Category: Chapter 1: Around the World

Around the World: Claus’ Story

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I fell in love in Paris.

I know, what a cliché – guy goes to Paris, and falls in love. But I couldn’t help it. Falling in love isn’t really something that you do. It’s something that happens to you.

The year was 2008, and this was my first trip ever outside of North America. It was also the first time I had ever travelled on my own, and with my inexperience and terrible planning, I ended up with a 23-hour layover in the French Capital. My budget was too low to pay for a hotel, so my plan was to spend that time at the airport… but after one hour of doing Sudoku, I was bored.

Courageously, I took the train to the city — where I managed to get stuck overnight, because I was under the mistaken impression that Paris was a 24-hour city, with 24-hour trains. Remember, smartphones didn’t exist at that time, so travelling was much more difficult than it is today. Without these modern tools, I wasn’t able to find accommodation that didn’t cost hundreds of Euros. So, I spent the night outside, half-sleeping, freezing, and scared, at the Champ-de-Mars park overlooking the Eiffel Tower — but that’s a story for another day.

Before I got stuck overnight without a hotel, I found myself roaming through the various neighbourhoods of Paris, with a heavy backpack and beautiful shoes that left my feet full of blisters. I walked all over the city, admiring its riverside banks, it’s palaces, and parks. I saw the Eiffel Tower, and the Notre-Dame Cathedral, and I had a subpar coffee with one of the best pain au chocolat I’ve ever tasted. And then, I made it all the way to the Montmartre neighbourhood, and there she was.

Beautiful and grand, tall and statuesque — commanding the attention of everyone around her. She stood there, looking out over a picture-perfect panorama of Paris from the top of the hill of Montmartre. The late afternoon sun reflected off her flawless fair skin, illuminating every one of her features so beautifully, that they seemed to come to life. Her curves, perfectly symmetrical, made to be admired. She was ageless, despite having been 94 years old at the time. 

By now you probably have realized, I hope, that I’m speaking about a building. But not just any building: The Sacré-Cœur Basilica, the most beautiful piece of architecture I’ve ever laid my eyes on. It was love at first sight, and from that moment on, I told —half jokingly— to everyone that would listen, that if anyone ever proposed to me, I wanted it to be there, at the Sacré-Cœur.

Fast forward to 2019, more than a decade after I first laid eyes on her, and three visits later. By then, I had been with my partner Eamonn for four years, and we were in the midst of planning a trip to the Balkans when he suggested: “Why don’t we do a stopover in Paris on the way there?” Just a quick one night stop, to see the sights, and visit friends.

“Oh my god,” I thought to myself. “This. is. it!” 

To be perfectly honest, I had never really cared about marriage before. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get married. I simply didn’t care either way. But at that moment, I actually started to think, “he is the right person, so why not?”

We stayed with our friends, who conveniently lived in the Montmartre district. On our first night, we enjoyed dinner and a couple of bottles of red on the patio of a wine bar with them. The next day, Eamonn and I set off to wander alone. We walked along the cobbled stone streets of Montmartre, through alleys filled with cafés and boulangeries, and finally, to my old Parisian fling: the stunning Sacré-Cœur Basilica, looking as beautiful as she had one decade earlier.

It was the middle of summer and the crowds of tourists were thick around us. Eamonn led the way, as we circled the basilica. This way, then that. We walked down the steps to the bottom of the hill, the Sacré-Cœur looking down at us from its summit, her white domes resplendent under the August sun. Eamonn was clearly looking for the perfect spot to propose. He looked nervous. I was nervous, too, wondering how I should react when the moment finally came — should I act surprised? Should I admit that I was expecting it? Or would an unplanned emotion take over?

After some time, a selfie or 10 later, Eamonn suggested we grab a beer with a side of espresso (the Paris way) at the Café des Deux Moulins, famous for appearing in the film Amélie. We sat at the café, and the whole time, in the back of my mind, I kept wondering when the moment would come. And finally, after paying for our beers (with a side of espresso), Eamonn finally said: “We should get going, we have a train to catch.”

And so, we left Paris —and the Sacré-Cœur— behind. The romanticized idea of our imaginary engagement dissolving as the train pulled further away from the city.

But worry not, dear listeners, because this story has a happy ending.

Less than two weeks later, in Slovenia, we planned a day trip from Lubljana to Lake Bled. After spending the morning walking around the lake, admiring the stunning scenery that surrounded us, Eamonn suggested we hiked up a hill to what he described as a “famous bench.” I was surprised, as I am the more-enthusiastic hiker of the two of us. 

It was a hot day, in the mid 30s, when we embarked on an uphill trajectory through a dusty path in search of this bench. The vegetation was too sparse to provide us any shade, but I persevered, unsure of what our final destination was, and completely unaware of what was coming next.

Finally, we got there. The bench: meh. A standard park bench with no redeeming features. But the view. I’m not exaggerating when I say it is one of the most beautiful vistas I’ve ever seen, to this day. The expansive Lake Bled below us, with its many shades of turquoise, and blue, and green. An island in the middle of the lake with a church rising from it. The mountains all around us, lush with vegetation, extending as far as the eye could see. And atop one of the mountains, on the opposite side of the lake, a castle. A view taken right out of a fairytale, made all the more beautiful under a blue sky splattered with white cotton clouds, and the love of my life by my side.

We caught our breath from the hike (and lost our breath to the views), and after some time, we sat on the so-called-famous bench. And suddenly, the words fumbled out of Eamonn’s mouth: a not-so-romantic speech that included something about “finalizing the contract” and “this seems as good a time as any.” 

In his hands, a silver ring. An Irish Claddagh, with its iconic design featuring two hands, symbolizing friendship. A heart, for love. And a crown, for loyalty. 
And around the length of the ring, a Celtic knot, to represent eternity.

I fell in love in Paris, and the Sacré-Cœur will always have a special place in my heart. But nothing could compare to the perfect moment that had me saying a resounding “yes, yes, yes,” before Eamonn could even ask the question.

Around the World: M.’s Story

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Okay, so this story takes us back to 2015. I was just 18, still a student at AUB, which is basically the UBC of Beirut, where I’m from. But instead of being half an hour away from downtown, it’s literally in downtown. Picture a university inside Stanley Park.

Back then, I was still closeted — obviously living with my parents — and I used to drive to university every morning. And, like many gay men in the Middle East, I had Grindr. Because let’s be honest, that was the gay community. There were very few queer events or hangouts, just a bar or two… but mainly, a grid of torsos and chaos.

And that’s where I met Julien. French guy, blonde, older. In Beirut for a few days. Very much giving “European tourist with a tote bag and a mysterious backstory.” He told me he was travelling through French-speaking countries writing a book — which, at the time, sounded super fake; but he was still hot, so I didn’t question it.
I tapped him. He tapped me. We chatted. And we decided to meet up for coffee on campus, like respectable homosexuals. I picked him up, gave him a little tour of AUB, and also showed him around the city in my car, which honestly made me feel so cool. Like, I was 18! Driving this charming older French man around Beirut like it was nothing. I was glowing. Walking a little faster. Laughing a little louder. You know the vibe.

That night — the same night we met— he ran into a little problem. His iPhone locked him out. Completely. He kept saying, “I’m sure I’m typing the right code,” but his phone was like, “Nope. Try again in 3 days.” If you know, you know.
So now he’s in Lebanon, with no Google Maps, no contacts, no apps. Not even Grindr. Dark, dark times.
Buying a new phone? Too expensive. Renting one? Is that even a thing? And that’s when I saw my little gay moment to shine — not to impress, but to be useful. I told him, “I actually have a second phone; you can use it while you’re here. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a flex. It was just something I could do… so I did.

Now, everyone I told thought I was absolutely out of my mind.
“He’s going to disappear with your phone.” “It’s a scam.” “He does this in every country.” But honestly? I trusted him. I don’t know why. Maybe I was being naïve. Or maybe I just liked the way he said merci.

We saw each other a couple more times after that. Nothing major (okay, we fooled around a bit). One thing that I remember, that makes me cringe so hard, was this moment when I asked him, very stupidly, if he had downloaded Grindr on the phone. And of course, he had. And I was like, “…oh.”
He explained that Grindr was how he met people when he travelled. At the time, I didn’t really get it. To me, Grindr was still this secret, shameful hookup thing. But now? I mean… most of my friends today? I met them on gay hookup apps.
So… yeah. Julien was ahead of his time; or at least ahead of mine.
Before he left, Julien gave me back the phone and thanked me. Said his trip would’ve been totally different if he hadn’t met me. And that meant something. It made me feel kinda special — like I had made a little mark on someone’s journey.

We kept in touch here and there. He only messaged me in French — partly because his English wasn’t great, and partly because he’d say, “tu dois pratiquer.” Little did I know, my French skills helped me get my PR in Canada 10 years later.
And for a long time, I really thought that was it. A sweet little story. I didn’t expect to see him again.

But then, seven years later, I visited France for the first time. I messaged him, just to say hi. “Hey… I’m coming to Paris.” And he replied immediately: “Let’s meet.”
And just like that, we did. He showed up on a bicycle — of course he did — looking older than I remembered. More silver in his hair. Definitely giving daddy energy. And if you know me, you know that’s very on-brand.

This time, it wasn’t flirty. It was just… really lovely. We spent a few days together, and it honestly felt like picking up a thread from a story I thought had ended. He showed me around Paris like a true local. We vibed, got a little drunk, had the best time. He took me to beautiful theatres, gay bars, this riverside queer spot called Rosa Bonheur — which is basically the Paris version of Birdhouse. If you ever visit, highly recommended.

And on my last day there, we took the train to Versailles to go to a theatre festival — because I’m a theatre gay, obviously. We wandered through the gardens with some strawberries and a bottle of bubbles, because in France, you can literally just crack open a bottle of wine in public, and it’s totally normal. We had this quiet, beautiful day, just the two of us. And I don’t know, there was such a strong connection between us. And if you’re wondering: no, nothing happened. He had a boyfriend, not that this ever stopped anyone. But honestly, nothing needed to. The vibe was there. That was enough.

And of course, the trains back got cancelled. So, we had to navigate this maze of night buses, switching lines, figuring it all out. I would never have made it back alone. So I guess we’re even now: I gave him a phone in Beirut, and he got me home in Paris.
On the way back to Paris — after running around trying to figure out which random village bus was actually going back to the city — we were both exhausted. Sitting there in silence, half-delirious, half-relieved that we even made it onto the right bus.
We both kind of knew this was the last time we’d see each other before I left. 

And somewhere between stops, Julien turned to me and said, “By the way… I mentioned you in my book.”
And I was like, “Wait — what book?” I had totally forgotten that he was even an author.
He smiled and said I was one of the memorable friendships he made along the journey of writing it. Just a small mention, nothing dramatic. But still — it really hit me. Like… damn. I actually meant something to this person.

We still talk sometimes. Send each other voice notes. He still corrects my French grammar like it’s his life mission.

And that’s my story. A little Grindr match in Beirut. A train ride from Versailles. A mention in a French linguistics book. Nothing dramatic. Just one of those rare, quiet connections that stick with you — even when you know you probably won’t cross paths again.

Around the World: Helen’s Story

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There’s something you need to know about me before I tell this story: when I’m not writing travel tales for Vancouver Queer Stories, I moonlight as an Anglican priest. No, seriously, I’m ordained, and it’s taken me to some incredible places. I want to assure you that I’m not here to preach a sermon: I’m here to tell you about the time I travelled to the Northern Philippines, and, on the first day, promptly and irreparably broke the toilet. 

I awoke on that fateful day to the sound of rush-hour traffic. I had slept well after a 12-hr bus ride, which involved 40 degree heat, views of the renowned rice terraces (a UNESCO World Heritage Site), and roads which were under construction following a recent earthquake. As I was getting ready for the day, I finished showering, did my business, and prepared to flush the toilet, manually.
I had done my research, you see. I was well aware of the adjustments we’d have to make while in the Philippines. I knew how to deal with foreign plumbing—bucket style. I filled up a nearby trash can with water from the sink. I tossed it with great force into the toilet like I’d been shown—on YouTube.
When I was unsuccessful, I rolled up my sleeves and thought to myself, “I know how to fix this.”

I took hold of the porcelain lid and removed it from the tank. I felt the thin layer of condensation that had settled on its surface. It felt slippery between my fingers, like, well, like you would expect a porcelain toilet lid to feel.
As my palms reached for the edges, my fingers spread easily over the lip, and just when I thought I had hold of it, like an angel dressed in white taking flight, or a white-robed resurrected Jesus bursting forth from the tomb, the toilet lid shot into the air—set free from my grip. It landed on the floor—smashed into a thousand pieces. I followed suit shortly thereafter.

So, I did what any self-respecting person would do in a situation like this. I picked up the pieces, one by one, and hid them in my suitcase, in a bag that I would later dispose of when no one was looking. But, there was still a terrible mess and after labouring on the bathroom floor for hours (let’s be real, it was five minutes), I admitted defeat and made my way down to the lobby to plead my case with the hotel manager.

As I left my room, though, there was my colleague: the Executive Archdeacon, the Venerable Father Arnold Graystone. He was seated on the balcony, hands clasped, eyes closed, deep in prayer. I tip-toed my way towards the stairs.

“Good morning, Mother,” he said.
“Good morning, Father,” I chimed.
“Everything alright with the room?”
The story came tumbling forth, my words as hurried and fragmented as my attempts to clean up the porcelain pieces from the bathroom floor.
“Well, you’d better go down and have a word with the manager, haven’t you?” he said.
(Yes, I’d better go down and have a word with the manager, haven’t I?)

I made my way to the main floor and greeted the manager.
“I have some very bad news,” I said.
I pulled up a photo on my phone. She nodded and gestured to one of her sons. I began to apologize profusely. I insisted on paying for the damage. I asked if I could take a mop and clean it up myself. She smiled and pointed to a stack of porcelain lids in the back room.

“We have extras,” she said, “because of tourists, like you.”
I thanked the manager, and turned to make my way upstairs.
“One more thing,” she said.
“Next time, ma’am, just press the button. The toilets are automatic.”

Around the World: Nizar’s Story

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I grew up in a small town on the Mediterranean coast of Tunisia, a place where being different often meant being targeted. For those unfamiliar, Tunisia is a North African country with a rich and complex history. From the Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals, Byzantines, Arabs, Berbers, Ottomans, to the French, many civilizations have left their mark. It’s a beautiful country with stunning landscapes and, if I may say so myself, a lot of beautiful men.

But despite its beauty, Tunisia’s laws are not as progressive. According to Article 230 of the penal code, same-sex relations are criminalized, with penalties of up to three years’ imprisonment. So, while the country is breathtaking, it’s not exactly a safe space for someone like me.

From as early as kindergarten, I knew I was different. My feminine manners and femme-presenting nature made me a target for relentless bullying. Before I even knew I was gay, people had already decided it for me. They called me “fag” and other slurs, and I couldn’t understand why. I felt trapped in a cycle of fear, confusion, and self-loathing.

Looking back now, I realize that people often fear what they don’t understand. In a place where traditional gender roles were set in stone, my existence challenged their norm. I didn’t know it then, but I was stronger than I thought simply for surviving that.

Every day, I’d walk down the street and brace myself for the insults, the rocks thrown my way, and sometimes even the beatings. I’d come home from school, bury my face in my pillow, and scream until I was exhausted. I couldn’t tell anyone, not my mom, not my dad, because I was terrified of judgment and ashamed of who I was. I contemplated ending my life more than once, but something within me, some spark, kept me going. Maybe it was hope or just pure stubbornness, but I wasn’t ready to give up.

As I approached my final year of high school, I knew I couldn’t stay in Tunisia any longer. I needed to escape. My parents couldn’t afford to send me abroad for school, but I was determined to find a way out. Here’s the funny thing about desperation: it makes you creative. I started browsing a website called GayCupid, it doesn’t exist anymore, but at the time, it felt like a lifeline. I reached out to countless men from around the world, Italy, France, Canada, the US, the UK, hoping one of them could help me leave. I convinced myself I was in love with one of them, a man named “Tom”. For two years, I stayed in touch with him, keeping that hope alive. Eventually, he helped me get a visa to Canada as an international student.

Moving to Canada was a huge relief, but living with “Tom” during those first two years was challenging. Even though I had set the boundary that we would just be friends, I often found myself doing things I wasn’t comfortable with to maintain stability. Eventually, I decided that I wanted better for myself. Leaving his place felt like reclaiming my own agency after years of feeling like I had to compromise to survive.

Not long after I moved out, I found myself on the phone with my mom. I wasn’t planning to come out to her that day, it just happened. The emotions overwhelmed me, and before I knew it, I was telling her everything I had kept bottled up since kindergarten; the bullying, the fear, the pain. I couldn’t stop the words from pouring out. It was raw, emotional, and something I didn’t know I needed. At first, she struggled to accept it, but I realized that I needed to accept her too, her background, her limited exposure to different perspectives. My dad’s reaction was different. He simply said, “I don’t care, be whatever you want.” Part of me wanted him to care more, to cry with me, but in time, I understood that his indifferent acceptance was a form of love.

One thing I’ve learned is that acceptance is a two-way street. I was asking my family to accept me, but I had to accept them too. When I let go of the need for my mom to fully understand and embraced her own struggle with my identity, a weight lifted off my shoulders. It wasn’t about them; it was about me, about learning to love myself despite the years of hatred and misunderstanding I had faced.

Living in North America has its own challenges, but it’s nothing compared to fighting for survival back home. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to be one of those people who say, “Back in my day…” but really, the contrast is stark. Back in Tunisia, just being myself was like trying to get a massage while stuck in a war zone. But here I am now, free, resilient, and finally at peace with who I am.

If there’s one thing I want you to take away from my story, it’s this: Sometimes, the journey to self-acceptance means accepting others, too. It’s about finding your own freedom without demanding that everyone understands it. The weight lifts when you let go of the need for validation and choose to live for yourself.

Around the World: Imogen’s Story

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Identified Patient

I am in Calgary today learning how to diagnose autism. The training is in the same hospital building where I was detained for a month and ultimately diagnosed with OCD when I was eleven. A month of one-way mirrors and cheese whiz toast and CBT worksheets. My current therapist sends me a message before I leave that says “I hope this trip is somehow good for you rather than jarring,” which I think was supposed to be reassuring but ends up coming off ominous.

At the Vancouver airport I text my partner and tell them I cannot stop thinking that I’ve forgotten something important and something terrible is going to happen. There must be a ritual I can do to prevent it, they joke. Ha ha ha. It turns out the feeling that I have forgotten something is correct, although the scale of the catastrophe is a little off. When I arrive at the Calgary airport and try to pick up my rental car, my driver’s license has expired two days earlier, and I have to get a cab. I had planned to maybe check out trendy restaurants that have popped up here since I left in 2004, but quickly I realize I’m going to be basically confined to the strip mall around my Best Western and the children’s hospital where my
course is being held. Wings clipped, I feel like I’m waiting for my sixteenth birthday so I can go through Peter’s drive-in for milkshakes or drive to the airport just to look at it, so I can start to imagine forward movement as a real possibility.

The view out the cab window is vast and empty and slow, and I realize I had forgotten how this place seemed to be a mismatch for the pace I wanted to go. Wheels spinning on ice, futility and pent up energy; knowing there was a whole big world out there where I wouldn’t be such an anomaly. In the parlance of CBT: the feeling didn’t necessarily tell me the truth. There was a whole big world out there, and I wouldn’t necessarily feel like less of an anomaly once I found it. But the idea of it was enough to give me traction, to propel me out of this place that always reminds me of how no one can hear you scream in space because there’s nothing for the sound waves to even bounce off of.

Did you know that it’s more common to be afraid of wide open spaces than it is to be claustrophobic? I am sure that I do not belong here. They gave me diagnostic powers by mistake, it is an administrative error. A Freaky Friday type mishap where I have woken up with unearned power and freedom. I spiral and sweat through the afternoon lecture, imagining all of the catastrophic sequelae of this mistake. My heart races. On the break I get an ice cream from the vending machine where my mom would get me ice cream before family therapy, like trying to coax a feral animal. Only she’s dead now, so I’m trying to coax myself back to productivity or achievement, to my hard-earned place on the other side of the glass this time. I am conscious that adult professionals probably don’t eat ice cream for lunch when surrounded by colleagues. At any second they may realize I’m an impostor, and send me back downstairs for toast, a PRN, a worksheet and a nap.

I go for a walk to try to feel better, and end up feeling sad and slow and lonely, a specific sensation that feels like dull prairie winter in my chest. Vancouver moves fast – my favourite restaurants and memories disappearing before I can make new ones. Calgary moves slow, the pancake restaurant I used to go to with my mom before skiing preserved like a bug trapped in amber. The steakhouse we’d go to after church. The dead mall, standing there like the husk of a giant insect, where I had my first job selling novelty swords to nerds with poor impulse control, and which I recognized recently when it was used as a set in The Last of Us. Everyone I could call from my previous life here has moved or died.

It is dense with memory and devoid of connection. When I was nineteen I saw another psychiatrist who told me he thought I had Asperger’s, which was a thing then. Likely because I looked at the floor while I talked to him, and told him that I believed that the problem was not depression or even OCD, but that “I suffered from a pervasive remoteness.”

These days I have mostly abandoned the CBT I learned when I was eleven at the Children’s hospital psych unit. I still eat cheese whiz on toast, because it feels like a hug. But in light of everything that’s happened, it feels unhelpful to say “that’s a catastrophic thought.” It’s trite, but the only thing that slows down my heart rate and lengthens my breath is gratitude. When I was thirteen I found queer youth group, and when I was fifteen I started volunteering to run it. When I was sixteen they started paying me, and I’ve been lucky to build that into a career as a therapist. The early parts of that were nurtured by old (to me) lesbians who wanted to see me be happy and succeed; who understood that I was doing my best in a hostile environment and wanted to believe in the idea that someone like me could be okay. You couldn’t take a kid under your wing like that now; it would be called grooming. But no one was ever creepy, and I wouldn’t be where I am now without them.

When I moved to Vancouver, queer people felt unfriendly and suspicious of difference. There were a lot of invisible divisions I struggled to intuit – the mirror is never just a mirror. No one was jumping to take me under their wing. I still had the embarrassing tells of someone from a town that hosted the national high school rodeo, whose social and cultural centre was a grain elevator, and where you could ride your horse to school and hitch it there. I used to think it was too easy here, that there wasn’t the kind of exposure to hostility that makes us tender with each other’s earnestness.

When I started writing this, what I didn’t want to happen was for it to turn into a kind of city-over-country supremacy that I think it’s easy for anyone, but maybe especially for queer people, to slip into without noticing. When we do that, what we’re actually trying to signify is the cruelty and stress of the places we grew up, but we tend to do so without examining our own capacity for cruelty that we pack up in our backpacks and Rubbermaid totes and bring with us across mountain ranges on Greyhound buses. I’d even hazard to guess that as much as we learn what to tolerate in relationships from our families of origin, we learn how to be in community in places that hurt us. From where I stand now, I know that under a lot of the cool disaffectedness that I used to be so intimidated by, there is often deep vulnerability.

What I brought with me was a pane of one-way glass, the pain of being observed and described, the specific pain of the identified patient. I roll the words around in my mouth. Nothing goes away until it teaches us what we need to know. I repeat it to myself over and over again like a mantra until my mouth is dry, and it seems to help. My heart slows down to match the pace of this place, the thing I couldn’t do when I was growing into myself

Around the World: Bryce’s Story

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Let me take you back.

I was 18. That magical age where you think you’ve got it all figured out, but you still call your mom when your laundry turns pink. I had just hit that point in life where everything in my hometown felt too small. The streets, the routines, the same familiar faces. It was all closing in on me.
I needed space. Air. Maybe even some chaos. So, I packed up my car—if you could call it that. It was more of a metal box with an engine and a slight identity crisis. No GPS, no credit card, barely any cash, but a lot of heart.
I didn’t even tell many people I was leaving. I just drove west and decided I’d figure it out on the way.

When I got to Vancouver, I had exactly zero plans. Zero housing. Zero resources. But I had arrived, and that felt like… something?
I found myself driving around Stanley Park. I’d never seen anything like it. There were trees that made my little car look like a toy. Water that sparkled like it was auditioning for a movie. And people, jogging like they actually enjoyed it.
I parked and sat in silence for a bit, pretending this was all part of some Eat, Pray, Love moment. In reality, I was stalling because I had nowhere else to go.
That night, I curled up in the driver’s seat, hoodie rolled up as a pillow, trying to convince myself it was an adventure. The air was damp. The windows fogged up. But hey, I was free… right?

By morning, my back felt like it had aged 50 years, but I was still in one piece. I took that as a win. I stretched out, rubbed my eyes, looked out across the park and said, “Okay, day one in the big city—let’s do this.”
I drove into downtown. The city was buzzing: there were bikes, buses, beeping horns, neon signs. And somehow, every single person seemed like they had somewhere important to be.
Except for me, that is. But I didn’t want to look like an outsider, so I did what any self-respecting newcomer would do: I pretended. I adjusted my sunglasses. I leaned back like I knew where I was going. I even nodded at the people on the street, like I was one of them.

And then I saw it: a street that looked like it led somewhere cool. Brick buildings, people walking dogs, some artsy-looking cafés. Perfect. So I went for it.
Left-hand turn. No big deal.
Except, within seconds, I realized… big deal.
Because coming directly toward me, fast, was a silver Audi R8.
I froze. Like, full-body, “brain not working,” kind of frozen.

There are moments in life where time slows down. Where everything gets very clear, very fast. This was one of those moments.
I could see the grill of that car. The expression on the driver’s face (equal parts confusion and rage). And even the little sunglasses dangling from his rearview mirror. That man had money—and zero patience for a kid in a $2,000 car, going the wrong way.
I heard honking, shouting. I saw people on the sidewalk point at me like I was some kind of public safety demonstration. One guy just shook his head, like I’d personally disappointed him.

I did what my instincts told me to do: I cranked the wheel and swerved into the nearest side street—right past a massive green dumpster.
Parked—slammed my car into park. And just sat there.
I was shaking. My face was hot. I felt like I’d just survived an extreme sport, except the only thing I’d done was make a left turn.

And then the thoughts came, one by one, loud and clear:
Did I actually just do that?
Am I still alive?
Is it too late to move back home?

I slumped down in my seat, like hiding would help. I was parked beside literal garbage, and somehow it still felt like a step up from what had just happened.
I remember looking around to make sure no one had followed me; as if the Audi guy was going to chase me down, and hand me a bill for emotional damages.

Eventually, the adrenaline wore off, and something strange happened: I started laughing. Like, really laughing. The kind of laugh that starts as a nervous giggle and then snowballs until your stomach hurts. Because in the grand scheme of things… it was kind of hilarious.
I had survived my first real Vancouver experience. Not a sunset on the seawall. Not a cozy coffee shop moment. But a full-blown, wrong-way-down-a-one-way-street near-death experience.

Over time, I got better. I learned the roads. I found a place to live. I even got a credit card—with a limit so low, it was more symbolic than useful, but still. I figured it out. But I’ll never forget that feeling—of being completely out of place, completely lost. And somehow still okay.

And that, my friends, is how I learned about one-way streets.
Not from a sign. Not from a city tour. Not even from Google Maps.
No, I learned about one-way streets the old-fashioned way:
With fear. With adrenaline.
And with a luxury car speeding directly at my face.

Around the World: Paulina’s Story

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Mis raíces son de aquí y de allá.
My roots are from here and there.
But not literally here. By “here,” I mean Mexico—that’s where my “here” stayed.

Me and my family come from a long line of immigrants who arrived from northern Spain and Italy, eventually mixing with Indigenous people and mestizxs in Mexico. And no, I didn’t spit into a tube for Google to find this out.
I know, because where I come from, that kind of knowledge is passed down, close to the heart. Being of European descent still carries a kind of social value—less weight, more pride—even if it was five or seven generations ago.

Having that said, my gay genes are from all over the world!!
I only dare say genes because science hasn’t settled on it—it’s a mix of hormonal, genetic, and environmental factors. And I plan to tell my family that. So they can start taking responsibility for some of the emotional baggage they’ve passed down.

Yes, I’m from Mexico—from a city surrounded by three volcanoes.
Since I was little, my horizon has always been populated. It was hard to pick a favourite volcano, so I just decided to love them all. Which… maybe explains a lot.
I’m pansexual. And my volcano city was named Puebla by colonizers. Puebla doesn’t mean anything, but it sounds close to Pueblo—”town” in Spanish—just sapphic.

The city is colourful, artsy, painfully colonial. The population is mixed—Indigenous communities that still hold on to language and tradition, and whitexicans who think they’re more European than they actually are. There’s pride in food (rightfully so—don’t @ me!), but the snobbery doesn’t come from that. It comes from whiteness and class.
And even though we are all mixed, with Asian, Indigenous, European, black, over and over again, mestizaje didn’t mean equality. Now, Indigenous communities are a little better preserved, but that’s only because they have been pushed out to the peripheries—margins of the capital city.
In Puebla, waves of immigrants were welcomed: Lebanese people escaping the Ottoman Empire, Spaniards fleeing civil war, Germans leaving post-Nazi trauma behind. These communities were—and still are—respected, owning businesses, having their own schools, social clubs, factories. And indeed, in private schools in Puebla, you’re  taught German, English, and French.
But not Nahuatl. Not Otomí.

Close to my hometown is a valley called Cholollan—renamed Cholula. Please, add it to your bucket list. This city was once a spiritual hub for many Indigenous communities, all praising different deities, but gathered in the same land.
Not only pan, but poly.
The first time I lived alone was in Cholula. Mi Cholu. Colourful, bike town, full of markets and fields of flowers, maiz, and so many fireworks, like crazy, every single day there’s a saint’s celebration. Because colonialism ensured Catholicism wasn’t just adopted in Mexico — it was absorbed, so now there aren’t temples — called calpullis—  for different deities; now they are churches.
Puebla and Cholula are only 20 minutes apart: the whitewashed “we’re still European” city, and the cempasúchil lands that bloom every September.

I never really felt the need to come out to my family. I’d already come out as “the artist,” the cycle-breaker, the one who says no más to abuse and misogyny.
And as JuanGa said—and if you don’t know who Juan Gabriel is, how are you even here? Juan Gabriel was our Mexican Elton John, but gayer and way more legendary. He, maybe they, said “What is obvious doesn’t need to be asked” 

I don’t know if I had any queer relatives, I never saw anyone in my family that could have been.
What I did see were women who got shit done and men who “worked all day” but had mini-golf in their offices and collectible toys in their meeting rooms.
The women had strong hands that braided my hair so tightly it would probably qualify as child abuse today. But then they’d hand me a tortilla con aguacate y sal before dinner, and my favourite agua fresca—papaya…
Maybe they knew I was queer before I did.

But don’t get me wrong—I’ve known for a while. I just did gay stuff before I said I was gay. Like kissing my girlfriends at parties (with consent, always). I also shared my first orgasm with a girl.
It’s funny how we think we have “first times,” and then someone reminds us: “Didn’t that happen… back in the day?”
I thought my first time having sex was with my middle school boyfriend—he told everyone. I didn’t even come. Double asshole.
Later in life, I wanted to leave Mexico, but my Saturn return aligned with the pandemic, and I ended up living in San Francisco. There one day, I was with friends and playing Never Have I Ever, and someone said, “Never had sex with a woman.”
I didn’t put a finger down. But a friend said, “Wait—you told me a story from when you were 13.”
And I said, “We didn’t have sex. We just touched each other… and came.”
(Everyone laughed. I didn’t.)
It took my poly, demi, pan, ADD, PTSD brain a hot minute, but I finally connected the dots… My first time had been with a girl. YAY!!!!!!

By 28, I started calling myself bi. I didn’t need to come out dramatically. I just accepted it, named it, and started dating a woman.
We met on an app—because, of course. It was late 2020. She was beautiful—blue eyes, ballerina body, smile that could heal your inner child. It was sweet and short. I had to return to the U.S. We still orbit each other’s socials. A win.
Especially since my relationships with men tend to end with full drama:
The “never speak to me again” kind… or worse.

In 2021, I finally moved to Vancouver.
Why did I leave Mexico in the first place? Because I was afraid. Afraid to walk free. To wear something tight. To show my breasts.
I had experienced too much violence. Misogyny lived too comfortably in my home, in the media, in our streets. So I leapt. I trusted myself—and my craft as an artist.
Living outside of Mexico gave me perspective.
In Mexico, I’m not considered a person of colour. I had white privilege—despite my mom calling me the N-word for being “the darkest one.”
But here? I’m not white. I’m brown. More than anyone in my family would ever admit. And I embrace it.

I have an accent. YES.
I wear colours. YES.
I cook amazingly. I dance badly. I sing, not so bad.
I’m loud. My eyebrows speak before I do.

At a staff party for an immersive theatre company I worked at, I realized I was the only non-Canadian, non-white person there. We were drinking, joking, talking about patriarchy (as you do). Then this guy—let’s call him Hunter, because that’s his name—says: “You’re not like the other girls. You’ve got Big Dick Energy.”
I was like… “WHAT?”
And the guys were nodding. “Yeah, like you’re confident, you speak your mind…” One added, “All the women at work are into you. It’s like they see the big dick.”
Then someone else chimed in: “Or maybe… they’re into her because she doesn’t have a dick at all—but treats them as if she did.”
I didn’t know what to do with that info. Still don’t.
But I did find out later, at a New Year’s party, that they weren’t wrong. I made a move on one of the women—she said yes… until she didn’t. She ghosted me when I got COVID. Then asked me out again. So… not a total loss. Not a total win, either.

As I’ve grown, I’ve realized I don’t just love femme femmes or masc boys.
I love people across the spectrum. Masc femmes, femme boys. I love trans folks. I love queers. I love sapphics. I love love—as long as they’re not assholes or racist.
And the biggest victory, I love me. All my spectrum. All my mixed, from all around, magical self.
Even my lows. ‘Cause nobody gets depressed like I do. And most certainly nobody binges peanut butter at midnight like I do. And if someone does, I hope we can be friends.

My hope here is that younger people out there get to see more of us queers. Because we are not going anywhere, and they don’t have to wait 28 years to name themselves.
You don’t need to come out perfectly formed.
Just come out… as you.

Around the World: Andi’s Story

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I was 29 when I took my first trip to Europe. I had been dreaming of going to the Netherlands ever since I could remember; I even wrote in my departing words in my high school year book that you’d find me one day living in a big Dutch windmill! There was just something about the Netherlands I seemed to be drawn to: a place where cultural traditions remained, but attitudes and ideas seemed progressive. And the vibe! Who doesn’t love the idea of casually cycling through narrow streets over canals, with a basket full of tulips and a cheese wheel?!
And, of course, (and before it was a thing here) the novelty of legally ingesting pot brownies was something I had to try! I had a whole dream in my mind, and I was determined to live it, even if for only a couple days!

It was June and my partner and I had agreed that our first trip together we would spend most of our time in the UK where she had family, as long as I could get in a few days in the capital city of the Netherlands.

After arriving in Schiphol, we took a very long and hot bus ride to the city centrum where I had booked a hotel with the title of ‘art gallery’ in it’s name, and across from the famous Rijksmuseum. After figuring out which entrance to use, we stood in the doorway of what looked like a doctor’s office with a woman sitting at a desk in an actual closet under the stairs. I asked if this was the hotel, and she responded yes and proceeded to check us in.

“Here is your key, you must return it each time you leave the building.”

This was new to me, and after asking and having her explain in a vague but rather direct manner, I accepted the policy, and we continued to our room.

We walked a whole 10 feet to a door in a narrow hallway that was in direct eyesight of the hotel entrance. I was having a hard time picturing where the courtyard could be, given that the room we booked would have a window facing it.

*The door opens*

We were presented with a small, office-sized room with two tiny single beds pushed together to make up the “queen-sized” bed I had expected to see. There was a TV the size of an iPad hanging from the wall above a square leather stool in desperate need of a wash and a stitch job. The floor was laminate tiling with several damaged and half-missing pieces. The closed curtains were stained with old cigarette holes burned through.
Did we at least get a view?.… No. I opened the drapes to find a wall about 5-feet across from our window. I looked down to see an empty bucket, a boot, and a rope on a cement floor. Above was the sky framed by a small rectangle. This was the “courtyard.” But wait! The bathroom! Was it just as terrible? Surprisingly, no, but I had some questions. Why was it almost as big as the room itself? Why did the floor sink into a drain in the centre of the room, away from the shower? Why was the mirror higher than I could see myself? Why was there only one towel!

Feeling rather disappointed, we decided to not let it get us down and go out to experience a world I had waited so long to see.

“You are in the bike lane!“
“Oh! Sorry!”

We were hungry, so we decided to find a nice restaurant nearby. We ended up settling for a moderately busy patio restaurant that had a band preparing for some live music. We ordered, we ate, the food was great, and so was the beer. We were refreshed and ready to start over. 25-minutes after finishing, there was no wait staff in sight. 45 minutes pass…

“I think we should just go up and pay?”

We approached a man behind a menu counter.

“Hi there, we would like to pay.”
“I am not your server”
“Okay, can you please find our server.”
“No, she is somewhere up there, serving other guests.” As he gestured up the stairs.
“Okay, but we need to leave and have been waiting quite some time.”
“Here.” He put the debit machine in front of us.
“Where is the tip option?”
“We don’t have one.” He said, with mild disdain.

We paid, and tried to thank him, but he seemed too frustrated to acknowledge us any further. Back to stage one. This type of interaction would not be the last of our evening, or trip.

Once again, we were feeling disappointed. But I knew of one more thing we could do to turn our perceptions around.

“Wanna go get a pot brownie?”
“Sure!”

We found a coffee shop, and knowing that we would both have a very low tolerance for THC, we purchased a single “space cake” and headed back to the room.
We were exhausted after a long day of travel and navigating a new city. We decided to stay in for the remainder of the evening with our small TV and space cake. We halved it and I nibbled on pieces while trying to find a channel to watch. I recall looking over at my partner and gasping:

“Did you eat the whole thing already?!”
“Yes?… Is that bad?”

About an hour passed, and I felt nothing, but at least the show was interesting. It was a talk show about… Then it hit me. I had been watching the entire show in Dutch. I do not speak Dutch. The instant realization that I was high out of my mind threw me into a state of panic. I needed something to soothe my pounding heart. I began stroking the cool wall beside the bed. Helen looked over at me and asked:

“Are you okay?”
I slowly turned my head.
“I’m so high right now…”
“Omg, your eyes are red!”
“I’m kinda freaking out, do you have a drink on you?”
“No, but they have cups and water in the common area.”
“You mean I gotta go out there?!”

Indeed, I had to, and as I slowly blazed my way out of the room to get a cup of water from the common area, I overheard a couple at the check-in closet, asking why they, too, needed to return their keys.

Keys… Return keys… Locked… Locked in.

All of a sudden, I had an epiphany.
Why was there a huge bathroom with a drain in the middle of the floor? To take our organs, of course!!!

As I went back to bed, I began fixating about all the blunt conversations had throughout the day, and wondering ‘why is everyone so mad at me?!‘

It wasn’t until the next morning, after the longest and most paranoid night of my life, that I decided to do some reading online about interacting with the Dutch. As many know, the Dutch are notoriously known for being very blunt and, of course, Canadians are known for their politeness and friendly demeanour in conversation (mostly). It turns out, that many Dutch folks may find over-politeness as insincere.

I also learned that tipping can be considered insulting in a country where service industry jobs are generally paid a living wage.

With this new-found knowledge, we were able to turn things around and enjoy the remainder of our time in the city.

Since this trip, I’ve been to many other countries. I’ve learned to do a bit more reading up on places instead of relying on my own romanticized ideas. And although I’ve been to some pretty wild places, Amsterdam still goes down as the biggest culture shock of my life.