Travelling to new cities means having to do things. Going to Paris? You have to stand in a wing of the Louvre, trying to catch a glimpse of the surprisingly tiny Mona Lisa through a fog of heads and a sheet of bulletproof glass. In London for the first time? You have to stand in the middle of Leicester Square and pretend you’re having a nice, authentic, London-tastic time.
It could probably be said that very little beauty can be found in obligation. Except if, like me, on visiting a new city you’re obliged – first and foremost – to check out at least one of its gay bars. This is a tradition that I began in my early 20s, on a solo work trip to Stockholm. I ended up in a disco ball kinda bar called Side Track, being talked at by a rugby shirt-clad Norwegian lesbian in her late 40s about how Swedes are all a “bunch of Nazis”. And in the background, Sweden’s finest rap made its existence known. Really and truly, this was the start of something beautiful.
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