can get it off for free rather than with a dodgy looking sub-Saharan working girl...
Oh, one more thing. We wandered into a bespoke leather shop where you can get outfitted, even though it´s far too hot. They had a baby crocodile in the shop as a pet. Scary! But not as scary as some of the men in the ‘Leather’ backroom.
OK too much information already.
Once in the gay ‘hood, Chueca, which looks a bit like Amsterdam minus the canals, we tried to find a quiet place to have a drink or two - as Frankie sang to Nancy – and found La Acuarela, which looks and feels as arty as its name. Full of arty looking tattooed boys and their fag hags, but quite friendly.
We tried the leather bars, leather being an attitude rather than a dress code here - Madrid is far too warm for dressing up in leathers or rubber, so the men do a lot of sports gear scenes here. All very odd, of course, cos it´s not often that adidas shoes get licked in Auckland, at least not in the places I frequent.
I was pleased to see that no Beckham shirts were on display, even though he is a local boy now. We went to Leather and The Eagle, which also has a branch in Barcelona - more of that in a later report. The cruise bars were open in the afternoon, which makes siesta time far more interesting and less boring with all the other shops closed. Good to take that weight off your slingbacks after all that hard shopping and sightseeing.
My personal favourite venue is called Into The Tank. It looks rather new and industrial with lots of steel girders and grey walls. They do dress codes but we were a bit overdressed, as it were. The place is run by a guy called Gom, who treated us rather well, being foreigners from such a faraway place. I must say the punters were quite sociable and chatty and curious about us, something kiwis could learn from. Ewen went home early (about 1am) but I stayed till about 4 cos it was my birthday and they all insisted on celebrating it in style.
We stayed in a hotel marketing itself as a gay place but we failed to see much gay info there. It was a short walk to Chueca, and the route went through one of the red light districts of Madrid, where the girls parade their wares at all hours of the day and night. We were always blown kisses by them and I must say it has been a VERY long time since I have been called ´chico´. When we indicated that we were not that interested in them, one of them sounded surprised that we were together. She spoke perfect English and then went back giggling with her mates. The guys openly negotiate on the street, there is only foot traffic and the cops don´t seem to care much. If only the punters knew that up the road they can get it off for free rather than with a dodgy looking sub-Saharan working girl...
Oh, one more thing. We wandered into a bespoke leather shop where you can get outfitted, even though it´s far too hot. They had a baby crocodile in the shop as a pet. Scary! But not as scary as some of the men in the ‘Leather’ backroom.
OK too much information already.
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