I discover the power of paella and give tribute to the first drag queen I ever watched perform.

By James C. Hawkins | September 3, 2023 | 45-minute read

As I put the finishing touches on my out-of-office reply, I paused briefly to watch a rare passing cloud slowly drift in front of the sun. When I work from home, I like to spend the afternoon propped up on the couch next to my large windows that open to Calle Francisco Silvela. I sipped the last few drops of the cold brew coffee Jonathan had prepared for me earlier and slowly closed the lid of my laptop. I let out a gentle sigh and relaxed my jaw.

My two-week vacation had officially started and I intended to savor the brief time off I had planned. There had been so much that I had wanted to do since moving to Spain, so many places I had wanted to visit, but hadn’t gotten the opportunity.

First, I was planning to take the train to Barcelona to meet up with some American friends who had previously been my coworkers. They were meeting in the Catalonian capital, and I decided to crash the party. There, I also had plans to meet up with my Spanish teacher who had been giving me virtual lessons over the past three months. After, I would travel to Sitges, a beach haven, for a few days to soak up the sun and lay by the pool.

But, before this adventure could embark, my friends, Juan and Analia, had invited me to a rooftop drag show at the Axel Hotel in central Madrid.

It was just a short ride on the Metro from my house to the venue, so I took my time getting ready. If you come to Madrid, you want to try to avoid the month of August. August is the month of perpetual sunlight and heat, and with everyone being on holiday, the city is mostly empty, and many businesses are closed. This is the time that most western Europeans take off for vacation, which is a brilliant idea in my opinion. If everyone takes off at the same time, the amount of work that is missed goes down tremendously.

I walked up the stairs of the Metro to be greeted with an orange sky and impressive Spanish gothic architecture in the part of town known as ‘Sol.’ I paused to inhale the moment when I noticed that I could not see a single cloud in the sky as I had witnessed earlier. ‘That’s odd,’ I thought. In fact, something that is not mentioned on any of the ‘What to expect when moving to Madrid,’ websites is that Madrid does not typically have any cloud cover.

As I made my way to the Axel Hotel, a string trio made up of two violins and a cello, performed for a small crowd of passersby. I heard the unmistakable tune of ABBA’s iconic song, ‘Mamma Mia’ echo from the bows of the players. I cracked a smile and started to sing the lyrics.

‘Ive been cheated by you since I don’t know when…’

‘So, I’ve made up my mind, it must come to an end.’

‘Look at me nowwwwww, will I ever learn? I don’t know howwww…’

Just then, I crossed paths with a group of older aunties who finished the rest of the lyrics for me. We all laughed together and shared a smile. My mood was extremely tranquil, and I became aware of it. It was the first time that I felt fully syncopated with the vibrations of the city, and it made me optimistic.

I arrived with open hands to meet up with Juan and Analia. I have written about Juan before, but not Analia. She stood about a head’s length shorter than me with bright beige skin and dark eyes. She was born and raised in Guatemala, had lived in the United States for some years, and then moved to Madrid with her mother to experience a more European lifestyle. I had met her mother previously and she had showed kindness to me in a way that a stranger like myself didn’t deserve. Although, I do not remember her name.

Juan and Analia spoke perfect English, but they made a point to speak to me in Spanish because they knew I needed to practice. When I didn’t know how to say a certain sentence or phrase in Spanish, they would listen to me say it in English and tell me what the correct phrase should be. Would someone in the United States be so patient for someone learning English?

After some greetings, we made our way up to the rooftop and were presented with a sunset view of Madrid’s skyline. Instead of tall skyscrapers, most buildings in Madrid don’t rise above 7 floors. This meant that there were no other buildings towering over us for the show, only a clear sky, unobstructed by clouds, and the orange gradient of the sunset.

The crowd gathered and the show started. The queen stood in her demure silhouette. The costume wasn’t all that complicated. She was wearing a pink bathing suit with a unicorn wig to commemorate the opening of the Barbie movie in theaters. Drag shows in the US are typically made up of a cast of four performers that will go in a line up, do one song at a time, and it consists of about 8 performances. In the middle of the show there is a host that will speak to the crowd and keep the energy up while the other performers change costumes and prepare for the second half.

In Spain it’s a bit different. Most shows that I have been to have one performer on stage for about 30 minutes and they do a mix of hosting and performances. Part of me expected this show to have several performers, but to my surprise, it was just her for the entire time. It felt nice to be outside in the amazing weather sharing an experience with new friends.

The performer danced and sang, but after a while, I caught myself staring across the skyline. ‘What a great experience this is,’ I thought to myself. I have seen nearly 1,000 drag shows in my life and so participating as an audience member felt entirely too familiar. I peered down at my glass and the contentedness I felt slowly drifted into melancholy.

This is nothing like the first time I watched a drag show.

Before I go into this story, I want to say that in the past I have been known to have a flare for exaggeration but writing these blogs has been an exercise in brutal honesty – with you and myself. Which means, that everything that I write about truly happened in the way that I remember them. No romanticizing. No dramatics. Just brutal honesty so that someday, when I am older, I can look back and remember this time in my life in an authentic way. So, as I tell you this story from my past, I am telling it to you in the way that I remember it 13 years after the fact.

The summer I graduated from High School, but before had I started college, was the most influential time of my life. Through my church’s youth group, I had started attending a bible study at Morehead State University’s Wesley Foundation. There, I met the worship leader named Josh, who was gay, and introduced me to his friends who were also gay.

These were the first ever queer people I had ever met. For so long, I had felt that having a relationship with God and being gay could not exist simultaneously. However, this crew had come to terms with their sexuality in a way that didn’t affect their religious beliefs. This blew my mind and the simple act of meeting them changed my life forever.

That being said, I don’t remember any of their names. They knew something about me that my parents, best friends, and pastor didn’t, which made me connect with them in a very intense way. So, when they invited me to come with them to a gay bar in West Virginia one night, I did not refuse.

I made up a story to my mom that I was staying over at my friend Mark’s house. I spent a lot of time with Mark and my other friend Caleb, and to my advantage, my mother trusted them implicitly. We lived slow lives where the most exciting thing we were known for was playing computer games until 6 in the morning. I never missed curfew. I never went where I wasn’t supposed to. And, I never lied. For so much of my life I had done exactly what I was told but, as we all do, I had to make my own way in the world.  

It was the biggest lie I had ever told my parents, and I was petrified of what would happen if I was discovered. I climbed in their old beat-up car with three, almost, perfect strangers to drive an hour and a half to the club that was located just across the Kentucky border in West Virginia.

We stopped for gas in Olive Hill, Kentucky, and I contemplated getting out of the car and going back home. I was petrified because this was more than just a wild rebellion of youth, but a crossing of a threshold.

We got back in the car and moved closer to West Virginia. They cracked the windows a bit so they could smoke their Marlboro lights and I felt the tepid mountain air blow across my face. I relaxed my grip. It was the summer of 2010, ‘Love the way you lie’ by Eminem and Rihanna had everyone in a chokehold, and the driver made sure to blast the song the entire way to the border.

When we arrived, the nerves had finally passed and replaced with cautious excitement. The entrance was situated in an alleyway behind the main road and was completely hidden from public view. This was intentional as to keep its patrons safe from unwanted on-lookers or violence. It was the first time I was confronted with the reality of the hardship that comes with living openly gay.

We entered an unassuming building and I remember seeing the biggest disco ball of my life cast its glow around every corner of the room. However, the room itself appeared to be empty and I remember feeling some anxiety because of it. There was one man seated next to the bar who was already three sheets to the wind and I stared at him for a long time. This was the first time I had ever seen someone drunk. The air was hazy with a mixture of smoke and steam, and it had a stale odor. In its muck and mire, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I was offered a drink, but I refused.

The crew I had arrived with started hugging some other people and we became a caravan that exited to the patio. Where the interior of the bar was devoid of human activity, the patio was lively and full of noise. It was standing room only, so I found my way to a corner and held up the wall with my back.

‘Boyyyy you are a whiter than a ghost,’ A nasally, high-pitched voice said as it dropped out of the void. It had an unmistakable Appalachian twang.

‘Who, me?’

‘No, the albino standing next to you.’ The voice said, sarcastically.

My eyes came into focus to find a young drag queen decked out in all sequins. She stood a couple inches taller than myself and when she spoke, she peered down her nose at me. She wore a long, silky, blonde wig and her eye shadow was thick and dark.

‘Well, I aint never seen you here. What’s your name? Or, do I just call you Casper?’ She quipped coarsely while taking a draw from her Camel Crush.

Petrified, I responded, ‘I’m-m-m J-j-j-ames.’

‘Well, hello Mister James, I’m Aubree, but my mom calls me Patrick. Nice to meet you.’ I held out my hand to shake and she looked at it for a moment and then reluctantly grabbed it with a smirk. I assumed most people Aubree had met in this establishment did not extend their hand to her.

I was mesmerized by her presence. I mean, I could count the number of gay people I knew on three fingers, but here I was looking at what I believed to be an angelic alien creature that was dropped in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains.

‘Is it your first time here?’ She asked in a more cordial and relaxed tone.

‘Is it that obvious? My mom doesn’t even know I’m here.’ I responded. Why did I feel the need to tell her that? I thought to myself.

‘If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that on this patio…’ She took another puff off her cigarette and blew the exhaust out of the right side of her mouth.

Aubree had been born in Middlesboro, Kentucky. I am hazy on the full background of her story, but from what I remember, she told me that she had had a biological mother, who she was still in contact with, and two other adopted parents. At the time when we met, the relationship with them was non-existent. Aubree was just two years older than me and after a brief time at Berea College, she fled to West Virginia.

‘So, how did you end up here?’ I asked.

‘Well, don’t make fun of me too bad, but I’ve been a 4-H camp counselor for a few years and after camp ended, I got in my car and came here and stayed with a friend. I didn’t want to go back home and be called Patrick anymore.’

‘That story is absolutely made up because there is no way YOU were in 4-H.’

‘I sure was, Casper! You don’t believe me??’

‘Prove it!’

Aubree jumped up, twirled her beaded dress around, and stood at attention.

‘I pledge my head to clearer thinkin’, my heart to greater loyalty, my hands to larger service, and my health to better living…for my club, my community, my country, and my WORLD.’ She recited the 4-H pledge perfectly and I laughed hysterically. Having caught the attention of everyone on the patio, they all gave her a confused round of applause.

She took a dramatic bow.

‘So, why haven’t you told your mom?’ She asked.

‘You mean, why didn’t I tell my mom that I was coming here?’ I said.

‘Well, yea that…and other things.’

‘I don’t know, I guess I’m just not ready for things to change.’ I said plainly.

‘Well, honey, I ain’t gonna lie to you. Things are definitely gonna change when you tell her. How do you think I got here?’

My face dropped because I had hoped Aubree would have given me some comfort and encouragement.

Aubree took another slow puff and exhaled. ‘I haven’t told my mom that I am a woman. I haven’t told her that I got HIV. Do you know why, Casper? I love that stupid woman so damn much that I don’t want her to think about me dying every single day.’

I gulped. Aubree was the first person living with HIV that I had ever met.

‘But, James, don’t be afraid. Even if you don’t got the family you grew up with, you’ll always have a family somewhere that you can choose. Just look at this lady –‘ Aubree pointed behind her at an older drag queen a few feet away. ‘This is the only mother I’ll ever need right here! AND we can even share wigs!’

The older queen threw her cigarette down and said, ‘If I am your MOTHER, then WHY can’t you give me the RESPECT that I’m entitled to! Why can’t your treat me like I would be treated by any STRANGER ON THE STREET?!’

‘Because I am NOT one of your FANS!’ Aubree screamed at the top of her lungs.

The two began to strangle each other and roll on the ground as if they were trying out for the Marshall University wrestling team. Tables flew, drinks spilled, and at the end of the brawl, the two stood up and bowed. Everyone on the patio clapped and cheered but I stood there mortified and confused. What had just happened?

—-I learned much later that they had acted out a scene from the movie ‘Mommie Dearest’ linked HERE for your reference. ——

Aubree stood up and mentioned to the older drag queen, ‘Oh that gives me an idea for my next number!’

‘Then you better turn it into the DJ now. The show starts in 15.’ Barked the older queen.

Aubree turned to me gasping for breath after her tussle to share our final words.

‘Well, Casper, I gotta go get ready for the next show. It was nice to meet ya. And don’t worry about your mom! What I’ve learned is…’ She paused for a moment and looked back at the older queen. ‘… if you want to be held…. all you have to do is open your hands.’

I made my way to the inner part of the bar to secure my standing spot for the show. I had never seen a drag performance before, so I had absolutely no clue what to expect. Aubree was first in the line-up to perform and when I heard the music start to play, my heart dropped. I knew what song she was about to do.

My father was, and is still, a lover of 70’s and 80’s music and in his extensive library of classic albums I had discovered ABBA’s Greatest Hit. I played it on repeat. Although, I had never met anyone else in my life who had even heard of ABBA (nobody my age at least). When Aubree entered the stage to the tune of ‘Mamma Mia,’ the entire crowd started to sing-along. What did Mamma Mia have to do with her faux-fight on the patio? I wouldn’t learn that until later.

—- Against all odds, I actually found a clip of Aubree performing this same mix on Youtube from all those years ago, however this was not the same night that I was there. If you are the type of reader that likes to be transported into the scene, I invite you to watch HERE. If you just listen up until the chorus, it would be enough to give you a flavor of what I saw.

If you are a gay person that’s reading this, think about how you felt your first time watching a drag show or being in a gay bar. What was it like? What do you remember feeling? ——

The crew I had arrived with found me when the show was over and told me it was time to leave. I wanted to say goodbye to Aubree but I didn’t get the chance. On the way home, everyone else in the car slept but I couldn’t. I hummed the tune of Mamma Mia from the back seat.

This night remains a core memory for me, and it changed my entire perspective on who I was or wanted to be. I felt weak compared to Aubree and after meeting her nothing seemed too difficult. Even though she taught me that I don’t need anyone’s permission to live authentically, I hoped that she would find common ground with her mother again.

Aubree K. Ryann died on February 13, 2022, at the age of 32 in Huntington, West Virginia.

I discovered her passing as I was writing this entry and when I did, my heart sank. She had disappeared off social media a few years prior and seemed to leave this earth without a trace. We only met a handful of times after that, and I am sure she didn’t remember me. All that remains are a handful of grainy youtube videos and a painfully lack luster obituary.

Does her mom even know that she died? I became frantically obsessed with this question and after a few hours of research I found a social media post from her adopted parents. It contained recent pictures of them together, only a few months before she passed, and an outpouring of emotion. I was comforted, even in a small way, to know that Aubree did not pass on without knowing that her mother loved her.

After being silent for almost an hour…

…my eyes refocused on the last glimpse of the sun disappearing beyond Madrid’s skyline. The drag show had ended, and Juan and Analia were ready to go. I said goodbye to them and made my way back home. 13 years later and 4,000 miles away, the guiding principle of a drag show remained unchanged; bringing our community together.

The next night, my friend Jonathan and I went to what is now my local bar, Barbanarama, to watch Mexico’s version of Rupaul’s Drag Race. Watching Drag Race in a gay bar with other people is an activity that transcends countries and ages. Yes, it is just a television show, but we have built community around it and going to watch it in a bar is something I’ve done in every city that I’ve lived in with a multitude of friends.

The Bar-Keep, Manu, has started to call me different names when I enter his establishment and I’ve resigned myself to the humor of it. Before Jonathan arrived, I ordered a cocktail and stood by the wall, holding it up with my back, a habit that I was now aware of. Typically, before watch parties, Manu likes to play clips from past seasons of Rupaul’s Drag Race and I enjoy revisiting the memories of when I watched these moments living in other cities, like Nashville or St. Louis.  

Rupaul’s Drag Race is a fantastic reality show to watch. It teaches us that no matter how challenging life gets, you should never take yourself too seriously. Week after week, queens participate in ridiculous challenges that showcase their Charisma, Uniqueness, Nerve, and Talent. From impersonating celebrities, improv comedy challenges, designing garments from unconventional materials, to even putting a rugby player in drag – nothing is off the table.

Watching the clips that Manu queues up before watch parties begin reminded me just how special it is to have a show like this broadcasted internationally. Every year, just before the finale episode, the queens must do one of the most difficult challenges of the season. They look directly into the eyes of a photo of their younger selves, and they give that child advice.

‘What would you say to your 5-year-old self?’ Rupaul asks.

What would I say?

One such challenge from Season 14 came on the screen that Manu was playing.

—– By the way, I have asked this question to my straight friends and their response is almost always along the lines of, ‘I would tell myself to invest in Amazon.’ Or ‘I would have gone to a different college.’ Or ‘ I would have played a different sport in High School.’ Etc. —-

Gay and Trans people (and maybe whoever is reading this) when asked this question always seem to try to warn their younger selves for the impeding challenges yet to come – as if to reach through time to console them. It’s a part of the season that always makes me cry. I took another sip of my Gin and listened to their responses.

Rupaul, ‘Queens, what do you have to say to your younger self?’

Bosco, ‘Don’t be sorry, be fierce. And one day, the things that people bring you down for will be your power. …..and please give mom another hug from me.’

Angeria, ‘You are going to go to school and the other kids are going to say very mean things to you, but you have two amazing parents that love you. Your dad will always love you and be proud of you.’

Daya, ‘Nothing will ever feel right for you. And then the moment you let your guard down, is going to be when you really start to find your truest self. (She starts crying) And you don’t have to worry so much about if your mom is proud of you or if your dad is proud of you, because you’re proud of yourself. ‘

Lady Camden, ‘Many terrible things are going to happen in your life, but try not to harden up too much.’

Willow, ‘You are going to feel like life takes everything away from you, and you are going to have to grieve people around you… and you’re going to have to grieve yourself (she has a terminal illness) but in stripping yourself away from this earth, you’re going to be doing yourself a favor.

—- If you would like to watch the 4-minute clip, you can find it HERE —–

Why do we care about what our parents think of us?

Coming out as gay or trans wouldn’t be so difficult if we didn’t.

Why, in human evolution, did our species evolve this intrinsic bond with parent and offspring? Did God create humans solely for us to know him? –Or, if you aren’t religious— Do we exist solely for the universe to have an awareness of itself? Did our parents have children so that they might have a heightened awareness of their own position in the universe?

Before I even knew who I was, I knew who my mother was.

And I learned what death was because I first saw the fear of losing someone reflected in my mother’s eyes when she looked at me.

Thankfully, as I was on the brink of mental implosion, Jonathan arrived.

We did the stereotypical European cheek kiss and caught up on the week we both were having. After speaking with him about what had been on my mind, Jonathan told me that he had a good relationship with his mother. He had moved to Madrid from South America and his mother joined him shortly after. She knew he was gay, but she struggled at first when he told her. ‘I just had to give her some patience and time. But in truth, I was more scared to tell my dad.’

My friend and colleague, Hugo, joined us. I mentioned him in my entry about Paris, however, now Hugo was transitioning from his life in France to Spain. It was his first drag show and as he watched I could tell he didn’t feel the same euphoria that I did when I saw mine. Jonathan has been learning French so he got to practice with Hugo and I smiled watching them.

I left the watch party with more questions.

I took to social media and asked some followers their thoughts about how relationships change after they came out to their parents. Most said that their mother knew about it, but they never discussed it further. The one overarching thing that I learned is that many people, gay or straight, have challenging relationships with their parents.

So, why do we still want to be around them? Is having some kind of relationship with your parent, better than having none at all?

My friend Anthony, in St. Louis, had this to say: ‘I don’t know why I still continue to be in her life. I am only gonna have one Mom.’

The next day, I boarded a train to Barcelona.

Barcelona is located directly on the Mediterranean Sea and enjoys windy warm weather all year long. When you arrive, you can see flashes of its Roman past in its street design, architecture, and even some grave markers.

Before I met up with my friends, Maya and Jessica, I took time to explore in the central gothic quarter. The buildings towered over the cobblestone walkways like great trees flanking a forest path. Unlike a forest path though, crowds of people pushed through the small corridors and alleys. Barcelona is a tourist destination, much more than Madrid is, and many people flock to the city each year to enjoy the seaside atmosphere.

I joined up with the duo and we took a portion of the afternoon to visit the Picasso museum. I learned that Picasso could also paint hyper-realistic scenes as well as his abstract human forms that he is more known for. Once we concluded the museum tour, we took in some of the Gaudi architecture that can be found around the city. After some Paella with our other colleagues, we turned in early that night. Jessica and I had plans to visit the Monastery at Montserrat the next day with an 8am call time.

The monastery sits about an hour and a half outside central Barcelona among stark limestone mountains. The weather was clear but chilly and the churches stacked on top of the mountain had a constant cool breeze. The statues and mosaics within the Nuestra Señora de Montserrat were visually striking which caused me to have an overwhelming feeling when I entered the chapel.

It’s no wonder that Christianity was so pervasive in post-roman Europe. Entering one of these chapels would have felt like entering heaven itself and I was also not immune to this. I dipped my index finger into the holy font at the entrance and made the sign of the cross.

Jessica, who was raised Jewish, took note of it, and said, ‘I didn’t think you were catholic?’

‘I’m not, but I thought I might burst into flames if I didn’t.’

She shook her head and laughed at me. Jessica appreciates my humor, and it always makes me feel important. She has a slight frame and is just a tad shorter than me. An excellent horse back rider, she also enjoys exploring nature and makes sure to drag her husband, Josh, on nature hikes during the weekends.

After visiting the church, we took advantage of some light hiking that was available on the mountain. The views were stunning and for one brief moment during the peak of summer, I didn’t feel dreadfully hot. Jessica had just moved to a new house with her husband in western Massachusetts and was still adjusting to new neighbors and social circles. Having moved to a new city myself, we were able to commiserate with each other.

Jessica’s sister, Debby, passed away unexpectedly a couple of years ago and the two had been extremely close. When she talked about her to me, I thought about my relationship with my own brother, Jacob. He and I haven’t always been close, and we barely speak unless we are in the same room with each other, but I don’t know what I would do if he wasn’t here.

Our tour of Monsterrat was coming to an end, and with a sigh, we boarded our bus. In an unexpected turn of events, our colleague Fabio and his wife had booked the same trip without knowing and we chatted with them on the way back to the drop off point. We arrived back in central Barcelona near the Arc de Triomf (Catalan spelling) and said goodbye to the pair.

I had some time before meeting up with my Spanish teacher, so Jessica and I had lunch together. It was about 1:30pm and the restaurants were starting to fill up. I ordered the gambas, which is shrimp sauteed in a sinfully good butter garlic sauce. In an almost sacrilegious way, I dipped my finger in the melted butter and made the sign of the cross again.

Jessica and I are at the age where we are starting to worry about our parents more and more. She is watching her mother’s capacity for memory decrease substantially and is preparing for what life will be like when it reaches a point of no return. We didn’t speak too much about it, but I am sure that with Debby at her side, Jessica would find it easier to share this burden. What would I do without Jacob if something happened to my parents?

We can control so little in our lives, and life – for better or for worse – is not fair.

‘James, I think it’s 2:30, you’re gonna be late to meet up with your teacher.’ Jessica said with a mouthful.

‘Oh SHOOT! You’re right.’ We paid quickly and I hugged her goodbye.

I stood around Barcelona’s Arc de Triomf looking for my Spanish teacher, Vanessa.

She and I had only done virtual classes, so we didn’t have a familiarity with each other’s silhouettes. I caught a glimpse of a woman in her late 50s with blonde, almost white, hair and large frame glasses that sat lower on her nose. I walked up cautiously to the woman and she noticed that I was approaching. Her eyes widened and screamed ‘JAMES!’

We embraced and she went in for the two-cheek European-style kiss. I still don’t know the etiquette for when to do -or- not to do this, but I have gotten better at anticipating the motions. Vanessa spoke Catalan as her first language and Castellano as her second. Castellano, being what we all would think of as ‘normal’ Spanish that you would be taught in high school.

She called over to her son, who was joining us, in Catalan, ‘Màxim! Per aquí!’

A tall, young, slender man galloped over to our position and introduced himself as Max. Where he could speak English, Vanessa could not. He would serve as our translator for the afternoon if Vanessa and I reached a point of confusion in Spanish.

The first question Vanessa asked me was, ‘Eres un Albino, James?!’ Even if you don’t speak Spanish, you can tell what she asked me. ‘No, Vanessa, mi piel es solo muy blanco.’

We took some drinks at an outdoor bar and commented on the heat. After five minutes of being with them, it was obvious that Max and his mother were very close. She had him later in life and was a single mother for much of his upbringing. They also had very similar interests like Divas of the 80s, politics, and wine pairings. Needless to say, Max was gay.

They spoke in Catalan for a moment and as I watched their body language, I thought about me and my mother and how gay men have very specific dynamics with maternal figures. Why is that?

Vanessa had to take an abrupt leave of absence for, what I assume, was a pre-planned strategic move on her part. It became obvious as she winked and walked away that the entire day was a ploy to set her son and myself up.

I looked over to the 20-year old young man and said, ‘You do not have to stay with me just because your mother asked you to. I think she may have had the wrong impression.’

He breathed a sigh of relief, ‘Thank God, because I just recently started dating a guy and I haven’t told her yet. You’re right, she wanted to set us up and I told her it wasn’t a good idea.’ She has known that Max was gay for a long time and their relationship had become stronger after he told her, so why hadn’t he mentioned that he was dating someone?

‘Well, I will tell her that you took me around the city per her instructions. No worries at all.’ I said after paying the check.

‘James I was actually going to go up to Montjuïc Castle and I insist you come with me.’ He said. ‘I would be a terrible host if I didn’t at least show you my favorite spot.’

After a tram ride and a long walk up the mountain, we landed at a lookout point where we found a panoramic view of the sea. I noticed that I had a harder time breathing than he did and I was reminded of my age.

‘Y’know, the Spanish built this fortress as a way to keep the Catalonians in line.’ He said as I tried to make it less obvious that I was fighting for air. ‘During the Franco era, we weren’t even allowed to speak Catalan.’

I nodded in interest, but I didn’t know much about Francisco Franco. We, in the US, don’t learn about him when we revisit the period of the world wars in Europe. Francisco Franco was a terrible dictator who almost decimated Spanish society up until his death in 1975. He persecuted many groups within Spain and favored national unity by squashing local cultural practices.

Homosexuality was highly illegal under the dictatorship, with laws against homosexual activity vigorously enforced and homosexual people being imprisoned in large numbers. Places like Sitges in the north, near Barcelona, and Torremolinos in the south, near Málaga, became secret refuges for the LGBTQ community of Spain during this time.

Max and I became silent for a moment to enjoy the breeze, the sound of the seagulls, and the crash of the waves. I broke the minute of tranquility and said, ‘So, why haven’t you told your mom that you’re dating someone? I feel like she would be excited for you, no?’

‘Oh she would be, totally! But, for so long it’s just been me and her, alone. I’ve been her only …’ He paused to rethink his words. ‘…I just don’t want her to think that I’m abandoning her. I’m not ready for things to change.’

His words hit me like a moving bus which flung me back thirteen years to a conversation that was eerily similar to one that I had with Aubree. I looked up at a cloud-less sky and smiled at what I was about to say.

‘Well, I’m not going to lie to you, it probably will change your relationship with her.’ I said as I watched him slowly lower his head. ‘But, things are supposed to change and kids are supposed to grow up – and your mother wants to watch you grow up-  so, let her.’

He seemed to appreciate what I had said, but now, regretful that he invited me to join his hike up the mountain. After a short goodbye, I thanked him for taking me around and we parted ways. After a brief refresh in my hotel, I met up with Jessica in the Las Ramblas district for Tapas and Pizza for our final reunion before she flew back to the US. I wasn’t sure when the next time I would see Jessica, but I was thankful to reconnect with her in a way that doesn’t require an internet connection.

After dinner, I left her and made my way to the gay area of town known as Gaixmple.

‘Gai’ is the Catalan word for ‘gay’ and Gaixample refers to the center of the Eixample district of Barcelona. Unlike the beach area of town, Gaixample was packed with small restaurants and dark alleyways. I looked down at my phone and saw that it was 10:45pm – still too early for the clubs. Across the street there was a bar with a neon sign that read Blond Ambition. If only for the novelty of checking out a bar that focused on my own hair color, I decided to enter.

I walked in to receive the glares of two figures: the bartender and a patron seated at the bar. After abruptly ending whatever conversation they had been having, the very young and slight bartender asked me what I wanted to order. As he was making the drink, the patron walked over and sat next to me. Her name was Esmerelda, and she was trans.

From what I remember, our conversation wasn’t that deep. Nothing about our mothers. Nothing about our coming out stories. Nothing about how hard it was to be trans in Barcelona or being an immigrant in Madrid. We simply talked about the differences of our two cities. After a while I could feel her shoulders relaxing and her tone becoming less guarded. The bartender, Felix, said something to Esmerelda in Catalan and they laughed. Surely it had been about me, but I didn’t ask.

‘What song do we want next, amigos?’ Felix said without looking up from the computer that was sitting behind the bar. Esmerelda and I both looked at each other because nothing came to mind. ‘Ooooooh I found one.’ Felix yipped.

The unmistakable melody of Mamma Mia began to play. I began to sing the first words, but something was off. The song was in Spanish! I had never heard this version before and I was bewildered at the familiar yet unfamiliar aura of it. Felix and Esmerelda belted out the lyrics just as I had done the first time I witnessed Aubree perform some years prior. They danced and got lost in the song and I became amused as they flung themselves around the entire empty bar. I bid them adieu and continued my adventure.

An acquaintance I had met in Madrid, lived in Barcelona and he invited me to join his friends for a night on the town. Ruben extended me a great kindness and went out of his way to make me feel included. The motley crew of 5 started out at D’men’s bar, then GinGin, and after that I lost track.  I headed back to my hotel around 3am and thanked them for letting me join.

The next day I traveled to my final destination, Sitges.

It’s a short train ride from Barcelona to the small beach town but my hotel was about a mile away from the train station. There was no taxi to be found so I hiked the 1.5 mile distance to the Hotel Ibersol Antemare.

After I checked in, I immediately went down to the pool to refresh myself. The hotel was not advertised as gay-only, but the only patrons I could find crowded around the water were with partners of the same sex. I was excited to make some new friends but when I heard five different languages within earshot, all pretense of making casual conversation went by the wayside.

That evening, I dressed up and walked along the boardwalk to go to dinner – alone. I don’t mind being alone, in fact, I enjoy it most of the time. However, that night I was very aware of how much I was alone. I am making friends in Spain, slowly but surely, but none are quite strong enough to plan travel with yet. If I wanted to experience new places while in Europe, I would need to go by myself. It is one thing to be alone and another to feel alone.

After dinner, I went to a bar called Parrots to relax a bit and hopefully talk to some other people. To my dismay, the bar was in the French style meaning that there were tables placed facing the outward where patrons sat staring directly at the street. This meant that nobody stood within the bar itself – which, of course, is where the small talk would usually begin. As I found a table and sat down, I made it a point to not look at my phone.

I saw the backs of everyone’s heads and watched them laugh, make jokes, hold hands, and argue about the night’s plan. Without finishing my drink, I paid and left. In Barcelona I had been so stimulated with people, here in Sitges I found myself craving interaction. I ordered a small ice cream cone and marched slowly through the small alleys and corridors of the central district. There was quiet and stillness,  but as I continued on, I heard a roar of voices coming from behind a corner where two alleys met.

I had stumbled on the convergence of four different bars that allowed you to drink outside. Cutting a sharp smile, I rushed over to the scene. This was the type of evening I had hoped for.

For a moment I paused to decide at which establishment I would select from of the four. You had El Horno, La Villa, XXL Disco, and Man Bar – as I have said in a previous post, the queer community has always been full of innovators and thought leaders, but when it comes to the names of our nightlife, that’s where our creativity ends.

Just then, so-called, Man Bar started playing Mamma Mia, which if you are keeping track, I have now heard in three variations within the past four days. Once with the violin trio in Madrid, another in the bar Blond Ambition in Barcelona, and now here at Man Bar in Sitges.

For video bars, it is very common to not play the actual music video from ABBA but rather a mashup with scenes from the movie Mommie Dearest. If you have been to a Showtunes Sunday at any gay bar in the US, you will have seen this remix before.  

I have watched this video many times but as I waited for my drink, I had a flushing moment of realization. What had inspired Aubree to perform Mamma Mia that night in West Virginia? She had acted out the scene from the movie with the older queen and it reminded her of the video I was watching now. I shook my head and became annoyed as it had taken me thirteen years to figure out the connection. At this point in time, I did not know that Aubree had passed so I thought to myself, ‘I hope she’s doing ok – I need to look her up.’

Everyone was outside intermingling and as I peered across the crowd, I saw that it was almost entirely made up of men. Sitges being a gay destination, I saw a mix of ages and origins in the sea of faces. I noticed an older gentleman, who I had assumed to be in his late 60’s, perched at a tall table by himself. He had a white beard, cargo shorts, and a worn-out t-shirt that said Myrtle Beach on it. The likelihood of him being American was high and I decided to go over and ask to share his table.

In places like Provincetown, Massachusetts or Palm Springs, California, it’s not uncommon to see these types of gay spaces being shared by starkly different generations. This type of intermixing is something that I do not see in outside culture. Maybe this is why the few older people most youngin’s have extended conversations with are their parents.

His name was Brent and he graciously allowed me to share his table. He waited for me to make the first effort of conversation as I presume he felt awkward. Brent was indeed American as I had guessed, but he wasn’t from Myrtle Beach, rather he was from a town outside of Des Moines, Iowa. (I forgot the name of it) He spoke with a lot of energy and quickness, as if he hadn’t spoken to anyone in months.

He asked what my story was, and I gave him the abbreviated version of being from Kentucky and moving to Madrid for work. We fell silent for a moment and then I asked him something I shouldn’t have.

‘So, who did you come here with?’

He took in a big breath. ‘I came by myself.’ He said as he let out a gusty exhale. ‘Just me.’

‘How nice. I’m traveling alone too.’ I replied.

He gave me a compliment along of the lines of There’s no reason for a good-looking young man like yourself to be traveling alone. I was a bit embarrassed, but I smiled and thanked him. Just after, I got a beep on my cellphone and reached in my pocket to check it.

‘See! Boys are already blowing your phone up!’ He said to diffuse the tension.

‘Ha! I wish. It’s just my mom saying hello. I’ll text her back later’

‘Oh really? My mom doesn’t even know that I’m here.’ Brent said as he sipped his almost empty pint of beer. A few moments earlier I had been thinking about when I first met Aubree and now, I was sitting across from a 68-year-old man, 4,000 miles away from home, mirroring the conversation she and I had that night so many years ago.

Brent had never come out to his mother. Now, in her 90s, she was living with him in his house that he owned. He never had a boyfriend – at least nothing that was public. He never made a group of gay friends. Never tipped a queen at a drag show. Never had a one night fling. This was his first time at a gay bar, and he had made the journey across the ocean just to have the experience.  

I screamed ‘WELCOME!’ and began to tell the tables around us of the monumental moment in Brent’s life. Everyone cheered, raised their glass to him, and some applauded. Brent waved and mouthed silently Thank you to everyone.

After everyone’s attention receded, his eyes watered and the skin around his nose and dimples became red. His voice cracked and he said, ‘I should’ve done this sooner.’

‘Why did you wait?’

He shook his head looking for an answer. ‘I was just so scared.’ He sniffled. Up until this point, I had not seen many men his age become this emotional.

‘I was going to tell her after I had met this one guy in June of ’83, Robbie, but I never got the chance to. We had plans to meet up one weekend and he didn’t show. I looked for him everywhere. At his house. I went to his job. He just left town…and left me.’

I nodded and Brent continued. ‘I was so darn mad! I was ready to change everything for him and he couldn’t even say goodbye?! I mean, who does that?’ His chest started to wobble again. ‘My mom got sick not long after that and, I mean, I couldn’t leave her.’

‘You’re a good son.’ I said, but part of me didn’t believe it.

‘Y’know I tried to look up that guy Robbie last year – couldn’t find him on facebook or nothing.’

‘Maybe it’s for the best that you didn’t,’ I said.

‘Well, I did find his obituary sure enough. Do you want to know what happened to that stupid f&%ker?’ I nodded anticipating a justified comeuppance. ‘He had… he had developed AIDS and didn’t tell anyone. He left Des Moines, checked himself into a hospital in Chicago, and was gone 3 weeks later.’

It was at this point that my eyes started to water, because I realized Robbie must have truly loved this man sitting across from me, so much so that he’d rather be hated than mourned. The fun night I had planned for myself was now engulfed with the conversation I was having with Brent. He looked over at me and realized that the topic of conversation was probably too personal to have with a complete stranger.

‘I’m sorry James. I’ve never told anyone that. Forgive me.’ Brent quickly stood up and tried to walk away quickly.

‘BRENT, wait.’

I hopped up and stood in front of a 68-year-old retired factory worker from Des Moines, Iowa, opened my hands, and I held him. He breathed deeply, then released me and went on his way.

For the rest of the night, I danced and met some guys my age as I had initially planned. I may have even kissed two or three of them. But around 2am I was partied out, so I walked on the beach back to my hotel. The moon was big and bright, so much so that you couldn’t see any other stars in the sky, and I paused for a moment to look up at it.

So, why do we care so much about what our parents think of us?

Why do we care if they are proud of us or not? I don’t have the answer.

All I know is that: my mom can be a little too critical at times, and my dad always thinks his way is best, and I can be too quick to anger, and Jacob is very stubborn, and Brent talks too fast, and Aubree is loud, and…

…And life is not fair, and nobody is perfect.

But, we as humans are supposed to change. Moment to moment. We are allowed and expected to invent who we are as we age. Our incredible superpower as a species is the ability to grow up. And we can choose to either share that superpower with those we care about, or not.

I hope you choose to share it.

I’d like to dedicate this entry to Aubree K. Ryann as a supplement to her obituary.