honey, i'm home

After a whirlwind trip to Toronto this week, I am back at home under the comfort of grey skies and the warmth that is winter on the Coast. The greatest thing about flying backwards in time is that, last night, when I touched down in Vancouver, the wine stores were still open even though my watch said they should have been long closed. Doing a little Rugged Fox time travel of our own, I will take you back to the start of my trip.

My story begins last Saturday night or Sunday morning depending on how you want to look at it. As the clock struck one, I opened the door to my apartment after cabbing home from work. Throwing my James Dean jacket on the floor, I ripped off my black tie and wine-stained collar shirt and headed directly for my liquor cabinet. With my flight scheduled to leave at seven, I had three hours to pack, shower, night-cap and sleep before my alarm clock went off at four. With my priorities straight, I cracked open the screw-top on the bottle of Captain Morgan’s on my bottom shelf and poured myself a triple to save time.

Four spiced hours later, I arrived at the airport with nothing but a rose and three outfit changes for each day I was away --- Interrupting this post, can we please take this paragraph to talk about how much more fun buying books is at the airport? On the strictest of budgets, I purposely stuffed my carry-on with more than enough literature so that I would not spend any money at the airport. Well, so much for that! Before the clock struck six I had already managed to drop forty-smackers on the new Steve Martin hardcover. Did I read it on the plane? Of course not. Did I spend four hours rubbing my fingers against the shiny embossed letters on the front cover? Absolutely.

Balancing my new book purchase with my passport, bottled water, Starbucks, and pack of Dentyne Ice Intense in my right hand, I took a seat at the gate between two sets of pajama pants and worn American Apparel hoodies. I mean seriously, whatever happened to the day when people put on their Sunday best to board a plane? I'm sure it must have been around the same time that ripped denim was not acceptable theatre attire and men still knew how to operate an iron. Nowadays it’s as if people just roll out of bed without any care for the snobby gay man who is stuck sitting beside them at 35,000 feet. Double ugh! Let me tell you, if a hot security guard is going to ask me to spread them before he pats me down, you know I am going to be wearing my hottest pants paired with my thinnest designer t-shirt.

Meryl Streep I have reached five hundred words and I haven’t even boarded the plane yet.

Flash-forward to the parking lot outside Lester B. Pearson and I almost said goodbye to my friends just as fast as I said hello. Even though the temperature was only five below zero, it could have been minus five-hundred thousand for all I was concerned. My eyes blinded by the snow on the ground, I kicked myself for not bringing my flask of Bailey’s to go with my cup of Tim Horton's. It’s official, two years on the Coast and when it comes to winter I am a full-fledged pussy to boot.

My time with Belle was well spent. The two of us spent Valentine’s Day together shopping for clothes in Kensington Market. Afterwards, we caught the Queen street car home for dinner with fresh bread and French cheese in tow and cracked open a bottle of pink bubbly for dessert. She was the best Valentine's date a redhead could ask for.

One of the greatest and most pleasant surprises of my trip came a day after the big 2.14. As fate would have it, Chord just so happened to be driving through town at the same time I was free for lunch. You might remember Chord as the gentleman caller in the yet-to-be-finished series “A Boy of Good Breeding.” I met Chord at a gay bar in Winnipeg Thanksgiving weekend and have been lusting after him ever since. The two of us shared pasta lady-and-the-tramp-style while I planned our wedding in my mind. After he picked up the check, I offered to pay him back with a blow-job in the car. “REALLY?” he said with his eyebrows as high up as they could go, to which I responded with a face the same colour as my hair. “I don’t know if I am that kind of girl, at least not yet.” When our time was up I kissed him goodbye three times on the lips and reminded him that he couldn’t fall in love with anyone unless that one was me.

My time in Toronto re-assured me that I made the right decision to move West. If you are a gay man living in this country and you have grown too big for your hometown, you have your choice of three cities: Toronto, Vancouver and Montreal. Terrified I would do nothing in Montreal except have lots and lots of really hot sex, for years I set my sights on Toronto. Like Justin from Queer as Folk, I dreamed of the day I would make Church Street my home. The fact that I ended up in Vancouver was just as much a surprise to me as it was to my friends and family and everyone else. 

The fact is I am not only good looking but also a high-strung anxiety-ridden mess. Whereas Toronto is the giant rail of coke that puts me over the edge, Vancouver is the premium toke that slows me down long enough to breathe. When I got off the plane last night I could feel my shoulders instantly relax. Taking one step outside, I inhaled the fresh Pacific air and exhaled my world back in to place. The truth is, at this point in my life I am in desperate need of this city by the sea. Everyday I look to the mountains for strength and the water for balance. In Tony Kushner’s Angels an America he painted gay heaven as looking something like San Francisco and now I understand why. 

Click here for more photos from the trip!

Comments

[Ky]

Sooooo agreed the West Coast is the place to slow right down, where you might even have a random conversation about nothing with a relaxed passer-by on the street. That just doesn't happen as often in other places and we like it yes we doooo!! : D