Tag: Summer loving

Summer Loving: Camille’s Story

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This is not your typical steamy summer romance (although trust me, I have tried). My story is more of a love letter. A love letter not to a person, but to a place. This place. Vancouver.And it’s a story that spans almost two decades, from my first visit as a first grader to my moving here just last summer. If you have watched The Summer I Turned Pretty, this is kind of like that. But queer. And hopefully, with better writing. Do it for the plot, as they say.

Now, I haven’t done this sort of thing since university so I’m a little out of practice. In this essay I will… no, I’m just kidding.

A little bit of context. Like some of you, I am not originally from here. I grew up in Belgium. I went to catholic school, sang in the church choir, etc, etc. I can confirm that the catholic school to queer pipeline is real.
And don’t get me wrong, my love for Vancouver is not the same as dislike for Belgium. I love it there and I’m proud to be from there. I talk about it pretty much all the time. The people I miss, the food, the history, and culture. The fact that Belgium was the second country in the world to legalize same-sex marriage in 2003. And yet it’s a perfect example of how different legislation can feel to daily life.
Because. Growing up there for me also meant growing up with a lot of baggage. I lived and went to school with mostly white, cisgender, straight, conservative people. My home life was a crash course in emotional survival. This and other factors made it feel like I was keeping more and more inside as the years went by. Naturally averse to any type of confrontation, I kept my head down, twisted and bent myself so I wouldn’t cause any waves, trying not to catch any attention. It was a survival strategy, something I wasn’t always aware I was doing, but, over time, it shrinks you.
Now, it’s not like Belgium doesn’t have queer people. Trust me, as someone who got a liberal arts degree, sometimes it feels like I have met most of them. And although I attended university with plenty of rainbow merch and queer friends, sometimes it still felt like I was playing a part. My real, true, queer self was starting to make appearances, before I commuted back home at the end of the day and faded into that washed-out version of myself again. I was learning how to use non-binary pronouns in French and then going home to hear how queer people shouldn’t make such a spectacle of themselves.

Something I have left out until now is that me and my sister were lucky enough to spend many summers here in Vancouver while growing up. Something I definitely did not understand or appreciate while it was happening. Why was I being shipped off to the other side of the world every summer to be with people I hardly knew or understood? Why did I have to leave my home, my friends, my language, and everything that was familiar to me? Weirdly enough, these are some of the most vivid memories I have from my childhood and adolescence. They say you can’t remember an actual emotion, only the memory that feeling left behind. Maybe that is why summers in Vancouver are so bright, painted in colorful emotions, happy, sad, and angry. Because there was a lot of anger. There were a lot of tears. But at times, I was also happy.

I had a lot of firsts here:
This is where, as an angry tween in the middle of summer, I watched my first pride parade. Right on Robson Street. I did not know what was happening; I just remember it being loud and bright and colorful.
When I was a little bit older, Vancouver is where I had first dates, best dates. Most memorably the girl who planned a walking date to visit the best independent bookstores in the downtown area. For someone with a literature degree, that’s about as hot as it gets.
I spontaneously booked a walking tour called “The Really Gay History Tour,” diving into the queer history of this city. And I felt it. A hum, a buzz, whatever you want to call it. Something small, brave, vulnerable sitting in my chest, making its presence known. This place felt good, right.

Deciding to move here was not intentionally something I chose to do for myself. It made sense for a bunch of boring legal reasons and like many, I was a bit adrift after finishing university. What do you mean there isn’t anything I’m working towards over the next 4 years? I made the choice, initially for a year, to be closer to my sister, who had been living here for years. Probably the least problematic relationship I have in my life, the person who I have leaned on (sometimes a little too much) since we were 2 lost kids in this city. It was a risk. Once again, I was leaving my home, my friends, everything I knew, but this time it was my own choice, and it was for longer. But even though I was comfortable there, I was still clenching. I was myself, but I could still feel myself purposely not taking up space at times.

So. Since I recently passed my 1-year anniversary of moving here (or my Vaniversary, as I like to call it), I thought it made sense to do a little performance review.

After many many, many job applications, I started working at what I am convinced is the queerest workplace in the greater Vancouver area. If our queer staff members were given the day off for Pride, there would be no one left to keep the place running. The people I have met there, dare I say the friends I have made there, mean more to my little gay heart than I can express.
I have also joined a queer fitness class (yes, that is a thing, and I could not recommend it more). After a fun night out dancing at The Birdhouse, I woke up the next day not with a hangover, but with a hangover and my lower back in spasm. This queer cardio class, pitched to me as “gay line dancing,” seemed like a smart solution and has led to another first. My first time actively, loudly, proudly participating in a pride event earlier this summer.
It definitely hasn’t always been easy, though. In the past year, I have experienced more than one type of heartbreak here. The distance and space have given me a lot, but they have also taken things from me. Missing out on friends’ important life events, not getting the chance to say a final goodbye. Sometimes I feel like I am living a parallel life. It is so hard to fight the urge to regress into who I used to be when my old life comes knocking.

But. There is one memory that I keep going back to. It was August 2024, right after I moved. I packed my book and towel and biked on one of the crappy Mobi bikes to sit at English Bay Beach. The pride parade was going by. I watched the colours. The sun was shining. I could hear the waves on the beach and felt the wind on my face. This memory is so warm and bright in my mind, because I felt so… peaceful. And even though I had no idea what was coming in the year ahead, I felt I could finally, truly exhale.

Summer Loving: Luis’ Story

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This is a story about my on-and-off love affair with, metaphorically, the beach, open waters, and the sea. 

My first ever date was in the first post COVID summer, in coastal Victoria.
I ventured out to meet a guy I met online. Through text, he was emotionally available and aware he was avoidant. The hot beach day was the perfect environment to bring any incompatibilities to the surface; looking back, I realize how the sound of crashing waves was a beautiful, soothing sound, but being caught underwater as the currents break was not. Almost immediately, we were in an anxious-avoidant trap, and it would take me two years’ worth of poems, and counting, to learn how to love myself enough to not go into steep shorelines unprepared.

After that, my longest ever relationship, although it is best defined as a situationship, was here in Vancouver with a guy I used to say was the sea, Poseidon himself. If I went with the flow, I had a wonderful time; the best dates, though technically  hangouts, were trips to the beach. Blissful sunny happiness quickly clouded by my capacity to receive love that did not come with any strings attached, and unfortunately, without this clarity of what I needed, intention, I was once again in an anxious trap. A strong cycle manifesting itself like a lunar calendar. Fortunately, through poetry I was able to capture and reflect on the push and pull of the tide through this period of my life, and wonder where and why I was repeating it. Similar to the erred myth that the Aztec calendar was believed to foretell the end of the world, and not that the Aztecs were resetting their seasons, this loop of breakups and reconciliations revealed itself at the beach on January 1st: 

In 2012, my cousins and I went into the sea. 
Before we realized, the high tide took us away. 
We tried to swim as we screamed mayday,
I split from my cousins and tried to get help, 
We all got away, but not the fear that I felt.

I don’t trust the sea like before, 
my sandcastle falls when a wave knocks on the door. 
My comfort zone lays in more stable terrains
I even ask friends to play the water levels in videogames. 
So you could say I am afraid of the sea,
Because I wouldn’t be able to blame it for drowning me. 

The sea did not try to kill us, we ventured too far. 
The sea does not have a memory, we remember the scar. 
The sea will drown you if you let it be guide, 
The sea behaves in a pull and push of the tide. 
I compared you and the sea, and now I don’t know what to do with this commentary. 

Let me offer my hand and help you down from the pedestal, 
Take a hammer to the columns and pipes and let the water flood my skeletal. 
I lean towards the synchronicity:
It’s the color blue that beacons to me. 
The blue in your eyes, or the blue in your name, 
Or the blue in the way you move. 

I want to get out of the water, but I don’t know how.
Question the trail dripping from my body, 
Wonder:
If it was an emotionally aggressive father, no, 
If it’s how I process emotion and choose a path to follow, no, 
If it’s how my Mexican blood reacts like oil to Canadian waters, no,
else trying to heal every other part of me when the pipes in my sandcastle are spilling water, yes.

This life isn’t sustainable. 
You can’t heal personality. 
I’m never in reach of the perfect standard of healing every single part of me.
How many rooms do I split myself into before I forget where every part went initially? 

In this new layout of my castle, where do I fit your memory?
The thought makes the tide in my mind go red, I’ve ventured too far. 
I can reason the sea’s behaviour but not a man’s vocabulary.
For that ethical ambiguity, I have no vacancy.
Not for the men I am unsure if I even “dated”, 
or whatever definition fits from your dictionary.
Not for those whose banter belittle me, 
Make a joke out of me and try to convince me it’s funny. 
Not for the men who cross my boundary, 
And dare to say the walls of my castle are imaginary. 

It’s through time, in each wave that hits the sand. 
That the sea and sand bank resemble each other’s hand.
I lose sight of what works for me and start becoming part of a narrative
That exists only in your mind and what I twist into poetry. 

Only when I focus on what I felt
not what you said does the tide relax.
I know I’ll put the memories, the good ones left,
Not in the sea or the places we spent time in, 
But in a brand new room.
Of people I rode the bus with, whom 
I flirted like we were strangers, 
driving away from Wreck beach, away from the currents and dangers.

Destined to get at different stops.
Dead calm waves, the high tide drops.

The idea that a place can have revealing properties is not a new one. In The Exterminating Angel, by Luis Bunuel, dinner party attendees become trapped in a sociological limbo that eventually reveals all their secrets and unravels their relationships. Robert Östlund’s Triangle of Sadness, Prime Video’s Yellowjackets, William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, break and rebuild social hierarchies after crew and travellers are castawayed. 

I’ve gone to the beach alone, with friends, family too, and have found similar results: an exposition of ideals and compatibility. Do you go to the beach with people who leave trash behind? Do you? How comfortable are they seeing their and other people’s bodies? How comfortable are you? Is their job really “beach” and are they qualified for it? Are you? Do they go to the beach only during summer? Do you?

I love that poetry, like the sandy coast, is as much an external as an internal space. Privacy shared publicly coexists with the secret agenda of knowing, being “in” on personal intimacy of a shared story. Being caught naked or seen in your underwear has a different moral weight than being seen at a beach wearing a range of birthday or bathing suits.

After spending the last day of Vancouver Pride weekend at Oasis in Wreck Beach with a diverse, safe, stable group of friends, I wrote about these conclusions in a poem called The beach:

I love the smell of sunscreen, sand, coconut oil;
Touch hungry, I’m picky as to who I ask for help. 
At a shy distance from the ocean, water, turmoil,
I’ve learnt going to the beach’s Reckoning itself,

Of what is not said but felt: interpersonal health.
Here, where there’s not much to do but connect
We watch, talk, listen, or that’s what I’d expect,
We wear our comfort levels, habits, our neglect:

Wreck/Jurassic/Oasis, SPF, over, under dressed.
By the coastline, waves flirt with the sandbank. 
A touch, a kiss here and there, a look at a chest,
A drift, a rip current wipes the shore prints blank,

Washed it away. Replaced by beautiful patterns.
The tide’s intention revealed in the rill and ripple:
It is Nature, to mix below the surface, “we” aren’t
But an undertow of elements chasing currents is.

As in, not ideal, life at the beach. I’m sunburnt
From a Sun’s hand, the Moon takes over control,
Rising and setting the pace of the ebb and soul.
I head home to myself, entirely made up of sand.

Today, as I visit familiar or new beaches, I am more aware of my qualities and needs, because I’ve been to the beach and continuously see how anxious, shy, body-dysmorphic, sexy, creative, secure I and others can be. 
Today, firstly, I know myself and get a life jacket for open waters, wear a speedo and SPF 50, and trust I am capable of swimming… for survival, probably not for recreation. 
Today, if I am curious about the health of my relationships, with myself or with somebody else, I go to the beach. 

Summer Loving: Claus’ Story

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Day 1
The speedboat dropped us off on a deserted beach and drove away. Ahead of us was the West Coast Trail, a 75km trek in Vancouver Island. It was the end of summer 2018 when my friend Carly and I embarked on this adventure, with $5,000 worth of hiking gear and a shared sense that, maybe, we weren’t quite prepared for what lay ahead. (Carly is straight, btw, but we won’t hold that against her).

The first five kilometres took us an unbelievable six hours, climbing over tree roots, balancing on slippery logs, carrying 50lb backpacks.
“Do you think there is wifi at the camp?” Carly asked, shocked and dehydrated after hours of hiking, even though we both knew we’d have no cell service or electricity for a week. During our orientation that morning, we were told there was “running water” at the campsites; Carly thought they meant bathrooms. They were referring to rivers.

Reaching that first campsite at Thrasher Cove (KM 70) felt like a small miracle. The final stretch alone nearly did us in: steep, muddy switchbacks that seemed to go on forever, followed by ladders that dropped the equivalent of a fifty-story building to sea level. There, we used the remaining daylight to set up camp, and had to cook and eat our dinner (dehydrated space food that expires in 2099) in the dark. Two Advil for the pain. A hot chocolate spiked with bourbon to reward ourselves. Sleep. 

Day 2
We woke up cold and sore, and took a ridiculous four hours to pack up and eat breakfast. As we left camp, the skies opened up, and we quickly discovered that rain gear, even when it costs hundreds of dollars, isn’t fully waterproof. We would not be dry again for a week. 

When we hit the first of four cable cars (small metal boxes that fit two people and two backpacks, hanging from a rope and pulley system to help you cross swollen rivers), we were already trudging through ankle-deep mud, and knee-high water.

We ended the day at Camper Bay (KM 62), tucked between the forest and the sea. By our second night, we thought we were starting to settle into the rhythm of trail life: wake up sore, put on wet clothes, pack up, walk, set up camp, eat space food, take two Advil, drink a bourbon hot chocolate, sleep, repeat.

Day 3
We challenged ourselves to take down our camp, eat breakfast, and pack faster. We cut down our time in half… which means it still took us two full hours.

If the West Coast Trail is infamous for anything, is its ladders. There are around seventy of them along the trail, varying in length and inclination. Some of the ladders stretch the equivalent of a thirty-story climb. One ladder is completely vertical, and another is tilted slightly sideways. Most of them are slick with rain and moss. Every one is a test of courage; a slip can end up in disaster.

After hours of literal ups and downs on a ladder-heavy day, with hands and legs shaking from holding on to slippery rungs, we set up camp at Walbran Creek (KM 53), on a soft square of moss between two logs. Space food dinner, two Advil, hot chocolate — dammit, we emptied our bourbon flasks, meant to last the week! 

In the middle of the night, Carly shook me awake.
“Papi, there’s something outside the tent,” she whispered fearfully.
“A big something, or a little something?” I asked, alert. The West Coast Trail is home to bears, cougars, and wolves.
She thought about it for a while, then whispered, “A little something…”
“Carly, wake me up if you hear a big something.”

Day 4
We woke up that morning to a full downpour, so strong that we didn’t cook our usual hot oatmeal for breakfast. We tried to speed up our morning routine, but ended up taking two hours to pack up camp — again.

Shortly after leaving, we reached the longest cable car, stretched across an impossibly wide river. We loaded in and let gravity do its thing… except, the soaked rope sagged so badly that we stopped dead centre, dangling above the rapids, with rain blasting from every direction.
I began pulling at the rope with all my strength, attempting to pull us across to the other side, while Carly… well, while Carly cried. “I can’t do this,” she sobbed, broken by the elements.
Now, I’m not known for being patient. But Carly needed a pep talk, so I was honest with her. Yes, this was hard. Yes, I was broken too. But staying in that swaying metal box wasn’t an option. So, together, we hauled ourselves, inch by inch, to the other side.

Later that day, we came across “Chez Monique’s,” a legendary burger shack in the middle of nowhere. Except, Chez Monique had died the previous winter, so the place was closed. A man was there, and he let us sit under a tarp to cook a much-needed hot lunch away from the rain. He also sold us an outrageously expensive beer (which we paid for, gladly). And then he said we could set up our tent there for the night. Carly agreed cheerfully. I declined politely, convinced we’d end up in some sort of West Coast Chainsaw Massacre story.

So, we quickly escaped through rain that had gotten worse during our break. We walked along the sea (where Carly hilariously got taken down by a wave), then trekked through the forest.
The trail eventually spat us back out to the coast, and it felt like coming through to the other side of the looking glass. A path of tall grass led from the woods to an endless beach, bathed in beautiful golden light. The sea was deep blue, the pine trees a brighter green, the seagulls resplendent white.

The sun’s warmth seeped into our rain-soaked bones as we walked to Cribs Creek campsite (KM 41.5). We spent the evening on the beach until the sun set, giving way to a black sky speckled with glittering stars.

Day 5
After leaving camp, we walked along the ocean shelf at low tide, admiring sea creatures trapped in the tidal pools, and watching otters darting along the rocks — probably feasting on said sea creatures.

In the afternoon, we reached Nitinat Narrows (KM 32.5), where we enjoyed a BBQ salmon steak and baked potato at the Indigenous-owned Crab Shack. Sitting on the sunny deck, eating a real meal (not space food!), and sipping on a cold beer, we almost felt human again. 
After lunch, we took a boat across the narrows. On the other side, a thick, cold fog rolled in. We couldn’t see beyond 20 metres in any direction as we walked along a rocky beach, with barely an hour of daylight left. We both began to lose hope, thinking we’d have to set up camp on the uninhabited beach, but finally heard the rushing water of a fog-covered Tsusiat Falls, our next campsite (KM 25). 

Space Food. Two Advil. Virgin hot chocolate #sadface.

Day 6
A long, but easy day: flat, with well-kept trails. At Michigan Creek campsite that night (KM 12), someone started a campfire, the first and last of the entire trek. We gathered with a dozen other hikers around the fire, and for a night, it felt like a vacation: sharing stories, laughing, warmth soaking into our bones.
Absolute bliss.

Day 7
Our last morning began with another two-hour packing routine  — why can’t we get better at this?! The trail was once again easy, incomparable to what we had experienced the first five days. A few kilometres in, we got one last highlight: Sea Lion Rock (KM 9), where dozens of massive creatures barked and rolled atop a large reef. It was like nature’s grand finale.

We got back on our way, and suddenly, there it was: the one-kilometre marker. Euphoria surged through us, as we walked that last stretch to Pachena Bay, back to the real world.

***

Despite the challenges and bad weather, I’m grateful for the opportunity to have experienced such beautiful, untouched nature. And to appreciate the little things, like feeling joy every single time I saw a mustard-yellow banana slug, or a funky mushroom, or when I found my favourite lichen (old man’s beard) in the most unexpected places.

The West Coast Trail was breathtaking. It was brutal. It broke us down and built us up again. It made me closer to Carly than I ever expected to be to a woman. And I wouldn’t trade a single rain-soaked step of it for the world.

Summer Loving: Matthew’s Story

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My closet was made of tinted glass. So you’d think a Caribbean cruise would be the perfect place to hide, given all that bright, glaring sun. But not even my oversized orange hoodie, perfectly covering my awkward 17-year-old body, or the baggie raver pants that flared out to the ground could shield me from the look in his eyes as he tilted his sunglasses onto his nose and gazed me up and down.
“Nice pipe,” He said, in his thick southern drawl.
I stared down at my hands, nervously turning the small wooden bowl over as I did my best to avoid looking up, the large bulge protruding through his bright blue Speedos at almost the exact height of my face practically begging me to stare at it. I thought if I ignored him long enough, he would go away, but he didn’t.
“Are you planning to put something in it”? He asked, pulsing his groin towards me. I finally looked up and met his eyes, my cheeks flushed red.
“It’s for a friend. I bought it on the island yesterday,” I said, nervously looking around the deck to see if any of my family was around. Even though I told my sister I was “bisexual” in a hotel room in Miami the night before we boarded the ship, I was still playing the all too familiar game of hide and seek with the rest of my family. The hardest part about coming out isn’t actually coming out, it’s having to expose something about yourself that isn’t really exposing anything at all. Thankfully, the coast was clear.
“Lucky friend”. He said and winked.
The truth was, he was the first person I noticed when I came up to the pool deck an hour before and found a shaded corner to hide in. That all too familiar game I always played as I scanned every room for signs of others that might be like me. Not because I found safety in numbers. More to protect myself from being around someone with the power to reveal my secrets. All it takes is a look. But as much as I tried to ignore him, my eyes kept wandering back, his body sprawled out flamboyantly on a lounger, sipping on some fruity cocktail as he laughed and screeched with the two women framing him. He made my stomach squirm. The way his wrist flicked back and forth as he talked too loudly. The way he threw his head back when he laughed. The way his tanned orange belly hung over his Speedo. A direct affront to my idea that all gay men in the world but me had 6 packs and bulging biceps.
“Hey, aren’t you a little overdressed for the occasion? You do know it’s over 90 degrees up here?” He teased.
“I don’t like the sun”, I lied.
“Did you forget your swimsuit?” He asked. “Because I have an extra Speedo in my room. If you want to come try it on.”
A rush of heat flushed through my body as my eyes flicked back to his bulge. Oh god, please tell me he didn’t see that. Of course he saw that. My eyes darted around. Were those people staring at us? Suddenly, I felt myself start to move. Automatic shifting of awkward limbs, gathering up my backpack on the floor beside me, the towel under me. But before I could stand, he took a step forward and leaned down, his fried blonde hair falling into his freckled face.
“I might even have something to put into that pipe if you want.” I froze.
“You mean like, pot?” I asked, looking up and directly into his eyes. They were crystal blue. He smiled.
“Yup. I’ve got a whole bunch of it. You wanna go smoke?”
Oh God, how badly I wanted to. How much I missed the sweet comfort of marijuana, tragically deprived of it since my parents forced me onto the plane for this stupid family vacation almost a week ago. But I couldn’t do it. As much as the lure his bulge and the prospect of getting high put their powers of seduction into overdrive, fear and disgust tightened their tendrils around my lungs, and I jumped up, spinning around to make sure I had everything before stumbling away, turning back quickly and awkwardly apologizing. I went back to my room and jerked off, then curled up like a baby and cried.

When I found myself back in the same spot the next day, I would have sworn to you it wasn’t on purpose.
“So you do own a swimsuit.” He said as I lowered the book from my face to see him back, standing in front of me in another, albeit equally revealing Speedo. “What a relief.”
My heart pounded. I looked around, then leaned forward and looked right at him. “Do you really have pot in your room?”
He smiled.
The room was tiny, the door closing behind me as my backpack dropped to the floor. He took the pipe from me and sat on the edge of the bed, filling it with weed from a plastic bag.
“My name is Calvin, by the way.”
“I’m Matthew,” I said as I sat down on the bed, taking the pipe and inhaling a long, slow hit. He moved his leg so it was touching mine, then reached his hand onto my thigh and started sliding it up towards my crotch. He leaned his face towards me, his chapped lips puckered and his eyes closed tight.
“I can’t do this,” I said, standing abruptly.
“What are you talking about?” He said, his eyes popping.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.” I turned and stepped towards the door.
“So what, you just used me for my drugs? Please. Typical fag.” The word hit like a knife, and I stopped, my hand gripping the door handle as I turned back to him, our eyes locking. And there it was. That look. That look in his eyes that said, I see you. I see right through you. I know you. I am you.
I turned and barreled out the door.

Over the next few days I stayed far away from the pool deck, but even that didn’t stop me from seeing him everywhere. I was so terrified at the thought of running into him that I didn’t even realize my siblings dragging me straight from dinner to the disco one hot, humid night. It wasn’t until I saw the crowded dance floor that it hit me. If there was one place you could guarantee you’ll find gays on a boat, it’s at the disco. I tried my best not to think about it, downing a boozy pina colada as the sweet sound of Kylie Minogue blared through the speakers. I finally started to relax, moving my body on the dance floor with my sister, doing shots at the table with my brothers. For the first time in days I wasn’t even thinking about big fat blunts and bulging speedos when suddenly the waitress appeared at our table, a large, fruity cocktail in her hand. She set it down in front of me.
“I don’t think we ordered that”, my brother said. She looked at me.
“It’s for you. From him.” She turned and pointed across the room as our entire table followed along together with their gaze. I leaned over to see around my brother, and it all came into view. Calvin, four tables away, with a harem of women surrounding him, all turned towards us. His head was tilted and his arm was straight up in the air with his wrist bent, his fingers flapping up and down, waving at me. I sank down into my seat as the entire weight of the cruise ship piled onto my chest. Everyone’s eyes turned from him and back to me.
“Who is that?” my brother Jesse asked. I looked over at my sister, our eyes locking for a single second.
“Oh my God”. I said, years of practice kicking into high gear. “That guy is such a fucking creep. He was stalking me all over the pool deck the other day.”
Everyone was silent.
“I’m pretty sure that he’s gay,” I said, and my brothers started to laugh.
“You think?” They said in unison.
“I don’t know why he sent me this. We hardly even talked to each other. He’s disgusting.” I spat the words out and shoved my trembling hands down onto my lap.
“Well, he obviously thinks you’re cute,” My sister said, trying to help.
“Whatever”. I said, looking over at her again, desperately.
“Well, you should just take it as a compliment. Nothing wrong with someone buying you a drink, right?” She turned back to him and waved. My brothers’ eyes stayed on me. I looked from one to the other.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said, picking up the drink and downing it all at once, lifting the empty glass into the air and gesturing it towards Calvin’s table.
“Attaboy,” My brother Darcy said, hitting me playfully on the arm.
Everyone cheered. Everyone moved on. And I did my best to follow suit. It wasn’t until we were all downing a final glass of water, getting ready to leave, when suddenly he was there.
“Well, hello there everyone.” He said, leaning his arm onto our table. “I’m Calvin.”
Everyone said hi except me; my voice caught in my throat, and my body frozen in place. The silence seemed to stretch on forever.
“Nice to meet you, Calvin,” I said awkwardly.
He laughed, running his hand through his hair, turning to me and reaching his finger out through the air and bopping me on the nose.
“You left your pipe in my room.” He said, loud enough for the whole table to hear. My stomach dropped.
“You can feel free to come by and grab it anytime.” He said, winking at me as he turned and stumbled away.
I watched him go, my body paralyzed. I wanted to disappear. To vanish into thin air. But when I didn’t, I slowly turned back to face the table. My sister’s hand was on her heart, her eyes wide. My brothers and their girlfriends’ mouths all hung open as they stared at me in total and utter… belief.

Summer Loving: Pascale’s Story

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Some things about me: 
– I was born in 1989. Thus, I love 90s/early 2000s rom coms… which is why I’m a hopeless romantic who dreams of moving to NYC and falling in love.
– I’m a millennial, so I really need you to like me! 
– I’m also really, really good at talking to people, making new friends, and subsequently… shooting my shot with girls.

Not to be overly confident, and not to say that I think I’m god’s gift to the queers; I’m just not scared to walk up to a stranger that I like and talk to them.
Does my heart pound in my chest and right before I do it? 100%. But I know that if I didn’t talk to them, I would feel worse. So, I shoot my shot. Partly because no one really hits on me, not sure why. Possibly because of my huge personality — I’m a lot for some people, I know!
But hey, at least no one has ever called me boring, so there’s that! 

But Pascale what do you mean when you say you “shoot your shot?”  Well…
A few years ago, I was working as a server at a very busy outdoor restaurant in the Old Port of Montreal. I was 27 and finally about to move to NYC in a few weeks: AKA, my dream come true. 

It’s a hot July Saturday night, and we’ve got a lineup around the block. Just as I’m walking towards the bar, I freeze. That’s when I see her: tall, dark skin, short hair, fresh fade. Blue polka dot, short-sleeve shirt buttoned to the top, and army green pants. If I were to compare her to a celebrity, it would be David Beckham.
She walks in, and I stop dead in my tracks. Everything about her takes my breath away. She is so hot, I immediately start blushing. I walk away with a stupid smile on my face. 
At the bar, the bartender says, “Pascale, what’s going on? You look different?”
“Umm…I’ve just laid eyes on the hottest girl I’ve ever seen in my life!” 
I subtly ask the hostess to seat her near my section, but not IN it, ‘cause OMG, I couldn’t actually serve her. So she’s seated in my friend’s section, and I ask him, “Max, that girl at table 38, what’s the deal?” 
“She’s with two girls, I think they’re a couple, and she’s on her own,” he says. 

I keep serving my tables, trying to make eye contact with Bechkam, but it doesn’t happen. Then, Max says, “Hey they’re getting the bill, what are you gonna do?” 
I panic. The bus boy says, “why are you so obsessed with this girl?” 
I say “Shut up and take notes.” 
Right then, I see the lovely lady who sells roses to tables. It clicks. Done.
I run up to her and buy a rose. I write down my name and number on a piece of paper. I put it inside a billfold, and ask Max to give that girl the rose and my note and say, “That server thinks you’re stunning.”
My pulse is racing as I head back into my section, trying to look busy, taking extra time with my tables, and then get lost in work. Finally, I meet up with Max and he hands me the bill fold back. There is a note from her, “I’m Ada, thanks for the rose. We’re going out for drinks later, you should join us,” and below that, is her phone number…WITH A NEW YORK AREA CODE!
Are you kidding me?! I’m about to move to NYC: we could walk through Central Park in big cozy sweaters, while the leaves fall, drinking chai lattes, holding hands… and we could fall in love in the fall in New York! It’s perfect! — You know, the usual thought process. 
My very interested server friends want to know what happened, so I show them the note with the phone number as the mouthy, jaw-dropped bus boy slowly raises his hand for a high-five. 

As Ada and her friends leave, we cross paths for a second. With a big smile on my face, I tell her I would love to see them later. She smirks and says, “I hope so.”
Once I’m done work, I text Ada and head to the bar down the street. I can’t stop losing it that I am on my way to have a drink with this girl. You know when you’re just like, “Is this actually happening?!” 
I take a deep breath as I walk in, and spot Ada right away. She looks at me with her gorgeous smile, asks me, “can I get you a drink?” 
I say yes, of course and while she’s gone, one of her friends says, “by the way, very well played.” 
We have a few drinks, play some pool, and then her friends decide to head out as they’re all going back to New York the next day. Ada and I want to stay out, so we walk over to another bar. We order two Jonny Walker Black, on the rocks, just before last call. 
The lights are low, the music is loud.
We’re staring at each other, smirking, as I take a sip of my drink. Ada puts her glass down, takes mine from my hand, and places it on the bar. She puts her arm around my waist and stands tall above me.She slowly pulls me close, so her face is just an inch from mine. Ada looks deep into my eyes and finally our lips meet in a soft, still kiss, as the world around me seems to blur and fall away. 
If this were a movie, the camera would be doing a 360 slowly, with the crowd dancing around us in slow motion. Right as the term “French kiss” would be used, the lights come on, and the moment is over. We both pull back, stare into each other’s eyes with a smirk… “Should we get out of here?”

We take a cab home and the next morning, I wake up in her arms. We lay there in that perfect little morning-after bed-bubble until it’s time to get up.
I drop Ada off at her hotel on my way to teach a very hungover spin class. Before she gets out of the car, the leans in to kiss me and says “I’ll text you later.”
I figure she will never text me: I was a girl she met on that Montreal trip. Just a name in a story. But still, the smile I have on my face walking into the spin studio is unprecedented!
Against all odds, Ada did text me later that day. We started talking every day for two months — spending hours on FaceTime and making plans… you’ve heard of lesbians, right?
September comes and… I would love to tell you that when I went to New York, we met up for coffee, went for a walk in Central Park, and fell in love. But really, she just led me on for a few months, and then ghosted me.
I never saw Ada again. 

I often find that I chase people who don’t want to be caught.
I’ve now been single for about six months, after my longest and most serious relationship. I tell myself I need some time for me, but I keep going after people who give me crumbs when I give it my all. I’m not sure I know how to date casually. Because, honestly, either I like you or I don’t. If not, what are we doing?
Not to say I’m not happy with who I am, but maybe I should take the time I put into chasing someone who won’t text me back, and spend that time on what I want and who I want to be.
The girl who will go up to a stranger to shoot her shot will always be there, inside. But maybe we can sit with her for a minute. Maybe ask her how she’s doing, or take her out on a date… because I’ve never taken the time to get to know her — know me, without chasing after some crazy idea of a love story. 

Maybe, for this summer, I stop chasing those who don’t want to get caught.
Maybe, I fall in love with myself instead. 

Summer Loving: Ben’s Story

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Back in July 2019, pre-pandemic, pre-twink death, I met you, Lloyd. (Lloyd is a pseudonym, for you dear, my favourite Welshman.) Edinburgh – Edd-in-berg, if you want to be ridiculed. I was crashing on my sister’s couch in Marchmont. Bored, cramped, a little horny; friends going to a party I wasn’t interested in that night, I open an app.

Sniffies didn’t exist back then, so we did our business on Grindr like gentlemen. 

I don’t know what it is about Edinburgh, but I do extremely well there. So, I casually shoot my shot. And, you reply. Truthfully, I was surprised. You are too pretty. Your singular dangling earring (because those were in style then), the white button-up shirt so open to your chest. Too pretty. You, Lloyd with brown eyes. 

I steal away some weed brownies that my sister made. Keep in mind, this is Scotland, the UK (at least for now). Weed is rare goods. We are both excited to indulge. Even though European weed is shite, I tell you, including the stuff in Amsterdam compared to BC bud. We walk the Meadows, QU’EST-CE QUE C’EST in modern terms, ‘yapping.’ You tell me about cartography, and the archives you work in, poetry, and the jewelry you wear. I tell you about linguistics, the archives I work in, the dread of renting in Vancouver, the jewelry I wear. 

You live just up the road from my sister’s, so we go to yours. We don’t jump to sex – no – I want to show you the Canadian Cat Show Circuit documentary I saw earlier, while the brownies take full effect. You are enamoured by the cats. Eventually, we do find ourselves in bed.

This is the first time I ever had you on top of me. It might have been the weed brownies, maybe the amber lighting, and the bedroom’s high ceiling, your cheeky smile, the smoothness of your stomach, your nose, deep in my neck. Kissing and laughing at each other.

I wake up late; we wake up late. I need to meet some friends for brunch, now. I dash out the door, forgetting my wallet, and keys, but not my phone. Thank god. You are waiting for me at your flat’s entrance as I scamper back. I see you; you see me. We look terrible. Hickies abound. Hair disheveled. What I hope is toothpaste. We chuckle boyishly and kiss. It is not our last meeting that week.

I learn Lloyd likes old, pretty things and fresh clotted cream. He is sentimental and hates low-rise socks. He pulls his knee highs all the way up. 

He graduates from university later with a master’s degree; I return to Vancouver long before then. We keep in touch on Instagram as oomfs. (I have a real life oomf!) 

July 2022. We are in the pandemic, but some restrictions begin to ease. My sister is having their wedding Ceilidh in Edinburgh. It is a Gaelic social event, with dancing, fiddles, and alcohol, of course.

Perhaps, you can make the trip up from London. Perhaps, we can find a place to stay away from my family for the week. Perhaps, you want to come, and see me, that guy with the weed brownies, and cat documentary, (and ass eating). Wow. You are coming. I am a bit scared now. What if, we’re just friends and not friends this time. Not that we have to be friends like that: no expectations. I’m cool. You are cool. But, we are sharing a bed for the week. 

Your train is early. I am rushing to Waverley. I wanted to have something for you. I am pleading in a flower shop along the way to see what measly trimmings I can get for seven quid. [Huff] I am late. I am late, and I have shitty signal here. Fuck you, Fido! What if he isn’t getting my messages… But there you are. I am holding back smiling to look nonchalant, but my face is fuzzy, warm, and my chest is tight, racing. I can’t stop myself. My smile does not look like yours, and I don’t look like you: pretty. Have you always been taller than me? Oh, it is your shoes. He has cool shoes. “Hi Lloyd! I got you these.” 

That is the first ‘gorgeous’ of the week. He calls things he likes ‘gorgeous’. Sicilian pizza, tart wine, eclectic thrifted goods, my flowing green pants, a flat white whilst hungover, train station posies. 

At the Ceilidh, we give each other bruises from the swing dancing, swirling each other on the rental hall’s floor, switching partners, fumbling, tearing away, and to each other. My new brother-in-law’s third stepfather’s girlfriend, named Squirrel, from north of Aberdeen, asks us if we are together. We give each other that look. “Oh, so you are fuck buddies,” she quips in a brough. We laugh and shrug. 

The rest of the week is gorgeous. Most afternoons, I nap while you read; Lloyd is not a napper. He smiles when I enter the room half awake. I don’t know why. All week, he gets to revisit haunts from his uni days. For him, his past is here in Scotland. For me, just a present together, which itself is a fantasy. And, I should know better. Playing house on Leith Walk? You are the cruelest to yourself for this.

The morning finally comes. Because the UK is (and continues to be) an absolute shitshow and the climate is boiling us alive, the train schedule has ‘been better’. The rail cables are melting now. Your train is maybe here, so we rush to the station at high noon. These moments are all –  frantic, frenetic, while my insides are slow and sinking deep within me. You are leaving in an instance.

We hug, one last hug. And then, you step back, keeping me in your arms, and kiss me. I am caught off guard. You have to go. I have no choice but to linger there while your railcar leaves. 

Instead of dinner, I go to bed with stomach aches. I can’t wait to get home. I want my dog, my routine, to be as far away as possible from this place. I know for a fact we can’t be together if I am an ocean and a continent away. That is what makes it impossible, not the impossibility of you reciprocating this longing. You are there; I am here.

Somewhere in 2023, you delete Instagram. I respect that. But, I lose you. Wait! I signed up for that infrequent poetry email newsletter you do. Sigh. Quarterly, sometimes, tri-annually, I still get a glimpse of your thoughts and whimsy. I reply once to the email address, but don’t hear back. You added your cellphone number to it recently. I am still too scared to send a message. It is too direct. It is too late. Too – too! 

You have your Instagram again, but are never on it. Do I slide into your DMs? No. Also, a terrible idea.

I hate it: Having these thoughts and aches since you surely do not feel the same way about me. Hate acting foolish and teasing myself. Hate being reminded of you by the viola, wool pants, and Coronation chicken salad. Hate how these memories are mine, ours, but just mine really, fallible and reliably rose-tinted to a degree.
But I don’t hate you. No, I love you, Lloyd.
For how you make me breathless. For how you grin and say, ‘look at you’, when I walk in a room. 

Maybe one day, I will be one of those old, pretty things you enjoy again.

Not now, and not soon. No, but one day, when my love is no longer this loathsome and restless thing but somehow braver and tempered, for you.

Summer Loving: M.’s Story

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I’ve always been a hopeless romantic.
And I don’t mean that metaphorically, I literally used to choose Hopeless Romantic as my personality trait on The Sims. Back when I still thought that picking it would somehow make my characters have sex faster. Not in real life.
At the time, I didn’t fully get what it meant.
Hopeless? Romantic? Isn’t that a contradiction?
But over the years and one too many impulsive heart flings, I think I’ve finally started to understand.

Let me take you back to the summer of 2014.
I had just graduated from school and freshly 18. Queer. Closeted and Horny. 
And freshly added to a friend group headed to Ayia Napa, a beach town in Cyprus best known for two things: foam parties and straight British tourists throwing up in alleys. I unfortunately witnessed both.
It was my first time traveling without my parents.
Which basically meant: I could finally go fool around without anyone up my ass… except the man who was gonna be up my ass.

The night before the trip, I opened Growlr, it’s like Grindr, but for bears… and with a UI that looks like it was designed in 2003 and never updated (it probably was).
I changed my location to Ayia Napa, and within minutes, I found THE guy. Early 30s. Local. Cute smile. Med student.
We chatted. We vibed. We made plans to meet the day I landed. I didn’t know much, but I knew this trip was already a success.
I told my best friend, the only one in the group who knew I was gay. I expected a lecture. Maybe a “Don’t get murdered.” But instead, she saw his photo, read the texts, and said: “OMG, go get it, girl.”
It was the first time I’d ever told someone, in real time that I was about to meet a guy. And just having someone know made me feel more confident. More excited. More me.

On the flight over, I couldn’t think about anything else. This wasn’t just a hookup, it was a movie: A summer escape. A foreign local who’d show me around, give me great dick, and maybe, just maybe, become my European boyfriend with whom I’d live a Mediterranean gay fantasy. Hopeless Romantic mode activated.
When I arrived, he picked me up in a retro car, looking hotter than expected. And as fate would have it, we ran into two people from my group crossing the street. 
They stared. I waved. Later, I told them he was a “family friend.” 
And they shockingly believed it. 
He drove me to this beach bar that looked like a queer fever dream. It had a giant stone mermaid mosaic with the words “Once In a Lifetime Experience.” Which… felt dramatic for a beer on the beach.
But okay, Mama Mermaid, let me dream.
We got drinks, sat at a table by the water, barefoot on the sand, and talked for hours. We laughed. He told me about med school in Romania, coming home every summer, how he loved the sea. I was enchanted.
We couldn’t really flirt openly, it wasn’t the safest place. But at one point, our bare feet were near each other, and he reached out… and gently tangled his big toe with mine. Yes. Toe holding. Hand-holding, but gayer.
Now listen… I don’t have a foot fetish. But my dick… begged to differ.
Later, we made out behind a dumpster. (Summer loving, baby).

I went back to the hotel with the biggest grin on my face. I couldn’t stop smiling. I couldn’t stop imagining us. How we met by chance. How perfect the date was.
He’s in med school? Great, my parents will love him… only after they kill me when they find out im gay.
Gay marriage is legal in Europe? Done. We’re getting married.
The gay delusion was DELUSIONING.
But then the next day… we argued. Over text.
I was being clingy. He was pulling back. It wasn’t dramatic, it was just deflating.
I’d gone from mermaid mosaics to “I guess I’ll die alone” in under 24 hours.
That night, my friends decided to get tattoos. I, fresh off heartbreak,  told my best friend I wanted to get his name tattooed on my thigh.
To which, she said: “Only if I get to tattoo my hand slap on your face.”
She’s an Icon.

Still… we met again. We talked. We laughed. We shared a joint, my first. (I had no idea how to smoke it, so it didn’t really do much.)
He invited me to his family’s beach house. We made out on the kitchen counter. We had sex on a squeaky metal bed that sounded like it was cheering us on. We took selfies.
Then, he dropped me off. And that was the last time I saw him.

My phone died shortly after the trip, all the pictures, his number, everything: gone. And for a while, I felt this weird sense of grief. Not because I’d lost him.
But because it was one of those rare moments that felt good, and I wasn’t ready to let it go just yet.
That was my first real taste of gay romance. Before that, most of my experiences were secretive. Sexual. Transactional.
This one was different. Even if it was short-lived. Even if it ended in toe-holding and a missed connection.
Because over time, I’ve realized: Being a hopeless romantic isn’t about getting your fairytale ending. It’s about choosing to feel deeply, even when it’s messy. It’s about believing, even if only for one night, that love is possible, and that you are worthy of it. And with every little story like this one… I evolve.
Not into someone less romantic,  but someone more grounded. I still believe in soulmates… I just don’t expect them to show up in beach towns with retro cars and squeaky beds.

So NO, this wasn’t a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’ve had a few more summers like this since. And if I’m lucky… I’ll have many more.
Because being a hopeless romantic doesn’t mean you’re doomed. It just means you keep showing up for the magic. Even if it only lasts a night, or a week, or a beer on the beach.
Maybe the real once-in-a-lifetime experience is simply being someone who still believes in those moments.
And I still do.

Summer Loving: Sergio’s Story

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Tuesday, May 13th, 2024. 5:45pm.
I was at the gym, pretending I was the fittest guy alive… Well, actually, I had already finished exercising and was just lying down, getting a massage. (Fake it till you make it, right?)
Then the thought hit me: text Virgo. Yeah, that’s what I call him. Why? Because he’s a Virgo… original, I know.
“Hey, I’m going to be at Sunset Beach tonight. It’d be nice if you came,” I texted.
I waited for his reply, checking every two minutes — No response.
So… maybe not. Maybe he doesn’t like me, or maybe he has a boyfriend, or he is not interested, or I’m not his type… Sh*t, why did I invite him?
(I was raised watching Mexican telenovelas… of course I gotta be dramatic).

But let’s rewind. Where did Virgo even come from?
LGBTQ+ soccer league, summer season in Vancouver. I’m a goalkeeper — which is basically a full-time job of trying not to get distracted by hot, sweaty guys. And then he appeared. He had missed the first two games, but when he finally showed up, I swear I thought: “All my life, I’ve been good, but now… wow.”
Virgo: cliché perfection. White, blonde, blue eyes, toned, 5’5, killer smile. He was like a rom-com character who accidentally got dropped into my real life.

But back to the story: still no reply from him. 
I tell myself, “Relax, he’s busy. Don’t be dramatic…” (too late).
Finally, after an hour and a half, when I had already given up all hope, a text from him: “Hey, sorry, I just saw this. It would have been nice, I guess it’s too late now. But I see you’ve got a beer and chips.”
With revived hope, I tried again: “I’ll be here until sunset if you want to come.”
And he says: “Ok then. See you in a bit.” (*Cue me pulling out a bridal veil*).

Ten minutes later, there he was — short shorts, tote bag, hat, the full “West End summer chic” look. He hugged me, we talked, and then… he took off his shirt, and asked me to rub sunscreen on his back. Sunscreen. On. His. Back.
(That’s when my brain said nothing, because my heart was screaming too loud.)
We talked for hours. About life. About love. About what makes us happy. And then watched the sun say goodbye to us, lighting up the ocean, painting the sky orange, red, and pink. 
I looked at Virgo and saw the sun lighting his face. He was smiling, and I was just happy… I was very happy.
It was my first sunset of summer 2024… but in my mind, it was our first sunset.

Photoshoots and Minions:
We both love acting, and I had just started doing background work, so I offered to take some shots for his profile. On our second date, we wandered the West End, doing a photoshoot: changing outfits, laughing, joking… He told me about his family, where he is from in Canada. I told him about my hometown and its traditions, my friends, my family. 
Have you ever felt that connection when someone looks at you and smiles? You know that look, right? The one that says more than words ever could? Yeah, that one. He was looking at me like that the whole time.

On our third date, we watched Despicable Me. Not exactly the most romantic choice, but trust me, the way we laughed together and looked at each other was romantic. 
After the theatre, we walked the seawall, talking about our lives, and I realized that we were very similar in how we viewed things: commitment, friendships, relationships, work, the future. I discovered Virgo has a beautiful heart and cares about others. That he cares about his own mental health and is working towards his future. I was slowly falling in love with him. He was the guy I had been waiting for, for a long time.

The Ocean and the River :
Days later, we found ourselves back at Sunset Beach.
No kisses. No hug. But music, songs, secrets, glances… We told each other some personal stories that have changed our lives, that have made us cry, grow, smile, laugh. And me, lying there thinking: This is something I haven’t felt in years. 
He was playing Avril Lavigne songs: “That’s whyyy I smile, it’s been a while… Suddenly, you’re the reason I-I-I-I smile. I smile.”

But here’s the catch: When we were together, it was magical. When we weren’t? Silence. No texts. Being left on read. It made me feel confused, frustrated, and sad. I didn’t want what had happened before in my life to happen again. Not with him. I was hoping this would be different.

So I kept planning the next move, the next excuse to see him. Still clinging to the idea that this was real.
“Let’s go for a swim on Friday,” I texted.
He responded: “Yeah! Let’s bike Stanley Park, and end at Third Beach.”
I told myself: this time, HE has to text first. Friday comes. Noon. Nothing. So I give up, shower, and decide to go solo… when my phone lights up:
“Hey, a friend from Australia is in town, we’re going to Lynn Canyon for a swim. Wanna come?”
Of course I went. And again — with him, everything felt amazing. His friends were late, and Virgo and I had a great time. There were many people around us, but it was only Virgo and me that mattered, sitting on a rock, under the sun, having a beer. When my Converse fell in the water and got soaked, we joked about it, and laughed. We laughed a lot together.
We swam to the falls in freezing river, and he lent me his goggles so I could see what was under the water. Lots of fishes, lots of nature.
But just the two of us… No one else.

Truth:
The following Wednesday, a soccer game. I got injured — bad. I tore my ACL, and limped off the field, helped by teammates. Other soccer guys came up to me to ask how I was, what happened, if I was ok. But Virgo: he kept watching the game, and never came to check on me.
And right there, I knew. Maybe it was never real for him. Maybe it was only real in my head. So I stopped. No more texts. No more plans. I decided to move on, and start healing. It was the very first time I cried for him. It was my breakup.

We reconnected in December, because life literally put him on my way — twice. First, he started going to the same gym as me. Then, we both started working on the same film… We were together the whole day. So I thought life telling me: ”try again.”
I asked him out again. We went to the movies, and we went to see the Christmas lights at Stanley Park. How romantic. But then, the same story… No texts. Being left on read. One sided.

Four months later, I received a text from him. Not “hi.” Not “how are you.”
A favour. He wanted me to be his reference for a job. And you know what? I said yes. He got the job, and to thank me, he invited me to dinner. But this time, I was done lying to myself.
“Thanks for the invite,” I wrote back, “but I’m gonna be honest. I have feelings for you. Every time we hung out, I felt like there was something more… and I don’t want to confuse myself again.”
To be honest, I felt such a relief to say what I was feeling. To finally put myself first. End of story. Fin del cuento.

Summer gave me sunsets, laughter, and a boy named Virgo. But it also taught me: sometimes, what feels like a love story, is just a beautiful illusion.
After all, I’m happy because after years of being afraid, of running away from guys, I finally decided to give myself another chance to love. To put my heart out there and try. 
Maybe it didn’t end as I wished, but I’m glad it happened, because I will always have that first sunset as one of the most beautiful memories of Vancouver. 

Summer Loving: Andi’s Story

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I remember sitting at my desk and feeling every molecule in my body pull me towards the door. In the past 6 months, I had only enough energy to come home after work and sleep. I would wake up the next day, head back into work, and completely disassociate.
At work, sounds were becoming louder, I could hear the photocopier at the rear of the office better than the person trying to converse in front of me. I had zero short-term memory. If a conflict arose, even if it was an easy fix, my mind would draw a blank, my eyes would well, and my voice would stop working. I felt like I was hanging on by a thread; I had no core inside my chest to hold the weight I was feeling. 
I thought to myself “why am I the only person not able to cope in this environment?” 

On that same day, I listened to my gut and I started the process of going on medical leave. I made a doctor’s appointment, I emailed HR for the paperwork, and then I bawled my eyes out that night thinking I was a failure and doomed to go nowhere in life because of my perceived shortcomings. 
A few days later, after processing some emotions, I realized how deprived I had been from the things that brought be joy and peace. I made a plan. The first thing I was going to do was put in the film The Sound of Music, because Julie Andrews knows how to do.
Then I was going to commit to doing more art and, despite not having a car at the time, I was going to get out of the city one way or another (these are a few of my favourite things). 

I thought about flying home to see my folks in prairie nowhere, Manitoba, but given the circumstances, I didn’t think a family visit was going to alleviate the stress and guilt I was experiencing. There was, however, one family member I had recently reconnected with who I felt understood me more than anyone else at that time: My 93-year-old Great Aunt Maizie; the eccentric sister of my late grandfather who had moved out to the West Coast in the 1950s to practice yoga and to become a “heathen” (as Grandpa would say)! 
I remembered first meeting her when I was 5 years old during a trip to Vancouver for my uncle’s wedding. I thought she was a spunky old lady… And that odd old house she lived in decorated with beads, candles, and photos of bearded East Indian men, it was so different from my regular surroundings…That yard she had, it was full of lush trees and flowers… That ocean, where I collected shells near that massive park… that terribly scary swinging bridge I cried the entire way across holding my Dad’s leg for dear life… those Godly Totems… That had all been 23 years prior, and it had evidently left a mark on me. It became clear to me where my journey out of Calgary was going to be: Vancouver. 

Remember when Airbnb was cheap? I booked 5 nights in a shared apartment that overlooked Davie Street for $37 bucks! I mean, it was no Shangri-La, the room was a closet with a window to the kitchen, and the folks living there didn’t care much for their own privacy (saw a lot of bum), but hey! I made it! 
After dropping off my bag, I went straight to Beach Avenue and down to the water. I felt the sea air fill my lungs like drinking a cold glass of mountain spring water. The bay was like glass and appeared to stretch beyond the horizon. I needed to swim. I stripped down into my bathing suit. I fell into the sea, and then it fell into me. In the middle of a busy city, I could finally hear the silence I so desperately needed just beneath the water’s surface. I felt an internal exhale. 
Afterwards I walked to the edge of Stanley Park and around the giant trees. I felt nostalgic, the farm I grew up on was full of big trees and I missed them, but another feeling returned to me that I hadn’t felt in years. I felt like I was home. 

The following day I ended up going over to North Vancouver. The journey up and down the mountain felt magical; a maze through hills and trees, all of which extended beyond my bus framed vision. But you know what else was fricken cool? The Seabus! Woah, I was on a boat! That may seem ridiculous to some, but if you’re from the prairies, it’s absolutely delightful! The angle of the light during my initial crossing lit up the buildings on the North Shore as if I was entering the ‘Kingdom of North Vancouver.’ 
And then there was Maisie’s house… It was EXACTLY THE SAME as it had been all those years prior! Maisie however, was much older, much more frail, but that did not stop her from showing me her flexible yoga moves! We chatted about family for a bit, then life and philosophy. Despite the enormous age gap, I felt like I was talking to an old friend who understood that I needed to set my spirit free. 

Coincidentally, a few different old friends were in Vancouver at the same time, and I ended up having a blast catching up with them! I went out on a party boat and hit up all the gay bars on Davie! Joy had returned, and experiencing a little more Queer representation around me also brought about a sense of safety. 
I went back to the North Shore once more, not just for that Seabus thrill, but to shop and chill at the Lonsdale Quay. I sat at the brewery that shared its patio with the promenade, sipped my IPA, and watched the ships, boats, and aircrafts go by. Despite my busy surroundings, I had found a bit of peace. 

Inevitably, the day to board my departing flight had come. I settled into my window seat and felt tears come to my eyes. I didn’t want to go, but I knew I would do my best to return. I consciously left a piece of myself at YVR that day, imagining that one day, even if only for a week every other year I would meet myself again. 

That soul cleansing visit in the summer of 2015 put me on a incredible trajectory. 3 weeks after returning to Calgary I would meet my future wife. 5 months later I left my job for good. 2 years later, my partner and I would take a trip to Vancouver together to start apartment hunting after she accepted a new position. 5 years later in Vancouver, I would be diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder which allowed me to reflect on and reevaluate my own needs at work and in life (as it turns out I have selective mutism and what I had gone through was burnout). An engagement, and a whole pandemic later, my partner and I married in a spectacular service at Christ Church Cathedral with all our family and loved ones present. 

As for my dear Great Aunt Maisie of whom I found a kindred spirit, she would pass on just shy of her 101st birthday. Sometimes we fall in love with people, and sometimes we fall in love with places, whether it’s a summer “fling,” or something that later becomes a long-term commitment. Vancouver was my summer fling that later became my home. Vancouver opened up her ocean stretched arms and nestled me into her mountainous earthy embrace, she filled my cup, and restored my peace. 

Whatever the future has in store, even if my wife and I end up leaving this place down the road, I will always love Vancouver because Vancouver reminded me how to love myself.