bedtime

You're in bed with me right now...

I'm just laying here in my flannel polka-dot pj pants and an old t-shirt from high school (which is old enough that if it were a person, it could drive) and feeling that my toes really need attention from a sweet Korean woman with a emery board.

I know. Just too sexy for words, right?

Truth be known, I've just been restless the last couple of days, and I'm not sure why. There's just a sense that something is wrong or something is missing. But, I don't know what it is.

In my head, I have a perpetual 9 year old sitting in a small, wooden chair. His hair is perfectly parted to the right and his clothes are freshly ironed as he raises his hand to give a Sunday School answer... "Oooo, oooo! It's Jesus!"

Well, no... As much as I'd like to be able to quickly point out what's missing and tie it all up with an easy answer, I have to say, it isn't Jesus. Despite what others may think, I have Jesus, but I'm still feeling there's a hole somewhere inside, a vacuum of sorts.

But, unlike when I'm doing a puzzle, I'm not sure what piece is missing. The shape is undefined, and whatever picture it is supposed to complete is just blank.

Here in the dark, though, I'm starting to see what it is.

There's a relationship that I'm letting go of, or trying to have the strength to let go of, and it hurts. It's the right thing to do. Every part of me knows that... well, every part of me but my heart. There's no future in it, at least not a future that would make me happy.

I see it happening, I feel the relationship slip away, and while that should give me hope for healing and for new days ahead with a lighter load, I see someone I care about walk away. I'd love to call or send a text tomorrow, to do something that will keep his attention and keep him around a little while longer... but that would be delaying the inevitable. Even in a Leap Year, with one extra day, your birthday still comes; you still get older... you just get to delay it by with February 29.

There's no stopping what time will bring, and time will bring a stop to this relationship.

So, this restlessness I've been feeling lately is probably from weariness... the fatigue brought on by trying to be strong enough not to do what your heart longs to do. It can leave you uneasy, unsettled... tired but not sleepy.

It's not something a warm glass of milk or a lullaby can help. I have no clue what will satisfy this emptiness, but I would love to find it so I could get a good night's rest.

sensory overload

There must be a full moon...

I came to the Starbucks for a low key night... I hadn't necessarily planned on a low key night. I had actually been invited out for drinks with friends, but they cancelled... which, I have to say, I felt wasn't going to happen. Did you ever have one of those invitations that you knew right when it was extended, whatever was proposed just wasn't going to happen? For some reason or another, you just knew the activity was going to fall through? Something in my gut told me that the suggested drinks wouldn't happen. And, my gut was right-- as guts typically are.

But, since I was dressed too cute to not be seen in public, I came to my favorite Starbucks to enjoy a caffinated night cap, write a blog that would neither make me money or change the world and keep myself from celebrating Valentine's Day by staying on the couch and drinking and crying while I watch Love Actually (but, looking at the time, I might be able to have the best of both worlds...).

And, then, "they" entered. THE LOUDEST PEOPLE ON EARTH. I'm sure you can hear them where you are now.

There is a party of 30 or so Spanish speaking people who have gathered by the fireplace of the Starbucks. I'm not sure if this is a birthday party, a wedding reception or a going away party or what, but they have taken over and found my very last nerve. They have not only found it, they have found it, hit it, jumped on it, knocked it down, killed it, gave it mouth to mouth, revived it and beat it to death again.

All I've been able to put together at this point is they are playing some sort of slap game... they are slapping the hands of the person sitting next to them and when that part of the game ends, it turns into something like "truth or dare" or "name that tune" or something. They've sung 3 groups songs and then one girl has done a Spanish opera piece. Three tables next to me have left and the ones that remain merely stayed behind to give them dirty looks... although I think I'm doing the best of it.

I'm all for having fun, enjoying group time and cultural events. But, party games at Starbucks? No. No, no, no, nooooooo. Out of line. There are certain things that are meant for the living room at home... I don't come here, get in my boxers, watch Lost and fart a lot... don't come here and play party games that have 25 people singing the Marcarena.

But, in the long run, it's probably good that they are here... at least for the guy dressed like some character from A Christmas Carol. With a red velvet jacket with gold accented buttons and nickers and tights to match, he's sitting there talking to a goth-girl. The girl who is dressed in black and sporting impressive cleavage and long black gloves doesn't seem to mind that his bushy sideburns grow into and eventually connect with his equally bushy mustache. With the Spanish sing-along going on, no one is noticing Bob Cratchit and Elvira on a date.

I don't even remember what I was originally going to blog about. It's like the space-time continuum has completely gone wacky. A Dickens character flirting with a Goth Girl... La fiesta con musica a mi derecha... and now a straight guy just walked in wearing a sparkly Texas Rangers baseball cap...

I need to go home before the Cat in the Hat walks in. This is too much for me to take.

the weather in paris, part four

Part 4

While I often go through a day thinking that I can do anything, I have grown to know my limitations. I know I cannot slam dunk a basketball (not that I want to). I know that I cannot hit sing a high B above middle C. I know that I cannot dance well enough to raise money for a cup of coffee, much less to make a living off of. And, I know that I cannot tan. I should have learned the first time tried at the age of 13 when I covered myself with baby oil to layout with my sister. The following week when I looked like a walking Washington State Apple, I should have learned my lesson. But, when I want something badly, it takes me repeated failures before I understand that it may not happen. And, even 20 years after my first failed attempt and the many that followed, I still want to be a person that can tan and refuse to accept my pale complexion will do anything else than burn, peel and freckle.

With my hands on the waistband of my swimsuit, I contemplated the possible outcomes. I could encounter life unencumbered for the very first time. I could feel the breeze. I could feel the freedom. I could experience the beauty of nature as I lay there in my own natural state. I could take it off and frolick nude in the sun for the first time.

Then, I remember while I was sunbathing with an Italian did not mean I *was* an Italian. Recalling that my Swedish and Irish heritage was still fully intact and that all of this "freedom" I would enjoy would eventually lead me to a red hot prison, burning like the fires of hell and tighter than my skin, I decided to keep the swimsuit on.

Although I was sure the free-thinking Frenchman with me would also disregard his swimsuit like a used tissue, he didn't. Whether he was trying to be polite and relate to the conservative American or whether he also did not want to toast his personal Eiffel Tower, he stayed clothed.

I think we read some, I think we talked for a while, I think we listened to music on our headphones. I don't remember much of the day at the beach anymore except a few moments. Lying on cots next to each other, Nicholo would occasionally reach over and stroke my back. Unprovoked and without words, he would just put his hand on my back and leave it there for a while. Time would pass, and I would open my eyes and see that he was laying beside me, just looking at me. He'd make a quirky face to forgo any language barrier, and we would share a smile. Time would pass and he would reach over and gently touch my face, letting his presence and affection be known. That is what I remember of our day at the beach. It was all so perfect still that those touches were the only things that proved to me that this was really happening.

By the end of the day, I was covering myself with a towel. I literally laid under th towel as if it was a blanket. Even though every 30 minutes, I reapplied sunscreen, I was certain I had developed immunity to it and that my cancer-hungry skin was soaking up the Grecian sun like a sponge. Italians can spend 8 hours nude on the beach and just turn a more beautiful shade of tan, but I knew Swedes like me can't take the risk. Thankfully, whether the foreigners I was with were either done or merely taking pity on the white American, we left Super Paradise Beach and headed back to the hotel to clean up and then go do dinner.

After a short time, Nicholo and Jojo appeared at my door, ready to go to a wonderful steak place they knew. Again, my American Eagle zip up sweatshirt/jacket and Gap thermal paled in comparison to the fashions being sported by the Frenchman and Italian. Nicholo wore a beautiful white fitted jacket, opened in the chest just enough to show off his beautiful diamond cross necklace and short (very short) drawstring hounds-tooth shorts.

Jojo took more of a pirate approach. His white linen shirt was pared with black horse-riding pants and knee-high, black laced, white boots. Not feeling the outfit was quite complete, he topped it with a white bandana decorated with black skull-n-crossbones. I guess for an island once attacked by pirates, it was an appropriate ensemble.

As we entered the winding streets, heading to our restaurant, people stared at him and whispered about him as he passed. But Jojo didn't notice. Or if he did, he didn't care. Jojo didn't give a fuck what people thought of him. And, I admired the hell out of him for that. I own hats and glasses that I never wear because I'm afraid what people will say. I should take a page out of the book of Jojo and not care. Why waste my time being concerned about what a person I do not know thinks?
We arrived at the restaurant and as with most places there, sat outside on their patio. Jojo took the lead and ordered a very nice bottle of wine and excellent steaks. Halfway through the course of the dinner, somehow, the mood and the main language changed. I'm not sure what provoked it or what was said, but all I knew was Jojo and Nicholo were having a heated discussion in French. There was some argument going on, but I have no idea what started it or what it involved.

Occasionally, Nicholo would apologize for being rude and speaking only in French. And, while never explaining what the argument entailed, he would merely mention that he was not being smart, he was a foolish dreamer, and Jojo was correct. Days later, I would think about that and try to make sense of it. While originally I did not think the French fight was about me, I wondered later if it was. If it did not involve me, why not just argue in English? Since it was in their language, I wondered if they were trying to keep me clueless… Was it about me after all?

Today, although I do not remember the words they used and still know no French, I like to imagine it was… I like to pretend that Nicholo was trying to think of a way to get me to Paris, to continue these special moments we found, and Jojo, the wise Italian, was explaining all the reasons it would never work. If that was the case, I have to agree that Jojo was right, but I just like to believe that I was not the only one projecting happy endings to this story… that I was not the only one routing for it all.
The bill arrived, and Jojo paid it. Still in a foul mood due to the French debate, he excused himself, and Nicholo and I were on our own again. We wondered the streets together and returned to the bars where we had been the night before. We ran into our German friends again, and we also bumped into a young American we met at the beach who was doing the whole "backpacking across Europe" thing—totally cliché, but still a completely enviable cliché. After conversations with them, we stopped off at the dance club that was having a Greek version of a drag show. While we waited for the show to begin, the owner of the club came over to talk with us… and by "us," I mean he came over to talk with Nicholo.

After introductions were made, he looked at me in my sweatshirt and he looked at Nicholo in his fitted white jacket and asked me in a snotty way, "You are dressed like this," he said to me with a crinkled nose, "and you are dressed so beautifully" he said to Nicholo admiringly. "Are you two together? Are you boyfriends?" he asked in disbelief.

Without a pause, without a moment of hesitation, Nicholo responded, "Yes, we are. He is my two-day boyfriend."

I smiled as the bar owner shrugged and walked away. Nicholo put his head on my shoulder (even though he was clearly taller than me). I put my hand in his hair and kissed him on the forehead.

"Merci," I said.

"We are," he affirmed. "You are my two day boyfriend."

Knowing there was no point in staying out late, and having been worn out by the sun at the beach, we headed back to the hotel… where nothing happened. We went to bed and slept. I guess in terms of a two day relationship, you have to reach the later, no sex stages of a relationship quickly, so the second night is equivalent to eighth year or so. So, like an old married couple, we just went to bed and feel asleep holding each other. Before the moment we nodded off, he looked me in the eyes, and in the thickest French accent possible, he softly said, "I love spending time with my two-day boyfriend."

We were tired, we were boring and it was completely uneventful… and entirely wonderful at the same time.

We woke up the next morning with the sun rising and my checkout looming. The complimentary breakfast was available, and Nicholo invited me to join him for it, but I didn't. My things were scattered around the room, and I needed time to collect my belongings (as well as my thoughts) before my ferry to Athens departed.

We stood there, facing each other. He, dressed in his clothes from our evening out the night before, me in shorts and a t-shirt I found on the floor. It was a moment I wasn't prepared for. Being on vacation, I was not thinking much beyond the next minute, so when the time came to say goodbye, I had nothing prepared. No final remarks, no plan. That is why a moment of awkward silence—the first one for us even with our moderate language barrier – weighed heavily.
We hugged, for a moment. Long enough to make it substantial, but brief enough to keep it from being melodramatic. We kissed, sweetly, slowly and softly. With foreheads together, he whispered, "I will miss my two day boyfriend." I replied, "And I will miss mine."

No numbers were exchanged. No email addresses were traded. No talk or empty promises of keeping in touch were offered. We loved the time, we adored the encounter, but without discussing it, we knew it was our moment… our beautiful moment in the woods.

And, he left. Out the door. Off to breakfast. Off to the world.

My travels continued. I was off to Athens. And, since, I have taken other trips and had other adventures. But, every day, inevitably, I think of Nicholo. An intriguing, French, beautiful man who was interested in me. Me. Just me.

Yes, the "relationship" had a shelf life of two days—shorter than a gallon of milk. Yes, he was not pledging forever. He only had to be "faithful" for 48 hours… Others would make nothing of it—just calling it an extended hook up.

And while I find myself a little more pessimistic every day (something I swore I would never be), I find this different. For whatever reason, I refuse to discard this as just a meaningless encounter. To me, it was more. I think, to both of us, it was more. I felt treasured by someone I could have only dreamed up. It was romantic. It was intoxicating. It was wonderful. Because of location. Because of his beauty. And, even because of its brevity.

Sometimes I dream of going to Paris and finding Jojo's antique store. I walk in, ringing the bell hanging over the door frame. Nicholo rounds the corner. Our eyes lock, and we embrace. Next there is a cut to the credits rolling over shots of me moving boxes into our Paris apartment with the perfect view of the Seines. Some sort of perfect ending to a romantic comedy.

But, then I think it would be too much. The time was amazing. The experience was perfect. Anything else would be too much. It would press our luck.

I left Greece with a shirt, a ring and some gorgeous pictures, but none of those souvenirs compare with the memories of Nicholo, ones that I fondly remember frequently and will treasure the rest of my life. My French two-day boyfriend.

So, that is why I smile when I see a picture of the Eiffel Tower.

That is why I feel comforted when I hear Le Vie En Rose.

And, that is why I always wonder about the weather in Paris.

the end

the weather in paris, part three

Part 3

Just as I was about to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming, I felt Nicholo grab my hand as we walked down the street. As surreal as these moments seemed, I felt him hold my hand, and I knew I wasn't dreaming. It was real.


Shortly after our walk began, we bumped into a group of four German men that Nicholo knew. They were friends and clients of JoJo. They quickly invited us to join them at their destination. After walking a short distance down one of the streets, we found ourselves at a smaller bar which had softer music making it much more conducive to conversation. It was crowded with an older clientele.


One of the Germans we encountered spoke excellent English. He had been in a relationship with an American for almost a decade and walked away with, not only their prize winning Lopso Opso, but also with a polished English dialect that could carry him easily through a conversation with the most American of Americans. His current partner, who as of that evening he had been with for 24 years, was British but spoke impeccable French (at least, I assume it was impeccable… not speaking of lick of French, I could not tell). While his partner and Nicholo said their ourves and sev u plez, I had my first, flowing English conversations with the German.


I was fascinated by his relationship with his partner and how they made it all work. In my experiences, it has been rare to find a gay couple that can celebrate 24 days, much less 24 years. He told me the story of how they met, the bumps they encountered during the stereotypical "seven year itch," and how they overcame them. It was a sweet and encouraging display of love between two men, but this is my story. If he wants to share it with you, he can write his own damn blog.
After a nice time with the Germans (one of the rarest phrases ever used in the world), we said our goodbyes to them, left them there and exited into the curving and purposefully confusing streets of Mykonos. Holding hands, we walked in silence.


Designed to lose pirates, we found ourselves lost in the streets. We knew where we were headed. We knew where we were going, but we took our time as we held hands and walked the winding streets. I could feel the breeze from the water which was not far away. I heard a mixture of the sounds of the surrounding ocean and the music from the various clubs we passed.


We were in no hurry. Our pace was slow. And, then we stopped.


I leaned against the outside wall of a closed shop, and looked at Nicholo. There in front of me was a nice and friendly guy. Even in his limited knowledge of English, he still was funny. He was cultured and traveled. And, as if that weren't enough, his olive skin, his dark hair and his blue eyes captured me. At that moment, looking at him, I couldn't help but smile. (As I sit here, months later, I can't help but still smile.)


That's when Nicholo leaned in and kissed me.


I couldn't tell you the name of the street. I couldn't tell you the time. And, I couldn't tell you the day of the week. But that is the most romantic moment of my life. Against the wall of a shop, in a winding street, on a beautiful night, with waves and music echoing throughout the air, on an island in Greece, I was kissed by a kind, funny, beautiful, French man.


It is a scene taken from a film. It is a moment stolen from a dream. But, it belongs to me. It is mine.


With any perfection, it eventually was interrupted. Moments of utter perfection cannot last too long in one place. It disrupts the universe.


To bring this bliss to an end, our German friends happened to be walking by a few moments after we had begun.


"Oh, now," he said teasingly. "Look what we have here. I thought you two had left to go to the hotel for the evening."


That is why we left, and that is what we did. We left that beautiful moment and returned to the hotel where we made a few more.


The next morning, we leisurely woke up and lazily began our day… the way it is done when someone is on vacation (or the way it is done every day on the island of Mykonos). Knowing the hotel served a light breakfast buffet, we called Jojo and headed to the patio to meet him for a morning meal.


Jojo was there in all his glory. Being an Italian who lives in France (would he be called a Italench? Frenalian?), his style was double European which can catch a Gap-shopping American like me off guard. There, at the breakfast table, sat Jojo, in a black, mesh tank top, black Speedos (with rhinestone trim) and black combat boots. My greatest acting challenge to date was going through the entirety of that breakfast as if his outfit was normal, as if I see someone in that every day.


We decided at breakfast that after quick preparations we would head to Super Paradise Beach.

Now, I grew up in Corpus Christi which is a stone's throw from South Padre Island. I grew up very near a beach. And, although I didn't often go, I knew enough about a beach to think there wasn't anything else to learn. "You seen one, you've seen them all." But, like the time I had too much to drink and thought calling me ex was a good idea, I was completely wrong.

Super Paradise Beach, an all nude, pebble beach, is worlds away from Padre Island.


We jumped into Jojo's rented Jeep and headed to our destination. With dance mixes blaring and the top down, we sped around the roads which had more curves then Marilyn Monroe. On the way, somewhere in the middle of Mykonos, we passed a Starbucks which electrified me with both a feeling of complete comfort and a mild sense of suffocation. Even paradise is not complete without a Starbucks.


Being my first time at a nude beach, I had no idea what to expect. Would it be filled with men who looked as though they stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue? Would there be more six packs here than in the finest trailer parks of Oklahoma? Would there be dance music playing so loudly that it shakes the sand? Would there be young men dancing and waving bright colored flags? Would there be some hidden cove where folks could go to "take a break from sun bathing?" The Jeep that carried us to the beach might as well have been a small prairie house from Kansas spinning in the funnel of a tornado. I knew I was about to land in a different land, full of color, beauty and the queerest things I had ever seen.


"Super Paradise Beach" might be over selling it just a little. I might suggest "Pretty Close to Paradise (Depending On The Day) Beach." We arrived and picked our spots. Before I could even spread out my towel and apply my first layer of sunscreen, Jojo had removed whatever mix of leather, mesh and metal he was wearing and had laid himself bare in his towel. Why I was mildly surprised is still beyond me. If Jojo could have shed his skin, I'm sure he would have. He's the type that even being naked wasn't free enough. He doesn't strike me as a person that likes any restrictions, be them rules of society, clothes or skin. But, with the limitations that humans are given, he chose that moment to be as free as we can physically be.


Now, I don't have to see people naked. Sure, there are a few that I wouldn't mind seeing in their birthday suits, but for the majority of the world's society, I can pass. But, certainly, if someone voluntarily gets nude in front of me, I'm going to at least glance. I usually approach it much like an eclipse. I mean, I don't carry around a shoe box with a hole punched through it, but I will look at the forbidden in brief intervals just to view something I rarely see—although I doubt Jojo being nude in public is a rarity.


All evidence points to the fact that this was not Jojo's first time at a nude beach. There was not a tan line to be found on the man. He was the same color brown from the top of his bald head to the tip of his toes. Probably to make up for the fact that his body was all one color, Jojo strategically accessorized with a few pieces of jewelry. I'm sure this helps certain part of the body stand out and not blend in with others (a danger of full body tanning, I suppose). Both of his nipples boasted rings to remind everyone of their existence. And, I would have been disappointed if he did not have a Prince Albert, but Jojo is certainly not one to disappoint. There, in the tip of his Little Jojo, was a ring big enough to hang house keys from. I could have spent the rest of the day asking him questions about it like, "How do you get through airport security?" and "Do magnet give you an erection?"


Realizing that staring is rude and could potentially get me sick, I turned my attention to settling myself. Once my towel placed, my chair properly positioned and the sunscreen applied, I realized I had a decision to make. Swimsuit or no swim suit?


to be concluded...

the weather in paris, part two

Part 2

When we arrived at the table, a man like none that I have ever met was waiting there. Completely bald but very tan, he wore a cream colored, light knit sweater and cream colored, well-fitted shorts. His feet sported knee-high, dark brown leather boots with cream canvas trim. In each ear, he wore gold hoop earrings that were bigger than rings but smaller than door knockers. He looked at my quizzically but pleasantly when I arrived.

"Hello," he stated. "I am Georgio." He offered his hand to me like a true Southern belle.
Like "Name that Tune," I tried to place the accent in four words, but I was drawing a blank.

"Georgio?" I clarified as I delicately shook his hand.

"Well, yes, Georgio but everyone calls me JoJo."

"I'm Chad."

"Nice to meet you, Chad," JoJo responded.

"Yes, nice to meet you," my friend from the bar said. "I'm Nicholo."

It occurred to me that I had not exchanged names with him. Here I had helped him through international negotiations over a turkey sandwich, and I never discovered his name. International protocol was not my strongest skill apparently.

"How old are you, Chad?" JoJo asked.

Wow, these Europeans get right to the point. But, I guess being the one that wears the dark leather boots with cream canvas trim gives you the right to ask the questions.

"I'm thirty-three," I answered.

"The same age as Jesus when He died," commented Jojo.

They know about Jesus? This is perfect!

In an effort to quickly change the focus, I asked, "How old are y'all?"

I wasn't sure if "y'all" would translate, but old habits die hard. You can take the boy out of his country but you can't take the country out of the boy.

"How old do you think I am?" Jojo not only knew an excllent amount of English, but he also knew games gay men play that apparently are global in nature.

"Oh, no," I said. "I hate to guess age. I'm horrible at it." It's true. I always find those age/weight guessing booths at amusement parks fascinating. Like walking through walls or morphing into different animals, guessing someone's age seems like a super power. Plus, his well-settled tan would throw even the best age-guesser off.

"I am 42," he said confidently.

"Okay, 42. That's great." And, it was believable. Yes, he was completely bald and looked older, but all of the severe tanning he has done make an old looking 42 a viable option.

Nicholo laughed.

"He's not 42?" I asked Nicholo.

"No, he is not 42."

JoJo gave Nicholo a playful slap on the arm and said something playfully scolding in French. "If you must know, I am 56 years old." He contributed this less confidently and slightly offended, making an adjustment to his sweater the same time. Apparently, a gay man's discomfort with growing older is a world-wide phenomenon.

"Fifty-six is great," I offered, although I didn't know what I meant. Was I saying that he looked good for 56? Was I saying I can't wait to be 56? Was I saying 56 years old is the prime of life when the best things happen? I'm not sure what I meant, but I'm pretty sure it was none of those things because I didn't I believe any of them.

"Thank you," JoJo replied with a nod. "How old is Nicholo?" he asked, pointing to his friend.
I looked at Nicholo who had been working on his turkey sandwich while I guessed JoJo's age. Even with his mouth full of his dinner, he still sported dimples when he smiled.

"No, seriously. I'm really bad at guessing age."

"Nicholo turns 24 tomorrow," JoJo said as a proud father as he patted my new friend on the back.
"Tomorrow is your birthday?"

"Oui," Nicholo answered, almost shyly.

"Yes, I brought him here for his birthday," JoJo said. "This trip is his birthday present."

"Well, Happy Birthday," I offered.

"Merci," Nicholo replied with another smile.

"He is 24 but acts like he is 40," Jojo joked.

"Oh, please, no," Nicholo quickly responded. "I am innocent," lifting his shoulders and hands in a shrug with a little pout on his face.

I gave him my one-eyebrow raise. "You're innocent?" I asked suspiciously. "A hot, young gay Frenchman is innocent?"

"Oh yes, I am innocent," he said, nodding like a child trying to convince an adult that he did not leave the Kool-Aid stain on the carpet.

I lowered my eyebrow and my mouth changed into crooked smile I give to someone I am smitten for. I kind of believed him.

The three of us continued to talk for another hour or so. I learned that JoJo was actually from Italy and moved to Paris several years ago. There, he owned a very successful antique dealership. Unlike the "Vote for Nixon" buttons or 1950's school desks I would find in antique stores here in the United States, he dealt with high-end, truly authentic antiques. With a store in Paris (where Nicholo worked) and another location in Cannes, his client base included Christina Aguilera's manager and Sean Connery's wife. It was clear that he was doing pretty well for himself.

Occasionally, JoJo and Nicholo would share an exchange in French. It was never too prolonged and sometimes was just an effort to translate a word from French to English, for my benefit. Finally, after the sun had set and Nicholo had finished his sandwich (of which he gave me a quarter), they spoke of their dinner plans. There seemed to be some negotiations of what they were craved. Finally when a decision had been made (Italian), they were on their way to their room to prepare for the rest of the evening.

"Would you like to join us for dinner?" JoJo invited.

The prospect of continuing the conversation with these strangers, these fascinating foreigners seemed infinitely more appealing than eating somewhere by myself. Plus, Nicholo was gorgeous. Some things don't require a wise voice over to help make the right decision.

"Sure. That'd be great."

And, it was. We separated briefly to prepare ourselves for dinner (but not being a well-versed world traveler, I had not brought different outfits for pre-dinner drinks and then dinner. As they added different accessories or layers to their look, I paced the room wondering how to keep Over Analytical American Chad out of this so that Fly-By-The-Seat-Of-His-Pants Globe Trotting Chad could have a good time. The knock came at my door. My head sharply turned to it. I have a Frenchman picking me up for dinner in Greece. I felt as though I suddenly was in one of those body-changing movies like Freak Friday and some other poor sap was on my couch eating a pint of ice cream while watching "Love Actually" with a cat on his lap.

"Are you ready?" Nicholo said when I answered the door.

READERS' NOTE: Seriously, whenever I write "Nicholo said," you might need to read it out loud in a French accent because I don't know about you but some guy saying to me "Are you ready?" in a French accent solicits the same response as putting a stick of butter in the microwave for a minute… I melt into a pool. Then again, if a guy said to me, "I've got a hairy, acne-covered ass" in a French accent, I still would melt. The French accent is a powerful aphrodisiac—my sexual kryptonite.

"Sure, let's go," I replied, acting as if something like this happens to me every day.

JoJo rented a sports utility vehicle, so the three of us loaded in and headed down to the same area of town I had staked out earlier in the day. The time it took to drive and park was the same as if we had walked, but being that JoJo still wore the canvas, knee-high boots with the dark leather trim, I'm sure the choice to drive was based more on comfort instead of timing… And being that they were European, I believe most of their decisions of life were based on these criteria. Fashion above function at all times. God love 'em.

JoJo selected an Italian food restaurant for dinner that evening. Having an Italian pick an Italian restaurant is quite a process, but by the time we were seated at our table (Nicholo to my right, JoJo across the table from him), I felt as if we were at the best possible restaurant on the island of Mykonos. You have not seen high maintenance until you have encountered a gay Italian, French-antique dealer.

I don't remember much of the dinner or of the conversation.

I remember overalls. Overall, the dinner was great. Overall, the wine was fantastic. Overall, the conversation was incredible and comfortable. But, through the vagueness of the food, the wine and the conversation, a few clear moments still exist.

One involved Nicholo asking me, the token American, what "Sacre Bleu" means.

"You Americans always think we say sacre bleu. 'Oh, no, something bad happened! Sacre bleu!' But we do not say this... It means nothing to us." Then letting his French accent grow thicker and thicker and thicker as if he was imitating another Frenchman, he said, "Sacre bleu! Sacre bleu! Sacre bleu!" Then, back to his normal voice, "Why?"

Not working for the United Nations, I had no answer... plus I was laughing because sounded so much like Lumiere from Beauty and the Beast.

Later, as we waited for our food to arrive, Nicholo again began to assert his innocent nature, claiming he truly was an innocent guy. He then started campaigning for his romantic nature as well. The conversation moved on to other topics. Later, while JoJo spoke in Italian to the manager of the restaurant, Nicholo took the small potted flower arrangement from the middle of the table and placed it in front of me.

"For you," he said. "I got this for you for this evening."

"Look at you," I said. "You are romantic."

"Yes," he replied. "I told you. I am very romantic."

My smitten smile returned.

After dinner, which JoJo paid for, we went to Porta. This was a gay bar like thousands of gay bars around the world – DJ playing the latest dance mixes with men carrying on conversations with their friends while eyeing the rest of the room. If a gay man could work his neck so that it could do a complete 360 degree turn like an owl to scan the room for hot boys, I believe he would. There are some places you could hold a meaningful, eye-to-eye conversation with a gay man; these places include anywhere there is not another man they find remotely attractive in the nearby vacinity. If you want a gay man to focus on what you are saying, have the conversation at a nunnery or a women's prison. Those are your best options.

When we entered, I could see it. I walked behind Nicholo and I could see the heads turn as he passed. He was like a water skier leaving a wake behind him. I've seen this phenomenon before with my very good looking friends. The irony is that most of them are unaware of their affect on the room (which makes them even more attractive). I've got to remember to start walking in front of people like this. It's as if the headliner of a concert goes first; no one stays around to see the opening act.

We stayed for one drink and then headed to our next destination, another bar where more people congregated and danced outside than actual in the bar itself. With the beautiful weather in Greece during June, it made perfect sense. By this point of the evening and this point of my alcohol intake, I had to find a restroom, so I went up to the bar to ask where I could find one. There tending bar was the same Australian lesbian from earlier at the hotel."This is a small island," she said. "You're going to be seeing me a lot."

This is it. I've landed in fairy tale (no pun intended). Somehow, I have a hot French Prince Charming and an Australian lesbian bartender fairy godmother. Not quite the glass slipper tale I had in mind, but I was not about to start complaining.

When I returned from the restroom, Jojo started his goodbyes. "I think I will go back to the hotel now," he said. "I am full and tired. But, I will see you tomorrow." He said a farewell to Nicholo in French, gave us both kisses and hugs and headed to his car. Too often, I still have the unrealistic notion that time freezes in other people's lives when I am not around. Months later, I realized a conversation occurred while I was in the bathroom and this was an intentional move of both of their parts.

With our chaperone now gone, we were on our own. I was on a date… in Greece… with a French man. I had to do a quick inventory. Was I still Chad Peterson? Was this the same boy that sucked his thumb until he was 8? Was I the same boy that grew up in Corpus Christi, Texas, spending all his free time with his church youth group? Was I the same boy who was scared to go away to college? Was this the same life I was leading? Did I skip tracks and jump into someone else's life? Did I fall into some dream sequence? Was this my life?

to be continued...

the weather in paris, part one

Originally posted on my myspace blog, I figured I would repost my weather in paris series both as a February sweeps stunt and as a reminder that there are a few moments in life when I think that Valentine's Day may have a purpose after all.

So, now, sit back and enjoy-- The Weather in Paris.
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I don't get the newspaper.

I mean, I get it. I understand the concept, but I don't have a subscription. I don't think I ever will. It's one of those things of adulthood that I never want to surrender to. As a preteen, I dreaded the day that my armpit hair would come in (had I known how little would appear, I would have told myself not to worry so much). As I grew older, I ferverently looked for apartments which had the washers and dryers furnished because the actual purchase of a washer and dryer is about as youthful and sexy as dress socks. And, any sort of investment of retirement seemed like such a waste of funds.

The day I have a daily subscription to the paper would be like the day Peter Pan moves out of Neverland and buys a house in the 'burbs.

But, when I do run across a paper, I love to check certain sections. I immediately, of course, look for the features/entertainment section, either looking for a review or picture of a production I might be performing in or the latest Hollywood/Broadway news. Then, for some unexplained reason, I check the obituaries. I'm too young to be looking for people I know, although sadly a few have been listed. Instead, I love to read over an obituary, seeing what a person did with his or her life and determining how long they had to do it all in. Who did they leave behind? Where do they want flowers sent? Does it say how they passed? It's fascinating because each obituary is a world in itself.

The last section I typically check is the weather. Naturally, I look over the local forecast as it has a determining factor on what I will wear the next day. Being in Texas, I always hope it shows cooler temperatures so I can break in to my sweater collection. I repeatedly say "Cold weather! Cold weather!" like contestants on game shows say "Big money! Big money!" Rarely do the numbers play in my favor and the rarely worn, fat-hiding sweaters remain in their Container Store bins.

Apart from the local forecast, I also like to take a look at a couple of other area weather reports.
Because I've visited Istanbul three times, I always like to see what the report holds for that city. I don't keep in touch with any of the people I knew there, but I just like to imagine the sites I saw and the people I knew getting around in this place that I love in the various weather scenarios.

The other weather report I like to check is Paris. I've never been there. I've had little desire to go, honestly. Sure, I'd like to see the Eiffel Tower and before my strong drive to avoid carbs, I would have enjoyed an authentic croissant or two. But, after my trip to Greece this past summer, I can't help but look to see what the weather is doing in Paris because now, I know someone there.

My best friend Kathy was working on the movie set of the sequel for The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants on the most gorgeous island of Greece, Santorini. For once having the wisdom to see a once in a lifetime chance when it actually happens, I knew that I needed to take advantage of this doorway into another part of the world and go visit her while she worked there. Sure, it was tempting to spend time some with my best friend on the other side of the world, but basically, I just liked having a free place to stay. So, I paid $1,200 in airfare so I could sleep for free on a couch. It's kind of like buying 12 bars of soap because you know you'll get the 13th bar for free. I mean, who needs all that soap? Regardless, the rationalization applied and I used it.

After five days on Santorini, I realized a couple of things. First, a beautiful island on the southern coast of Greece is a secluded, amazing and relaxing paradise. Second, paradise can be boring.

Kathy was working insane hours on the set and the only time I really saw her was when I'd swing by the filming. She might have a couple of minutes to whisper "how are yous" with me and complain about craft services, but then she would be called to tend to the bangs of an early twenties-something movie star that would see more money before 25 than I would see before death.

I found that although secluded, Santorini had excellent shopping, and not all of it was touristy crap. Or, if it was, it was Greek touristy crap, so very few people I know have it. Even still, after five days of shopping by myself down the same main street of this town, I began to know shop owners names. In one shop, Marie (at least that was what she allowed English-speaking people to call her for short) was very helpful, filling me in on all the gays that lived on the island. They both sounded very nice.

The mundane had set in – even in paradise. I needed a change.

In a very un-Chad-like move, I decided to change my plans and get a ticket for a ferry that would take me to another island off the southern coast of Greece—Mykonos. I had heard and read about this island. In my research, I had a strong and correct impression that there were more than two queers there, so I imagined it would be a welcoming and enjoyable destination for a couple of days in my Big Fat Greek Adventure. I decided to spend two days there and then catch another ferry for two days in Athens. I wanted to stay on the move to see as much of Southern Greece as I could.

When I arrived to Mykonos, I immediately went to my hotel to check in. It's not the first time I've stayed in a hotel by myself, but it is the first time I stayed in a hotel by myself in Greece when only one person in the world knew where I was. When I got to my room, I had to breath deep and syke myself up to get out again. It's rare to be in a completely different place, to not know anyone and to have no one know you. There's infinite freedom in those moments, and for people like me, infinite freedom brings the same fears as the thoughts of jumping out of an airplane or driving in New York.

Initially, I went into the entertainment area, where all the shops and bars were located. I wanted to get a "lay of the land" in the sunlight. The last thing I wanted was to be turned around and lost at night in a literal foreign land. I didn't know the phrase for "Where is my hotel?" in Greek, and I wasn't apt to learn it in the next few hours.

And, the more study I did during the day, the better. The street system of Mykonos (and the rest of the Greek Islands I've been told) is confusing. The pathways between the buildings are narrow and crooked. Each one was made identical with the same stone floor. It is hard to tell one way from another because they all looked the same. I was told that they were designed to be this confusing on purpose. In the days of the pirates, this system of confusing pathways and streets was designed by those that lived on the island to increase their chances of defeating invaders. Considering how confusing it was for me, a thirty year old with his Master's Degree, I'm sure it proved effectively boggling to those middle-aged pirates with no education... and the poor guys with the eye patches didn't have a prayer.

Once I had felt confident of the restaurants I would check out and the bars I would investigate, I returned to my hotel. Being that I was in a foreign land and on an island on which I knew no one, I planned the only one way I could grasp comfort. I booked my stay at a hotel that was known as an "all-gay hotel." When I initially arrived, I quickly asked myself what in the hell I had gotten myself in to. I had never stayed at an all-gay establishment. I was concerned about exactly what was expected of me as a guest. Still, I knew that I needed to find a safe haven, and being that I was going blind into this adventure, that was the best I could come up with. And, aside from having condoms as one of the hotel amenities along with a tiny bottle of shampoo and a shower cap, it was just a regular hotel.

Sitting at the hotel bar on the balcony on my return, I ordered glass of wine to watch the sunset. This was my first opportunity to see the other guests at my hotel. Whatever worries I had vanished. They were harmless. They were eclectic, from all over the world. I heard different languages, different accents, but in them all, I saw the characteristics of people I knew back home. There was the funny, larger, effeminate one. There was the older one that put his plastic surgeon's kids through college. There was the good looking, bitchy one, oblivious to the fact that someday, he too would be funding a doctor's child's education.

And, there was me, too shy to speak to anyone and content drinking his wine and hearing the soundtrack to a romantic comedy in his head. Isolated and almost in love with the romantic notion of being alone in such a beautiful place. Someone like me can find completeness in isolation and meloncholy.

Just then, a tanned young man with striking blue eyes and thick, dark hair walked up to the bar next to me. I tried not to notice because I could tell he was the type to always be noticed. He did not have an arrogant air about him… which is rare since most Europeans do. And, although he had not yet spoken, I knew he had to be European. His dark blue, v-neck sweater with a nautical feel is not what told me he was European; no, the point I was certain he was European was when I saw he wore short white shorts which revealed his toned, strong, tanned legs. As I recall all the details of how he looked in that moment, I realize that the attempts I made not to look at him, not to notice him, failed miserably.

In a heavy French accent, he attempted to communicate with the bartender behind the counter. Try as she did, the bartender, an Australian lesbian with short, spiky blonde hair, could not make out what he was saying. Having already developed a rapport with her when ordering my wine, I attempted to translate. I speak no French but I do speak Lesbianese.

"I think he wants to know if he can get a turkey sandwich even though the kitchen is closed."

"Oh!" said the Australian lesbian in a moment of enlightenment that few ever achieve in their life. "Sure thing, hon," she said to the nautical Frenchman.

"There you go," I said to him.

"Thank you," he said to me. Sure that would be the extent of our conversation, I redirected my focus to the sunset. He continued, "I'm afraid my English is not very good."

"It's a lot better than my French."

"Where are you from? America?"

"Yes… Texas, actually."

"Oh, yes… a cowboy. Like 'Brokeback Mountain.'"

"Yes, exactly," I said, my sarcasm was not quite translating. "Well, not entirely, no. I'm not entirely a cowboy, but I do have boots and I've ridden a horse." He smiled. Dimples so deep that I could bathe in them. "Where in France are you from?" I knew very little geography, especially European geography that specialized in France. If he didn't answer "Paris," then I would have no semi-intelligent response to give.

"Paris."

Thank you, God.

"Paris! Nice. I have never been there."

"Oh, it is beautiful." Have you heard a French man say the word "beautiful?" If not, you must. I think it is why the word was invented.

The Australian lesbian brought out his turkey sandwich with a side of fries. "Here you go. Charge to your room?"

"Oui, merci," he replied. He picked up his plate and crossed to the other side of me, on his way to his table. I thought my good deed had been completed for the day. I helped feed a French man. My work here was done, and I'm sure somewhere in Eternity, I earned some sort of reward. That would have to be enough for me.

"Would you like to sit at my table with me and my boss? He speaks much better English than I do. We could talk more."

A beautiful, young, tanned French man asked me to continue a conversation at his table during the sunset in Mykonos, Greece. In my mind, I went into a musical number from Sweet Charity made popular by Kathy Lee Gifford when she was panhandling cruises—"If my friends could see me now…" There were lights, backup dancers on the bar and a full orchestra. I wanted to take a picture with my phone and send it to all my friends (and enemies). I wanted to go back in time and tell the me that was so worried about being gay that one day, in Greece, a gorgeous French man would ask you to sit at his table; the struggle would not have dragged out so long.

With every ounce of my strength, I stifled all those responses, smiled and calmly replied, "Sure."

to be continued...