The lads...
California girls, they're undeniable....
The story begins with a frustrated and disgruntled Little Apple, arriving at San Fran airport from New York after a big delay. I had no ride, no working cellphone and no address of where I was staying. My only plan was to buy myself a cookie from the vending machine. A cookie solves everything. And it did! As I fed my dollar into the slot, an American voice came over the speaker, asking me to come to carousel three. There stood my dearest Mackenzie, a friend I met in Vietnam who had offered to meet me in San Fran for some fun. Her and her friends had realised there was a delay and had come to get me. We were staying with her close college buds, people who by the end of the weekend, I would feel like I had known forever.
After a hot shower and the application of mascara I was ready to begin the adventure. Little did I know where the night would take me. The group of us started with dinner at a little French restaurant. Here, I indulged in steak tartar and pasta with muscles, shrimp and smoked salmon. After dinner we headed to an underground bar, created for discreetness during the prohibition. From the street it is just a door, but as you wander down the stairs a whole world opens before you under the city hustle. I noticed straight away that the men in San Francisco dress very differently to home. Dapper would be the best way to describe it; polished shoes, dinner jackets and pocket squares. The waitresses were wearing black cocktail dresses and they were beautiful. The bar was dark and cosy, a stage with heavy velvet curtains lay quiet. I imagined burlesque dancing occurring on such a stage during the mid-century. Sadly, on this night, the only action this stage would see was two drunk girls slow dancing under the down-lighting.
After cocktails, we decided to head out for a dance. I was informed that I was being taken to a place called Bootie, a bit of a crazy scene apparently. As we lined up for the club, the girls informed the bouncer that I was from New Zealand and they wanted to show me a good time. He looked at them quizzically and asked why they were bringing me to this place. Once we entered we realised why. The girls had got it wrong, we weren't in Bootie, we were in a bar down the street from Bootie, a bar with only men…men who were dancing with other men. It took me a while to click as I danced on the spot. I thought… ‘this place is great! Good music, nice club.’ Then I looked around and realised that there were no other females in the room and the majority of the men had their shirts off…and were dancing provocatively with one another. At this exact moment, the others were also realising that we weren't in Bootie. This was most definitely a gay bar. Whoops. To add to the hilarity of our mistake, we had just paid $75 in cover chargers to get in. The sympathetic bouncer laughed and refunded our cash. See ya lads!!
We had a good laugh as we wandered down the street. I think we probably would have had a great night at that bar and was sad to leave. But Booti was not in the mood to disappoint. I can honestly say I have never seen anything like it in my life. It was loud, seedy, dirty, dark and full of debauchery. It was amazing. It was a people-watchers paradise. On the stage, two men danced closely to each other with their shirts off and nobody around them even batted an eyelid. Along from these men, a small Asian lady danced like Madonna at the corner of the stage; a large gentleman in a loin cloth and a fluffy animal hat danced with a girl on a raised platform. Most of the people around us were on drugs and dancing as if their life depended on it, as the drag queen DJs delivered assorted mash-ups. The remainder of the room seemed to be making out. Against walls, on the dance floor...I had to interrupt a couple to get through the bathroom door. There was a lot of love in the club.
I’m sure some of you are thinking I have painted quite a vulgar picture of this bar, but the open nature of both New York and San Fran was refreshing. I realize that there are parts of the country that are not so liberal, but to see two men feel free to dance together in a straight club, or walk hand in hand though the streets of Brooklyn was lovely. It also showed me, that although New Zealand is right up there with some of the less traditional countries and always striving to be a progressive little place, we still have a long way to go until people can truly feel free to be themselves in public, without creating unease for those around them. What struck me about Botti, in all the ferralness, was the realisation that everyone in this room felt comfortable to be themselves, well, with pharmacological aids of course. And best of all, nobody around them gave a shit. What a night!
On the topic of showing your true self, I managed to do just that the next day as we biked across the Golden Gate Bridge. My first rookie mistake was wearing a summer dress. As the forecast for home was snow-magedon, I was wearing all of my summer clothes for as long as I could before they were stashed away for another five months. About half way across the bridge we stopped for a photo op. But this certain part of the bridge was like a wind tunnel. As soon as I hopped off my bike, my dress blew up. I had a little Marilyn Monroe moment; however, much less graceful as my dress blew over my head. I tried to salvage some dignity in front of my new friends and hold the front of my dress down, but the back blew straight up in the air. My rear-end was exposed to the streams of cars crossing the bridge at that moment. I couldn't get my dress to stay down, no matter how hard I tried! I ended up sitting down on the ground. It was all I could do. As I recalled this moment to Mum on the phone, later all she could say was “I hope you were wearing nice underwear at least?”
As I attempted to stand again, the girls came to my rescue and formed a little circle around me to keep me from being exposed. At that moment, a cyclist who wasn't looking, over did it on the breaks and hit the pavement right in front of us. It all happened so fast. Strutting the Golden Gate in my underwear may not have stopped traffic, but it lead to cyclist road kill instead (they were actually fine). Not my finest moment, but it made Mackenzie’s trip.
The following day, Mackenzie’s friend consoled me…‘don’t worry, it only became illegal to be naked in public here four months ago, before that you would see some guy walking his dog, completely nude. Now they have to wear a little sock on it. So it’s nothing San Frans haven’t seen before’…saving grace I guess.
Both San Francisco and New York surprised me. I never expected to feel so at home in those cities. A lot of the time the world watches on and criticises the extremes of America; accuses them of being over-the-top or ridiculous. But I just loved the openness and liberal ideas of San Fran. On my trip I experienced a place where freedom carries a whole new meaning. Freedom to be yourself, express your desires and expose your private parts in public.
Much love XX
Pic of Bootie (from google images)
