lost in translation

Note to self: it’s time for more French lessons.

My high school French has served me well enough over the years. When BC and I lived in Paris I managed to make it through the day with a smile and a pocket dictionary for times when my linguistic skills failed me. BC was fluent so he usually led the conversations and translated for me. From time to time I found that the French I was taught in high school wasn’t quite up to date. And this week it nearly got me in trouble.

I took GB to the building where BC and I used to live on Rue Saint Jacques in the Quartier Latin. The same boulangerie where I bought bread is still there in the same block. And the same ageless old lady is still behind the counter. It took her a minute but she recognized me. She flew out from behind the counter holding a baguette with arms outstretched to hug me.

I shouted “Come here old woman and kiss me!” in French ... or at least I thought I did. “Venir l'ici vieille femme et me baise!” But it turns out baiser isn’t kiss anymore in contempory French. Embrasser is the correct word for kiss.

Baiser is slang for fuck ... Who knew?

So “Come here old woman and fuck me!” stopped her dead in her tracks. Then she swatted me with the loaf of bread and shook her finger at me. Luckily she had a sense of humour and Anglo/Franco detente was restored.

Later that night in that same spirit of detente GB and I embrassé[d] and baise[d] our brains out.

If It's Tuesday,

This Must be Belgium … was a great old movie. It’s Wednesday and we are in Belgium but I’m stealing the title anyway. “I'm Europe, Baby. I sent you Dutch Elm Disease, German Measles, and Russian Roulette. You sent me World Wind Vacation Tour #225. Now we're even” was the movie tagline.

I’ve always hated the 21 cities in 14 days tours. And here I am trying to do that very thing so that GB can see as much of Europe as possible before I send him back to the US. I’m playing tour guide and we are in Brussels today, yesterday was Amsterdam, and tomorrow is Paris. After that it is Zurich, Venice, Rome, Barcelona, and then a few days in Sitges and Ibiza.

Jane is with her family in Leeds now. After GB leaves and she returns I’ve promised to help her pack. The move won’t be difficult. She’s only moving downstairs into the lower ground floor flat and I’m moving upstairs into the main house. I rented the house to them furnished so there won’t be much to move.

OK, times up. We are off to Planète Chocolat. If I never post again then it is true. There really is death by chocolate.

le plus de choses change, le plus ils restent pareil

The more things change, the more they stay the same. A million years ago when BC and I first visited London we happened upon Trafalgar Square. I was amazed by the number of pigeons there. It didn’t take long to understand why. People were buying bird seed from vendors and feeding the pigeons. BC decided to do the same so he bought a bag of feed and made the mistake of opening it close to his body. In a second he was covered by a mob of frantic pigeons. It was scene straight out of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. I snapped his picture while I burst out laughing. He kept yelling for me to stop which only egged me on. Finally the seed was consumed and BC was free. Then it was his turn to laugh. After all that commotion he was unscathed. Sadly, I was not. He pointed at my shirt and doubled over. I had pigeon shit on me. And thus a tradition was born.

Every time we returned to London BC demanded to go to Trafalgar Square to feed the pigeons and have his picture taken. I would reluctantly follow and take the photo. I have dozens of them. The only difference in the photos is BC's hair style and wardrobe. But there he stands, covered by flapping wings and grinning like an idiot. Incredibly history would repeat each time. BC would feed the pigeons and have his picture taken. Every single time I would get pigeon shit on me but BC would not. Every single time. Filthy fucking flying rats had it in for me.

I applauded Ken Livingstone, Lord Mayor of London, when he banned the bird seed vendors from the square in 2000. Later laws were enacted to restrict public feedings to early mornings. I thought I had been saved. But no, BC would buy bird seed and take it with him. So it continued, more feed, more pigeons, more photos, and more shit on Ray.

Since a trip to Trafalgar Square is a mandatory for tourists I took GB there yesterday. I posed him next to one of the bronze lions and took his picture. As he was standing there he started to laugh and then pointed at me. I didn’t need to look. I had been through it too many times in the past. I just reached into his backpack and took out the Handy Wipes. I might have changed the boy friend but the pigeons weren’t fooled a bit.

out of the mouths of babes

My cousin T, his wife, his daughter, GB, and I were lazing around the pool last evening. I noticed T’s daughter ME staring at GB for the longest time. Finally she turned to me and blurted out “Ray. Is GB your little boy?” Considering ME is 4 and her father is 64 while GB is 21 and I am 54 the question wasn’t all that strange. It did cause a lot of laughter. But it has caused me once again to question just what the hell I am doing.

earrings, earrings, ... which earrings?

OK, major musical trivia quiz because I’m bored and I’m just gay enough to know the answer.

On what original cast recording of a Broadway musical can you hear those lyrics? Name the musical, lyricist, song, and the character that sang them.

I can think of three bloggers that just might know the answer.

***Trivia Quiz Answer***

If you listen carefully to the original cast recording of Stephen Sondheim's A Little Night Music during the show stopping song Soon. Now. Later. you can hear Anne (Victoria Mallory) sing those words. You won't find it on any lyrics sheet. Now, everyone go stand in the corner. I still hold the title of the oldest gayest musical theatre queen. It also helped that I was in the audience opening night at the Shubert in 1973.

Houston sucks

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I hate Houston. My apologies to all Houstonians that love this city. This is my second trip to Houston for a funeral in less than a month. Houston just means death to me. My father, mother, BC, BC’s Mom, and now Paula all in a space of five years. I never liked the city anyway and now I hate it. I’ll be here until Thursday. Paula’s funeral is today and her memorial service is Wednesday.

Saturday GB, Sam and I fly to London. I need the break. Can’t wait to get back to Cranley Place. I’ve been talking to Jane. She’s asked if I want to trade. She doesn’t want the whole house now and would like to trade for the flat. That suits me perfectly, I would enjoy having the house for myself. So I said yes. I look forward to dividing my time between London and Tennessee. And nothing will drag me back to Houston. "Hear that Houston? You and I are finished."