Stories from a man who fails to meet media expectations of what it means to be gay:
white, frivolous, over sexed yet sexless, shrill, single, stylish, a clown, unimportant, et al.

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Neruda green seas and air

Once again, belated entries of a summer vacation, though this one has the distinction of being the last one.� Imagine that, it only took me near forever to finish:

The day after our big night out on the town, Carlos drove us to Los Dominicos, a touristy shopping district that was layed out as a small pueblo with the shops occupying small dusty adobe houses skirting the edges of a small stream.� It was very picturesque, and money was spent on assorted gifts and presents.
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Lunch that day was a bit later than intended, because it took a while to find our destination.� Carlos� boss hearing that John was a vegetarian suggested that we go to a veggie restaurant called La Huerta.� I�d read about it in a couple of guides, which all mentioned that the food there was good, and it was, once we managed to find the dang place.�

It had a very��organic� feel.� There was a new agey bookstore next door, and the bulitenbord in the hallway between the two businesses was filled with yoga class announcements. I had some generic not exactly authentic Indian food, which while tasty, was also sort of odd.� I�m not sure if this was because of the enforced wholesomeness of the meal, or it was just the South American interpretation.

The following day was Sunday and our last full day. It was also Father�s day, so it was decided that it would be a boys day out, leaving Beth at home to work on some stuff, while the rest of us made the 2 hour trip out to the ocean.� There�s a famous beach (I forget the name) that everyone goes to, because it is �the beach,� and therefore crowded, so we went to Zappallar instead, a more kids friendly beach with a nice half moon bay, some fishing boats, a small stone landing, and a couple of calm restaurants overlooking sand and sea.

The boys wanted to go to their favorite playground, which involved a long walk on a path over a rocky section of beach leading away from the bay.� The entrance to the path was marked with a sign warning that it was dangerous to cross during high tide, so of course as we walked along it, waves were crashing against the rocks louder and louder, and the spray was reaching higher and higher.� Despite the sound and fury of the waves, the path stayed dry, so I guess it wasn�t quite high tide yet, or perhaps it had just passed.
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The playground consisted of the usual wooden teeter-totters, swings, and monkey bars, in a small park setting on a cliff over looking the rocks and an angry Neruda green ocean below. �

The next day was our last day and due to some luck with scheduling, our flight back home was also same one for Beth and the boys.� They were going home to the states to visit family (including their real grandpa�s) giving Carlos the bachelor�s life for a week before he got to join them.� When plans had first been made for arranging the trip, Beth gladly accepted our offer of our all taking the same flight, so that we could help out with the boys as well when needed (and as one of the boys was going through some potty training issues, it was needed).�

One of the most interesting things about the airport for me was that among the shops hawking cheap plastic last minute impulse gifts was a tiny art gallery dealing with paintings and sketches that were actualy affordable.� Art as last minute impulse purchase is a cool idea and one that I indulged in.

While we waited for the flight, I wasted some time looking over the other passengers playing a game of who was the cutest guy there.� The winner was a young blond man in an uncomfortable suit.� He was much younger than my tastes usually lie, and perhaps more pretty than cute, but well, I was merely looking.� He was near a haggard and somewhat scary looking middle-aged white couple who if I were instead playing a game of who�s most likely to go crazy during the flight would have won hands down.� They had a slightly deranged thing going on.� Not exactly the most reassuring thing to notice before a long flight, or any flight actually.�

The three of them sat a couple of rows ahead of us, and as he put his luggage and jacket away, I saw that the young man was a Mormon missionary.� I don�t know enough about the missionary process to decide if the older scarier folks were relatives or church officials, but they did know each other.

The pretty boy spent a lot of time chatting with the guy seated across the aisle from him, a young Latino man in his mid-twenties who was a close runner up in the attractive game.� At one point in the middle of the night, the Blond left his seat to presumably hit the toilet, which was only notable �cause a minute later the Latino boy got up and left in the same direction.� I thought about turning around and looking back there, but decided that I didn�t want to know.

After trying for a while, I gave up on the idea of getting any sleep and ignoring the sucky movie options, played tetres rip off games for hours on end ultimately giving myself a hand cramp just in time for our decent into LAX and home.

more later,
nico

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