Back in the 1980s, my social life was in full swing. I quietly came out in 1980. This was before the advent of AIDS. Fortune was on my side because I am still on this side of the Great Divide and emerged unscathed from that particular epidemic. I did not “come out” in my native Canada; rather, on the French Riviera, in that glittering beacon to world cinema – Cannes! It was in the spring of 1980, shortly after the film festival had ended. Reminders of it were everywhere. As regards the term “coming out,” even to this day, it brings to my mind Diana Ross singing her early 80s gay-themed anthem, “I’m Coming Out.”

I was traveling with my older sister, Laurie (married), and my cousin, Joan (single). We went on that trip mainly to attend the centuries-old tradition of the Passion Play depicting the life and death of Jesus in the quaint Bavarian village of Oberammergau, which is staged every ten years. Unfortunately, we discovered too late that one must purchase those tickets years in advance. However, our plans were already in motion: damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead to Germany and Beyond!

Intrepid travelers were we: only the young could be that bold (and perhaps foolish) to rent a car with plans to drive thousands of kilometers in Europe, before the age of GPS and mobile phones. During our journey, the three of us had a few adventures, such as Laurie driving up to the edge of a parking lot that was high above a precipice, and then not being able to back up unless Joan and I pushed the car from the front. Another time we met a young man from Tunisia in a bar, and he was interested in coming with us to Cannes, but Joan vetoed that idea.

Despite it being early June, we were caught in a snowstorm on a mountain pass between Germany and Italy, but fortunately, two handsome policemen ensured we ended up finding refuge in a quaint Italian inn just inside the border from Germany.

However, the greatest adventure (at least for yours truly) was yet to come. I had hoped to stumble across a gay bar on our travels, but we were often only in small towns and on rural roads. I had not yet come out, as I had mentioned, and I certainly did not want my sister and cousin to know my big secret. After experiencing many quaint but quiet towns and picturesque hamlets in Germany and Italy, we finally hit the big time when we drove into spectacular Cannes. I decided then and there, since only one week remained in our three-week holiday, that it was now or never. I must find a gay bar or, better yet, meet a young guy and finally find out after all if I was gay. Part of me was hoping it was just a phase or a passing curiosity.

Laurie, Joan, and I had a large room in a pension in the city center of Cannes. On the first night, we went out for dinner and then a walk along the promenade. The French Riviera was enchanting, we all agreed. Then the girls wanted to go back to the hotel. While the three of us had been walking that evening, we had walked by a disco that had only men of all ages hanging around the front door. I just knew it had to be a gay club! I tried to remember the street and location as I walked my sisters back to the hotel to ensure they were ensconced in our room and would not be out and about.

By a stroke of luck, I was able to make my determined way back to what I presumed to be a gay club. When I walked to the entrance, the door was closed, and there were only a few men outside by this time. It must have been close to midnight. I could hear pounding disco vibrations coming from within. There was a buzzer beside the door. I pressed it. A man opened a little trapdoor and peered out. He asked me something in French, but when he saw I looked like a deer caught in the headlights, he switched to English. In short order, the man gruffly told me it was a private club, members only, and, basically, to buzz off. Bitterly disappointed to be so close to my goal and yet so far, I decided to just wander and see what I would encounter.

Eventually, being rather tired, the best bet for me seemed to be a walk along the promenade with the dazzling night-time view of the Mediterranean. As I walked along the promenade (which had many people out for a walk, in groups, couples, and singles), I walked by a young blond man who was sitting on a bench. He was looking out at the water and smoking a cigarette, but I noticed how he seemed to be checking out any man who walked past him, including me. I walked a little further and then did an about-turn. I walked slowly by the young man, who appeared to be about my age (22). He watched me as I pretended not to watch him. I did this back-and-forth sauntering in front of the young guy until I had the feeling that he thought I was a nutcase or perhaps even a murderer.

Noticing that the young guy had lit up another cigarette, although I was a non-smoker, the revelation came to me that the best way to talk to him was to ask for a cigarette. I spoke to him in English, and he responded likewise but with a slight accent. I had already thought the young guy was probably German, and when I heard his voice, I was quite sure. I asked for a light as well, and he gave me his lighter and I lit up. Feeling rather emboldened, I asked if I could sit down on his bench, and he moved over. His name was Jürgen, and he was from northern Germany, on a car holiday to Cannes. We talked for a long time and then went for a walk along the promenade. I am sure that Jürgen did not know what to make of me because I made no suggestive remarks. Finally, he told me that he was gay and wondered about me. I told him that I was not sure but had no experience for making any decision in that regard.

Jürgen had a tent at a campsite on the edge of Cannes, and we went there. The rest is history, so to speak. I was not sure if I even enjoyed our encounter in that tent. It gave me hope that perhaps I was straight after all. However, I did very much like Jürgen. In the early dawn hours, I asked Jürgen if he could drive me back to my pension. He had an old, robin-egg blue Mercedes that was his pride and joy. I was as pleased as punch to be driven back to my accommodation in Jürgen’s classic car. We agreed to meet that evening for dinner, and I said that my sister and cousin would be with me.

I quietly turned the key in the lock of the bedroom door at the pension and tiptoed into the darkened room which fortunately had sufficient light from the early morning sun coming through the windows. All of a sudden, my sister, Laurie, jumped out of the double bed she was sharing with Joan and exclaimed: “Did you get lucky?!” She was practically jumping for joy, like a crazed chihuahua. I told Laurie, in a cool voice, that it was my business, not hers. She of course could not understand; Laurie thought that I should be bragging about any conquest. By this time, Joan was awake, and it was obvious that none of us would be getting any sleep until I coughed up the goods. Thus, I came up with a story about meeting a young woman (French, as I recall now) in a disco, along with some other young people, and we had a nice time together.

End of story, morning glory!

Laurie tried to pump me for more details during the day, as the three of us walked around Cannes. In the evening, I “happened” to run into Jürgen on the promenade and informed my sister and cousin that he had been part of the group of young people that I had befriended in the disco the night before. I asked Jürgen if he would like to come for dinner with the three of us, and we ended up at a nice restaurant. Jürgen made the mistake of ordering Steak Tartare (not knowing it was raw); he horrified the waiter when he asked for it to be taken back and fried. The waiter explained it was meant to be eaten raw, and Jürgen did his best to nibble away at his meal.

I did not dare go back to Jürgen’s campsite that evening after dinner. To my mind, my sister had smelled a rat. I was certainly not ready to “come out” after one night with another young man, and certainly not to my sister and cousin! Although I had mixed feelings about the sexual encounter from the previous night, I knew that I greatly liked Jürgen and it felt good to have made a new friend, and someone from another country, no less. He and I parted company that evening, and I walked back to the pension with Laurie and Joan. I was sure that I would never see Jürgen again, but we had exchanged telephone numbers (landlines, of course) and our addresses. Jürgen had told me he had always wanted to visit Canada, and perhaps in the future that would be possible.

The main focus of our trip was Germany, of course, and it is where we spent most of our three weeks. I loved the country: the people, the language, the food, the music. I had been taking German language lessons from cassettes for the past year or two, in preparation for our German holiday. I was pleased that I was able to use my beginner-level German language skills at hotels and restaurants and in shops.

It had not been necessary to speak German with Jürgen because he spoke English fluently. I used my basic German in a store in Bavaria to purchase a traditional men’s lederhosen outfit: long socks, short leather trousers, embroidered white short-sleeve shirt, topped off with a jaunty little cap.

I was so enthused about all things German that for some reason that still escapes me, I decided to wear the traditional lederhosen outfit on the flight back to Toronto. Even the flight attendants looked askance at me. I was oblivious to what a ridiculous spectacle I presented. The further away from Germany on that flight, the more entranced I became by the country and the young man whom I had met who was for me a symbol of all things Germanic: Jürgen. It became clear to me that I was rather infatuated with him, and I was determined to ensure that Jürgen came to visit me one day in Canada. Those were the thoughts on my mind on that Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt to Pearson International Airport.

Imagine my parents’ surprise – and my mom’s horror – when I walked through the Arrivals door in my traditional German lederhosen costume! “Why are you wearing that?!” she hissed to me as I proudly presented myself in front of her. My dad, who took everything in life in stride and good humor, was smiling broadly and shaking his head. The irony of it all is that if I had told my parents right then and there that I was gay, it would no doubt have been less taxing to them than seeing this lederhosen-clad character in front of them in the throngs at the airport.

As for Jürgen, the following year he did indeed come to visit and stay with me for a few weeks where I lived in London (Ontario). We had a wonderful time together. By then I had “come out” (unobtrusively); some of my family members and friends knew and were fine with it. My time with Jürgen when he visited me in Canada showed me how much I enjoyed being with another young man in a relationship (albeit one that was only for the duration of his holiday).

We wrote to each other occasionally over the next few years, but with both of us being young and so far apart, eventually we stopped communicating. Fodder for a story!

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