22-24/6: I had barely had time to settle down at Duckworth Farm before I left again. Because, on Friday morning at breakfast, Lorri told us that this weekend was the Gay Pride weekend in San Francisco and one thing lead to another and somehow we ended up deciding to go to San Francisco for the weekend, me, Sarah, Shanley and Tallulah.
Friday afternoon meant the Transgender manifestation in Dolores Park. But really, it didn’t look that different from what it did any other sunny afternoon.
But it was nice, listening to the speeches and sharing all this peppyness.
We stayed with Sarah and her boyfriend Derek for the weekend, and on Saturday morning we walked down to this cute little café that Derek had read about. It turned out to have a delicious and colourful brunch. So, we had philosophical, transgender discussions over a king’s feast (to quote Shanley).
Saturday night was a big block party in Castro, the gay district in San Francisco. We went, we saw, and we left. There was simply far too much people. But I got to see some tall beauties in glitter and huge feather crowns, some really drunk teenagers and far more naked men than I would’ve cared to do.
Sunday meant the actual parade, and I was expecting something spectacular. San Francisco, the gayest city in the world, should by all calculations have the most amazing gay pride parade in the world too. But no. It was a huge disappointment.
Mostly, it was just politicians in old convertibles and other very un-gay organisations that wanted to show their support and get goodwill. Almost no floats, or dancing, or feathers and glitter.
It was like a pale shadow compared to, say, the parades in Bolivia during carnival season. Even the Stockholm Gay Pride parade felt bigger – but then, I might just remember it wrong.
But I guess, in a way, San Francisco has its gay pride festival year round, especially on the streets of Castro. And there is always a festival celebrating something in the city, so why put all the energy into one event. This was just one of many street parties in this hilly city. With the exception that to this event, more tourists seemed to attend than actual gay people. (Not that I claim to know what gay people look like, I’m well aware that a gay person’s appearence can vary just as much as people in general. I’m just saying that a majority of the attendees looked kind of like me, with cameras around their neck and maps in their pockets. It felt more like a show for an audience than a way to build confidence in the gay community. But I might be wrong.)
So, when Sunday evening came, we all climbed into Sarah’s car and returned to the farm, ready for another week of weeding and picking.
Katja Malmborg 