For a couple of weeks in 1994 gay people were given New York. Actually, we TOOK New York.

When Fred and I were active in a gay parents group, we would attend their yearly conferences in different parts of the country. In 1994 the conference was in New York City, coinciding with the Gay Games and the 25th anniversary of the Stonewall Rebellion. Oh wow! This was going to be good! Gay people from all around the country – all around the WORLD – in the same place at the same time. We made our conference reservations and excitedly planned the things we would do in the city.

The parent's conference was held at a hotel in White Plains, just north of Manhattan. I arrived one day before Fred, and asked some other people about a good place to hook up with Fred when he arrived. The clock in the middle of Grand Central Station seemed to be the appropriate, easiest place for both of us to find. He could get there easily from the airport, and I could take a train from White Plains. I called Fred that night and told him where to meet me.

The train ride to Grand Central was the beginning of an ever so gay experience. There was a pack of lesbians on the train, laughing, talking and carrying on.

**Offstage Announcer**
Yip, my uneducated friend, lesbians do not travel in a pack. They travel in a PRIDE!
Ok, there was a PRIDE of lesbians, probably 8 or 9 of them, behind me on the train.

Lesbian 1: Oh, girl! I can't wait to see all them runnin' girls at the games!

Lesbian 2: Huh? They so skinny though!

Lesbian 1: Oh yeah! All those looooonnnnnnggggg legs! Ooooo, child! Line all them babies up single file, let me walk down that line puttin' my hand, AND my tongue, WHEREVER I want!
(much laughter)

Lesbian 3: Hey, did Linda enter the shot put?

Lesbian 2: Oh, she entered about everything I think. That girl so talented, she gonna win somethin' I know it!

Lesbian 1: And you gonna give 'er a great big congratulations kiss, ain't ya?!

Lesbian 3: That's not all I'm gonna give her! Shit! I WISH!!
(much laughter)

I was getting a little embarrassed because the pride was being quite loud. Until I looked around the train. Virtually everyone else was laughing too. There were rainbows everywhere. Hats, jewelry, shirts. Everybody had a rainbow or a pink triangle somewhere. The train was loaded with gay people, headed to Manhattan for a day of seeing and being seen.

We arrived at Grand Central and the train unloaded. I had no idea where to go but everyone else seemed to. I followed the mass of humanity to the main lobby of Grand Central. There's Fred, wandering around with 34,000 other people. Apparently everyone meets by the clock.

We head out in all of our Kansas glory to explore Manhattan. I had heard Whoopi Goldberg liked the Russian Tea Room, so I had made lunch reservations. Hey, if it's good enough for Whoopi, it's got to be fine with me.

At the last minute, we decide not to go. (I'm still kicking myself, because I understand it's since closed down.) We opt for some joint with a clever name like «Restaurant» or «Eat.» No big deal. We were in New York! EVERYTHING was an adventure. No matter where we went in this huge city, we saw rainbows. There was a bag lady on a bench in one of the «pocket parks.» She was babbling softly to herself. She had a tiny rainbow flag stuck in the ribbon of her hat. We knew, we just KNEW, everyone in the entire city was either gay or wished they were.

It was as if we OWNED Manhattan Island.

We decide to go check out the Stonewall. Wandering around Christopher and adjacent streets, we saw gay people of all shapes, colors, sizes and «attitudes.» Leather daddies, lipstick lesbians, bears, flannel-shirt gurls, twinks, and mostly, gay people who just looked like ordinary folks, enjoying a nice summer day. Some were old enough to remember Stonewall, a lot were young folks who I hoped would come to appreciate Stonewall for what it meant to the gay community at large.

There were smiles everywhere. We talked to people we didn't know and would never see again, and it didn't matter what was said.

«Where are you from?»

«Are you going to the Games?»

«How long are you in town?»

«Oh, I definitely remember Stonewall.»

«New York is a lot friendlier than I expected!»

It was exciting to be part of this vibrant community. Everyone seemed to be reveling in the freedom of just being themselves.

Lesbians hugged and kissed. Men were arm-in-arm or holding hands.

We rounded a corner and there it was; The Stonewall. It was far too crowded to enter. There were guys at the door allowing someone to enter only after someone else exited. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of people milling about outside. We ran into a guy we knew who used to own a bar in Kansas City. «Bobby! How you doing?!»

«Good. Had to come today. I was here in '69, during the fight.»

Fred and I exchanged a quick, knowing glance. Yeah. Right. If everyone who claimed to be at the Stonewall during the uprising actually HAD been there, it would equal the population of Ohio. But, what the hell. If Bobby wanted to pretend, so what. It was a part of our history as gay people, and wanting to be associated with that history was not unusual.

We walked around aimlessly for a couple of hours, in and out of little stores and gabbed with other people doing the same thing. We sucked up all we could of the gayness of the day.

The next day was packed with conference activities. We decided to skip most of them and head back to Manhattan to explore. We did the Empire State building, Rockefeller Center, several department stores and little restaurants and coffee shops. At one point, wandering around, not knowing where the hell we were but enjoying it none the less, we found ourselves in front of the absolute tackiest building I've ever seen. The façade was some sort of gold panels from the ground up about 25 feet or so. Garish, gaudy and just plain ugly. From there up, it looked like any other building. It was Trump Tower. We decided in spite of The Donald's money, he apparently couldn't afford good taste.

Oh shit! Time flies when you're having a gay old time! It was 6:15 p.m. already. We had to be at a pier by 6:30 for a conference-sponsored dinner cruise of New York Harbor. We hailed a taxi. (I've seen Sex and the City. I know how to do this.) We crawl in the back seat. It was sticky. The floor was sticky. There were candy wrappers and empty drink cups scattered around the floor. Thankfully, I couldn't identify the odor of the cab. So what! This was the ultimate New York experience. Even better, the driver was wearing a turban. A glance at his license showed his first name was something like Ahdoerulmoivnoorisoiesh. His last name was Shah.

«We're going to Pier 37 on the Hudson, and we're kind of in a hurry. Do you know a quick route?»

«Yes. No problem it is not.» Perfectly enunciated, if a bit awkwardly structured.

He put his foot on the accelerator and never took it off. The ride to the pier was a lot like the chase scene in The French Connection. I'm not Catholic, but I said the rosary. Fred closed his eyes and said, «Yip, if you make it home, tell my parents I loved them.»

Shah pounded the horn repeatedly. I saw Manhattan whirring past in a blur. And my life. We went from the east side of the island to the west side in a matter of minutes. Shah found the brakes directly in front of pier 37. Screeeech!!

«At last you are fast here!»

We got out of the cab and kissed the ground.

(Part Two later)

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