Being a homo is not all fun and games. While to most it may seem like a lifestyle full of swanky gyms, lavish vacations, sexual escapades, and eventually a luxury town home complete with 2 dogs and/or a newly adopted ethnic baby, it can also be quite challenging. Growing up in a South American household has many advantages, but being gay is certainly not one of them. As a young kid, my parents frequently took our family to their respective countries every year. Upon deplaning, not only were we met with loads of extended family members and oppressive heat, but we were also the subject of every single family member's criticism. On more than a few occasions, we would be called fat which, to the despair of my sister and I, became the common theme for our extended vacations down there. Since my parents so frequently found it necessary to take three obnoxious kids on 12 hour flights to their homelands, we were able to form quite a few friendships with the kids of my dad's former high school buddies.
One summer, my parents decided it would be a good idea to send my brother Luis and I to Paraguay to stay with my aunt and uncle for three months. I was 11 at the time and my brother was 15, so my parents saw this as the perfect opportunity to deal with fewer kids in the house for 3 months. Since my sister was only 7, the lucky bitch got to stay home. My brother was excited to go since he had convinced my parents to enroll him in a soccer league for the duration of those 3 months. Because of this, my mom had also brilliantly decided that my chubby ass would benefit from tennis clinics at the local country club near my aunt and uncle's house 4 days a week. As a fat little boy with few friends, being sent to Paraguay for 3 months and forced to play tennis and spend time with my dickheaded brother sounded about as appealing as a sleepover with Michael Jackson.
When the day finally arrived, I started to worry at the outcome of this trip as my parents sent us down the jet-way, armed with a fanny pack and full of fear that my brother would somehow purposefully place me on the wrong flight during our connection in Miami. My fear became real as he turned to me and said, "Listen asshole, don't annoy me or cry for mommy and nothing bad will happen to you. In fact, let’s try not to speak until we get there." I immediately imagined myself stepping off a plane in some remote African country carrying nothing but a fanny pack with my passport and twenty bucks in cash. I would fend for myself by selling Chiclets on the streets and washing windshields at stop lights with all the other children. If I worked hard enough, I could eventually afford a mud hut where i would reside by myself and study the language and culture of my local village. After sometime, I would force my way into the inner circles of my new society and take over as king or tribes leader and live happily ever after in spite of my asshole brother. Nevertheless, the tears flowed down my cheeks as the plane took off and left DC in the distance.
Within the first two weeks, I had managed to successfully ditch my tennis clinics by convincing my aunt that I would be much more useful at home with her discussing soap operas and getting the housekeeper to teach me her best recipes. I also didn’t have much of a choice, as halfway through our stay my brother and some of my so-called "friends" convinced me it would be a good idea to play goalie during numerous mini soccer matches. Needless to say, I ended up with a broken left wrist as a result of my brother shooting towards the goal with the force of a German firing squad while pretending to be David Beckham. Exactly one week later, my right wrist broke during a separate attempt at me playing soccer against my savage brother. Left with two useless arms, I could barely dress myself or do much of anything, really, but at least I gained culinary experience and watched every soap opera that existed during the summer of 1996. My parents are still convinced it was a great experience, but they're also half-buzzed as a result of their daily wine consumption so what the hell do they know anyway?
As we got older, our trips to South America came with a price: about 2 months of serious anxiety thinking, "Holy shit I have to lose 40lbs and buy new clothes and bleach my teeth so I'm not criticized and ridiculed by my supposed 'loving' family and friends". My sister Daniella and I would starve ourselves in an effort to look good, but it never seemed to be enough. Luis, of course, being the ever-perfect athlete and social superstar, could down 10 burgers and some slurpees the week before leaving yet somehow manage to retain abs. He looked, talked, and behaved like an asshole so that became my preferred method of addressing him.
For these reasons, I grew quickly nervous upon receiving an email from my childhood friend in Paraguay informing me that she was getting married. As I sat and pondered the absurdity of a culture in which marriage (of course only between a man and a woman) and reproducing were an essential part of your 20's, I decided it would be an interesting experience to go back and see some family and friends that I hadn't seen in over 5 years. Given my track record of venturing to foreign countries alone, I decided upon visiting Buenos Aires for a few days before heading to Paraguay to be called fat and ugly and have every last droplet of self-esteem completely pulverized. The following is an account of some of my time in Buenos Aires that I chose to re-cap while sitting in a random cafe:
I'm in a rustic cafe in Buenos Aires that smells funny - a bit stale if not reminiscent of the cafeteria inside a nursing home. I'm not sure what brought me to this particular one, but I'm thinking the name "Cafe Pretty” had something to do with it. Maybe I’m feeling particularly pretty today. It's March and it's hot and I've been sweating nonstop for the past 4 days, so how I can feel so good beyond all that is astonishing to me.
There are smells and sounds and an energy in Buenos Aires that are difficult to describe, but it reminds me of my childhood. I still remember always feeling hot and uncomfortable as a kid, a lot like I've been feeling these last few days. The difference is that now I feel slightly calmer, as though the nuisances of life like heat and traffic and crowds aren't quite as bothering to me. Don't get me wrong, this particular hostel I’m staying in is equivalent to sleeping on the surface of the sun, which makes me cranky and mean to all those around me. In fact, I've had to apologize for not being as friendly as I could have been to this one British girl but I blame the excessive heat and the fact I have to walk up 6 stories of steep stairs to get to my room.
As I walk around this city, I see how different people’s lives are. It's funny how at home I'm consumed by my own problems that many would classify as "petty". I’ve come to realize that although that may be true, everyone’s problems and hardships and hurdles are relative, and they are their own, which actually doesn’t make it petty at all. While I know that the woman sleeping on the streets with her kids's idea of a bad day is not having enough money to eat, while mine is "Why won’t this asshole that I like text me back?" they're both a cause of anxiety for each of us. It's stupid and trivial, but it's true. Both of these instances can be portals towards anxiety and unhappiness which, ultimately, are no different for either me or that woman. We all just want to be happy in the end, right? Of course in my experience, drinking heavily and dancing like a douche bag to "Top 40" songs tends to help.
In a city of nearly 20 million, I still feel as though I'm a part of the energy. I don't feel lonely the way I often might when I’m at home. I like the honking and the diesel smoke and the street performers and the mopeds and the smell of food cooking on the streets- it's so different from what I’m used to that it makes me feel strangely alive- aside from the overwhelming smell of urine, which is something I can't seem to escape in DC or any major city. It's incredible how going out of your own comfort zone can change your perspective and mood and outlook on whatever it is that made you feel uneasy in the past. For me, it seems as though each time I travel to a new country, it's because I'm running away from something or someone that caused me to be uneasy back home. I can't help but think this is the case once again. Maybe it's just my denial, but it seems as though my worries and anxieties and insecurities and fears seem to disappear when I'm experiencing something new, so perhaps I just find myself craving that necessary break from time to time. I haven't felt as care free and happy and, most importantly, present in the moment as I've felt in the past few days.
Last night, I went to a floating casino where my friend Chrissy and I spent hours on the slot machine, winning and losing and winning only to ultimately lose. There was one point where Chrissy and I had tried to re-enact a real life scenario of her very overweight stepdad consuming shrimp at an all-inclusive buffet, but when I attempted to exclaim, "This shrimp is DELICIOUS!" in my nasally obese-man grunt, Chrissy was roaring like a hyena so loudly that I spit some of my wine onto the shoes of an old Argentinean woman, which nearly got us escorted off the premises. No matter where in the world I am, I've come to thoroughly enjoy the unmistakable look on a local's face that inevitably conveys the world's superb annoyance with loud and obnoxious Americans.
Chrissy is actually one of my sister's friends that came to Buenos Aires for study abroad in college and, like any other American girl, found a boy and fell in love. That was over two years ago and she hasn't been back since. It seems strangely similar to my love story in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, except I'm assuming Chrissy's now fiancé, Pablo, is not a stripper or a hooker. Maybe I just don't quite know how to pick them.
In this cafe I'm sitting at, I ordered a really grotesque chicken sandwich that tasted dry and, frankly, offensive. To make up for it, I've ordered a chocolate frappucino with extra syrup and 2 non-diet Pepsi's, and I can say with strong conviction that I’m enjoying every calorie induced sip. I've come to find that the key to enjoying any trip is to make the best out of the situation you're in because it's the only thing you can really do. My hostel advertised air conditioning and comfortable beds, but what I've gotten is quite the opposite. My room is at least 90 degrees and their idea of AC is a ceiling fan, an open window, and a cheap white towel you can rent and use at your leisure to wipe the sweat dripping from your now entirely unattractive body. But what can you do? Besides sleep half naked of course. Or find a stranger at a bar to go home with. I can only laugh and remember that I've paid approximately 16 dollars a night, so in the end the lack of AC won't kill me - although it might accentuate my ass hole-like tendencies. After all, I'm only human and even under the best of circumstances I can be a real dick.
My life at home seems so consumed by money and promotions and social networking and meetings and conferences and dealing with people you want nothing to do with, that it's such a refreshing thing to be able to travel 14 hours by plane and experience only the things that YOU yourself want to experience. Even if that means sweating your balls off in a third world country. There’s so many tango shows and comedy shows being advertised and, yet, I haven't gone to one. At first I felt a bit guilty because everyone says, "You can't leave Buenos Aires without experiencing a tango show". Really? Well, I am. I don't want to see two people dancing far better than I ever could, so I'm deciding not to. And guess what? I don't give a fuck. I'll just watch Dancing with the Stars on TV and pretend I saw a tango show. I've done what I've wanted to do in these past 4 days, and that's more fulfilling to me than getting ripped off watching a tango show and eating the all inclusive dinner by myself. I'd rather go to a local bar and enjoy a few drinks, or sit in a cafe and continuously lie to strangers about where I'm from.
I’m constantly finding that when you travel alone, it's the only time in life when you'll be truly free to do whatever you want. Don't let yourself get caught up in what others say you should be doing or seeing; make the experience your own. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that. I spend far too much time at home and at work having to answer to the likes of others, so do what pleases you. The only thing that’s truly universal when traveling is this:
Watch your shit closely; these foreign fuckers like to steal.
Having had a fulfilling trip to Buenos Aires, I made my way to the airport for the quick flight to Asuncion, Paraguay where my mom, dad, and Luis would be waiting for me. Before this trip I had promised myself that I wouldn't lie. What I mean is that my friends and family in Paraguay don't know I'm gay. This seems to beg the ever popular "Do you have a girlfriend?" question that always comes up. Whether it's my grandmother, her neighbor, a friend, a cousin, or the cashier at a grocery store, the question never escapes me.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" my grandmother asked, as I made my way out of the international arrivals hall with my bags. "No, I'm enjoying the single life right now where I can drink beer and sleep around", I replied, as I leaned in for a hug. I noticed a smile across her face as she held my face close. "That's great. I'm so proud of you!" she exclaimed and kissed my forehead. The irony that my grandmother is more excited about me whoring myself out to women rather than confirming any type of committed relationship with another man is not lost on me. But, I didn't lie. I just chose not to specify that not only do I enjoy drinking beer and possibly sleeping around, but I also like to add hard liquor, an occasional joint, and men into the scenario. This is the same approach I took when the same question was asked of me by at least 40 different people. "Do you have a girlfriend?" they'd ask. "God no! Who needs to be tied down at an age like this?!" I would reply, all the while thinking to myself that being tied down wouldn’t be so bad if it was done in the literal sense, with silver handcuffs, a leopard skin blindfold, some sort of edible paraphernalia, and carried out by a charmingly exotic Brazilian soccer player with a penthouse in Rio.
Nevertheless, Paraguay is an interesting paradox to me. People there can be the friendliest and most welcoming people on earth. Until, of course, they find out you just happen to be a homosexual. It's not that I was scared to tell anyone, but I kept it to myself out of respect for my dad. My dad is very much a laid back, quiet, and private person. Sure he is constantly telling terrible jokes at dinner parties, ordering the world’s most indestructible wallet off an infomercial, or telling people what a great deal he got on a fake Rolex he illegally purchased in Italy, but in general my dad is not one to air the dirty laundry. So, I kept it to myself. My brother, Luis, however, found it incredibly necessary to bring up the subject of my gayness at various times throughout the trip. "Wasn't it funny when that girl wanted to go home with you last night but couldn't because you like men?" he'd ask, as my parents sat with my grandmother and awkwardly downed their respective glasses of wine as though they were tequila shots. It felt strange being back to a place I was so familiar with, yet so out of place. I was worried I would have a harder time trying to blend in this time around, as through the years I’ve become increasingly more comfortable with whom I am. The trick was to keep reminding myself that, while I may be a homo, at least I’m not a clan of crazy people like most of my family in Paraguay. To say that they’re eclectic is putting it mildly. My grandmother's side is particularly entertaining to me, as it consists of her 80 yr old womanizing brother Oscar, who has fathered about 10 kids with 10 various women, her crazy younger sister Gloria, who shits her pants constantly and pulls all her hair out and refers to her husband as “that cheating old bastard with a tiny useless dick”, and lastly her youngest sister Delia, who decorates her apartment with various artifacts including kitten statues, bird cages, and an abundance of colorful lamps. Every trip my family has ever taken has involved collecting some sort of artifact or peculiar object requested by my great aunt Delia. One summer when I was 14, my parents took us to Machu Picchu for the first time. While most other tourists and families seemed enthralled by the history and magic of an ancient Incan civilization, my family was too busy breaking into pairs and scavenging the grounds of the former Incan empire in search of the perfect rock and clump of soil that my great aunt Delia had so adamantly requested. "I need the rocks and soil so I can re-balance the astrological energy field in my house" she pleaded to my dad. "My pets are getting sick and Machu Picchu is the only place where you can find the remedy.” When I was younger I wanted nothing in the world more than a Power Wheel convertible, but my dad turned me down every Christmas until I became too big and fat to fit in one. Have a crazy old woman ask for a pair of rocks and some soil from a faraway land, and suddenly my dad has the whole family on all fours stealing ancient Incan artifacts to smuggle across the border.
As I arrived to my grandma's house, I set down my bags and entered the kitchen, where my great uncle Oscar was sitting. "Wow Andres, you are looking pretty big. How will you ever get married that way?" It had been at least 5 years since the last time I saw him, and those were the first words out of this bastard's mouth as he sat ominously, wearing fake black Oakley sunglasses that he uses primarily to shield others from seeing him check out anything armed with a vagina. "Nice to see you too" I replied, trying my best not to show utter annoyance. "And not to worry, I’m not legally eligible to get married in the states anyway" I continued. There's something innate in my personality that forces me to fuck with the elderly, particularly ones I'm related to and don’t really care for. Something akin to what I refer to as “eldery teurettes”, where I can't control the snark remarks that spew from my mouth. "What do you mean not legal? Are you trying to marry a black girl or something?" he asked. "Sure, something like that" I smiled. "Is there vodka in that freezer?"
The next few weeks were filled with quite a few awkward encounters at various bars and clubs with my friends and Luis, as I was constantly pressured to approach random girls to flirt with and, eventually, engage in some sort of awkward intercourse. Every time I ventured out, my friends would time and again tell me to approach various females while, simultaneously, Luis would be hovering close by and laughing hysterically to himself while pretending to suck a fake dick like the giant asshole he is. I reminded myself that I had come to see my friend Laura get married, and that I needed to just get drunk and enjoy the time I had with my friends. Things were made a bit more awkward as the last time I had visited Paraguay five years before, it was no secret that Laura (whom I refer to as “Lala”) and I had mutual crushes on one another. Mine wasn’t so much a crush as it was an excitement over the fact that I found a female friend in Paraguay who could be just as inappropriate and bat shit crazy as me. Lala is the type of girl who will flash her tits to a random stranger while walking out of a NYC subway just to confuse the person and leave them wondering whether the event was real or just a temporary figment of their imagination. It’s exactly something I would do if I carried a pair of D-cup breasts. Because of our special relationship, people often times approached me with pity, asking me if I was happy to see Lala getting married while reminding me how great of a guy her fiancé really is. This, of course, created a lot of confusion in my mother’s mind as she began to reminisce on my earlier years spent hanging around Lala. “Remember how cute you guys were together? And how much fun you guys had when you met up every weekend in New York? Don’t you think your attraction for her was just a little bit real?” she’d ask, with a glimmer of hope evident in her tone. “Yeah mom, it was a blast. But let me explain it to you this way: my relationship with Lala is similar to my relationship I have with a bacon cheeseburger. I enjoy the idea of it, but eating one often times leaves me feeling sick”, I replied. My mom glared at me, took a sip of her wine, and sarcastically replied, “Ok I get it, just making sure I understand that’s all”. “What’s not to understand?” my dad interjected, looking over at my brother who was sitting on the couch holding up his donut and mouthing the words “donut puncher” with a huge smile on his face. “Clearly he’s not into the egg McMuffin, so just let him stick to sausages if that’s what he likes” continued my dad, in an obnoxious attempt to find the perfect opportunity to insert one of his jokes. I couldn’t help but appreciate the humor and utter stupidity of that entire conversation as I grabbed my suit and prepared to see my alleged childhood girlfriend walk down the aisle.
Read the rest of the chapter and more when the book comes out!
-Andres
Are you seeing another black chick?
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