Budapest To Sitges

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Join Us as we take a cross-continental rail journey that begins in Budapest and finishes in Sitges. With eight stops in under two weeks , we will visit Hungary, Poland, Germany, The Czech Republic, France and Spain.

I’m floating on my back in a pool of warm water and scrunching my nose and upper lip together to reduce the intensity of the eggy, sulfuric smell permeating the room.  Above me is a large, domed ceiling punctuated by lights that are speckling the surface of the water in rainbow colors. Scantily clad Hungarian men surround me, and their chatter provides soothing background noise. I’m at Rudas Baths in Budapest and finally feeling like I’m on vacation.

Today is day one of a cross-continental rail journey that begins in Budapest and finishes in Sitges, with 8 stops in under 2 weeks. I know, it sounds a little crazy to be zipping around Europe at such a lightening pace, but I love traveling this way. I liken it to a tasting menu at a fancy restaurant—a dash of Berlin, a bite of Prague, a nibble of Paris.

As I step onto the streets of Budapest, the city is crackling with post- workday energy and boasting the bedrock sights and smells of a European city. There’s the hum of mopeds bumping along cobbled lanes, the nonchalant grandeur of stately palaces and churches that have been standing for hundreds of years, the hypnotic neon green of corner pharmacy signs, and of course, double cheek kisses among locals followed by the inevitable cloud burst of cigarette smoke and chatter in a language I can’t understand.

At Rudas Baths of course, all these sights and sounds are intentionally locked out. One of the city’s famed thermal bathhouses, Rudas has been around for more than 450 years and is men only today. It is early evening, and the main communal bath is filling up. In a country where LGBTQ rights lag, I try and figure out which men are gay based on context clues like grooming and ear piercings. The dead giveaway comes when a Turkish man with two ice cream scoops for buns exits the water and half the heads in the room turn in perfect unison, but his sculpted buttocks is the most we see. At Rudas, patrons wear a uniform: a tiny, white apron that exposes rear ends while reducing full frontal to that of soaking wet uncut silhouettes. (Though in the sauna, men flip their aprons around to protect their butts, thus exposing their jewels.)

Refreshed and famished, I cross the Danube River from the stately Buda side back to the more happening Pest side and have dinner at Szek, a restaurant specializing in Transylvanian cuisine. The menu is handed to me via an iPad photo montage, which is supremely helpful, and I order a cold soup starter and pork cheek entree (both are great). The cocktail menu is gin focused and my drink comes with a long ribbon of sliced cucumber and a sprinkling of juniper berries.

After dinner, I do my best to suckle all the nightlife I can out of a Monday and my first stop is Szimpla Kert, the city’s original “ruin bar” which opened 20 years ago in a now revitalized building in the city’s Jewish Quarter. There must be a dozen or so bars scattered among the tin roofs of this neighborhood. At Szimpla Kert, gaudy Christmas lights, graffiti- covered walls, fringed lamps, strobe lights, exposed wires, stained glass, dirty mirrors, vinyl records, scrap metal, disco balls, and vintage TV sets passing as décor. The crowd is even harder to pin down. There are party girls, tattooed hipsters, Eurotrash, rowdy footballers, and a group of intrepid sexagenarians all carousing, canoodling, and drinking from German beer steins. The vibe feels a little bit like the “Love Shack” video.

Budapest only has a few queer drinking establishments and one of them is CoXx Men’s Bar, a cruise bar down the street from Szimpla Kert. This basement taproom is a slender space featuring aluminum, banquette seating, and a long bar with about six guys perched on it. Almost all are on their phones when I enter. (Fellas, that’s not how you cruise in a cruise bar.)

On the lone TV, a nude Eastern European lad is swinging his hard ding-dong around in a hypnotic circular motion, and for reasons I can’t interpret is simultaneously giving a middle finger to the chiseled construction workers looking his way. I have no idea what the workers are intending to build, but I have a feeling something is going to be erected.

I perch myself at the bar next to the one cutie in the place. Between him and I and the hot bartender, there isn’t a shared language, but we all know how to accept and pound a free shot. I learn that the dude I’m cruising is named Reuben and in the darkroom where we eventually end up together, I also discover he has a pretty huge…heart.

I rise and shine late the next morning and hit the town exactly at lunch hour. I stumble into restaurant Menza, where I enjoy outstanding duck liver with sour cherries and mashed potatoes and am half expecting the bill to come with an address to the nearest ER, though a day of intense sight- seeing will help. Everybody else orders the soup, a signature item.

I once again cross the Danube River to the Buda side of town where I tour Hospital in the Rock, a nuclear hospital museum built under Buda Castle that served wounded soldiers in the lead up to WWII. Afterward, I ride the funicular to Buda Castle, though I ditch a guided tour in favor of walking the outstanding grounds and taking in the panoramic city views.

At Central Grand Café, a young waiter is spinning a bussing tray on his forefinger with impressive elan. I’m taking a late afternoon break at the oldest coffee house in Budapest. I order a macchiato (a latte is hard to get in this town) and sponge cake. I might be the youngest patron by 15 years and that’s saying something. Inches from where I’m sitting the violinist and piano player coax a musical genre out of me. I suggest jazz and they play “Autumn Leaves.” The violinist thanks me for letting him serenade me and I’m certain he and I are having a queer moment. I enjoy the furtive homoerotic gestures frequently made in Budapest, but sadly they exist because Hungary under Viktor Orbán has become increasingly hostile to LGBTQ people.

Today is day one of a cross-continental rail journey that begins in Budapest and finishes in Sitges, with 8 stops in under 2 weeks. I know, it sounds a little crazy to be zipping around Europe at such a lightening pace, but I love traveling this way

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Why Not Café and Bar is described as “gay friendly” but when I enter on a Tuesday night this little queen in tortoise shell glasses is belting out “When You’re Good to Mama” from Chicago just steps away from a framed black-and-white print of RuPaul, so I’m guessing the bar is more than just gay friendly. There’s also dangling disco balls and the queerest crowd this side of the Danube. I don’t know how well these folks know English, but their proficiency in karaoke standards like “My Way” at the very least showcases the impact of American culture abroad.

A neatly groomed cutie with jeans artfully ripped at the knees smiles at me repeatedly. His NYC ball cap makes me think he could be an American, but his difficulty in asking me to take a photo of him says otherwise. All we can do is smile at each other and we do that for quite a while. Eventually he presses his foot against mine and suggestively says, “Big shoes?” He doesn’t speak much English, but manages to ask me if I’m versatile which I’m guessing is the first word they teach in English at a gay second language school. He uses Google to translate a requested exchange of nude pics which I oblige. He then thrice excuses himself to the bathroom and thrice nods at me as he’s about to enter, but it’s all a bluff. He barely takes note of me at the urinal. I exit to a Queen medley and the sound of a queen doing their best Freddie Mercury.

BUDAPEST TO KRAKOW
The Hungarian countryside is gray and green, lush and rolling, and cobbled and crumbling. The rain pouring down outside is hypnotizing, and as we chug along northward I sleep my way through half the Slovakian countryside only to awake to the unsettling realization that we are trundling amiably across Europe while only 150 miles to my east Russia is waging war on Ukraine. Slovakia’s Choč Mountains are particularly beautiful, though the rain also intensifies.

Poland has always loomed large in my imagination, probably because I’m a Chicagoland native and the region is home to the second largest Polish population outside Warsaw. The welcome to Polska sign at the border is tiny, but as we cross into the country, I feel a shiver of excitement. Of course, Poland mirrors the weather patterns of my native Chicago so that shiver might also be because in Krakow it’s raining and only 52 degrees…in mid-May.

The rain is dreary, but also twice rewarding as I get to enjoy the shoulder-to-shoulder medieval buildings of the Stare Miasto (Old Town) both at eye level and again when I look down and see their mirrored reflections in the puddles of water that have gathered in the cobbled streets. Krakow is a pretty city. Everywhere I walk there is a glut of monochrome umbrellas and jacketed tourists tramping the town. The scene reminds me exactly of Caillebotte’s “Paris Street; Rainy Day” and I admire the determined tourists checking off marquee sites like Wawel Royal Castle and Gothic St. Mary’s Basilica undeterred by the downpour.

The Old Town is so pristine that it’s a bit like wandering through an Epcot replica. I half expect to have a character encounter at any moment. Menus in English proliferate, and this leads me to Pod Baranem, a funny little restaurant featuring waiters in black vests and bowties and somber oil paintings adorning the walls. The stuffed cabbage rolls in porcini mushroom sauce hit the spot, the wild boar medallions a little less so. (No one over the age of 30 should eat Polish food without first consulting their physician.)

I return to the Hotel Santi, a charming hostelry in the heart of Old Town, and have a nap and a shower before hitting up Lindo, a subterranean gay bar about a 10-minute walk from my hotel. It’s nearly empty, but here I meet Daniel and David, two adorable German guys visiting from Berlin. They both work for the Green Party, and in addition to offering me suggestions for the best places to go around town they douse me with Aperol spritz’s served in goblets the size of a witch’s cauldron. When I mention to the duo that I am bound for Berlin and later Munich, one raises his nose to the ceiling and rubs it to indicate Bavarian snobbery. (I will encounter this again in Berlin.) Stumbling back to my hotel along the slick streets without either of these German cuties by my side (I just couldn’t make anything happen) I’m three times stopped and invited to a gentlemen’s club. If only Poland had strip clubs for gentlemen like me.

KRAKOW TO BERLIN
It’s so cold the next morning that I’m maintaining an iron grip on my coffee cup as I wander the Old Town in search of brekkie. Ordering proves a challenge as I’m unsure how to say, “Do you have anything lite? I’m going to a sex club in Berlin tonight and may have to bottom.”

The rapeseed fields around Wroclaw (the 4th largest city in Poland) are riveting. They are blanketing the landscape in citrus yellow, the fruits of punishing rains. I have left Krakow behind and am now barreling toward Berlin. Pastoral Poland is whipping past me through the window and in the blink of an eye, the heavy grey skies recede and reveal the sunny Europe so many Americans rush to in summer. Thatched homes plated with solar panels are everywhere. The countryside is literally grinning. I decide a visit to Wroclaw is one day in my future.

I sleep most of the ride and glide smoothly into Berlin passing Tempelhof Field, the famous public park that was formerly an airport, and where the site of Berliners idling in the early summer sun lightens my soul. I exit the train at Warschauer Straße station and walk to the Michelberger Hotel, a hip hostelry in Friedrichschain on the city’s punk-lite East Side. Right out front I see a sign promoting a business called Dil- doking with the phrase, “Sex macht schön!”

The Michelberger is a boisterous hub for artists, writers, and musicians. I book a large loft room with a giant window opening onto a central industrial courtyard. I could spend all day here, but I handpicked the hotel for its strategic proximity to Lab.oratory, the legendary sex club every gay guy must visit at least once in his lifetime. After prepping myself for the evening ahead, I follow the wooded pathway through Hundeplatz Wriezener Park and onward to depravity.

Lab.oratory is a well-oiled machine. Tonight is nude night and staffers are efficiently handling clothes check while a steady stream of horny German men file in like workers punching their timesheets en route to an assembly line. The large, factory-like space reminds me of the Metropolis-inspired set for Madonna’s “Express Yourself ” video, though in this case the studs are less chiseled and wearing even less clothes.

I am greeted by a naked bartender wearing only a lock and chain necklace. He is very handsome and is welcome to serve me more than just a beverage if he likes. There is a seating area in front of the bar, and I’m surprised at how many guys here know each other. The vibe is casual and chatty, and the languages spoken are mostly German and some English. I flirt with one rosy-cheeked man who coldly assures me his boyfriend will be back in just a moment.

Lab.ratory is squeaky clean (that’s Germany for you). As I venture further afield, I discover assorted slings, glory holes, and a darkened labyrinthine maze already filled with a tangle of musky bodies. There is even a pristine shower area, though some dudes just hover gingerly over sinks, artfully washing only their schlongs. Remarkably, no one is overweight, and I can’t figure out if that’s because Germany’s obesity rate is low or if heavy folks feel shamed away.

Instead of joining the debauchery, my night takes an unexpected turn. An American expat I am chatting with on Scruff is just around the corner from my hotel. He’s a cute, thirsty-something otter named Jake. He’s tall and skinny with a long and lovely sausage and though it’s unclear which one of us is going to get pounded like a schnitzel, I accept his offer to meet up. Forty-five minutes of fun later, he proffers a tipple at the buzzy hotel bar. Turns out he’s a music producer and DJ from Los Angeles (where I live). He talks about how fatigued he is by Berlin’s relentless fetish culture and ends up giving me great LA restaurant recs. We decide to stay in touch. My night ends at a kebaberie where a German woman shames me for LA’s homeless problem.

BERLIN TO PRAGUE
Gay-owned breakfast joint Frühstück 3000 in the Schöneberg gayborhood is just lovely. I’m so hungry I tear into a bacon side with my bare hands. The kartoffel terrine, meanwhile, features a brick of potato, two perfectly poached eggs, and dollops of chili oil. Not only is it worth the train ride, but the return transfer takes me past Checkpoint Charlie and a walk down memory lane.

In 1988, I visited Berlin as a kid. It was my first trip abroad and at the time it was a city chopped in half. I remember joining the austere queue to pass through the checkpoint just one year after Reagan implored Gorbachov to “tear down that wall” and just 15 months before the German people did it themselves. Entering East Berlin was like leaving behind the technicolor West and entering a dismal black-and white world, The Wizard of Oz in reverse. The cold grip of communism revealed a pitiful consumer landscape featuring the ubiquitous Trabant (flimsy cars made in East Germany from 1957 to 1990) and storefronts so lacking in choice the same product (like a soup can) would be stacked in pyramid formation to entice customers.

These thoughts follow me as I return to my hotel and walk the East Side Gallery, a still-standing section of the Berlin Wall that straddles the Spree River and is now famous as a chain of murals.

My Friday train bound for Prague snakes along the Elbe River whose beaches are dotted with tents pitched by German weekenders. The river itself is filled with little boats; its shores lined with tiny German hamlets. In a few moments the train will make a right hook away from the snaking river and drop us into the Czech Republic, now simply called Czechia.

Aboard the train two rosy-cheeked Dubliners are chatting up a Chinese man from Houston who humorously proclaims of his adopted homeland, “I am not of cowboy size, but I have a cowboy spirit.” This encounter reminds me of my first time backpacking across Europe when I was 21 and encountered a bi-national gay couple (they were French and German) while strand- ed under the English Channel aboard the newly opened Channel Tunnel. “So, you’re an American are ya,” they proclaimed in their best John Wayne accents. After telling them I was from Chicago, they both made rat-tat-tat tommy gun noises and asked if I was a gangster.

In Prague, I check in at Nana Mac’s, the cutest little hotel in the heart of New Town. I book the suite because it’s the only room left (and only $160 USD), but it’s a giant room with a lavish oriental rug, oversized couch, king bed, heated bathroom floors, and winky fun touches like oil paintings of aristocratic figures blowing bubble gum, and a welcome greeting written in pink on the mirror. I later learn from hotel proprietor Chris, an English fellow, of his plan to add a wine bar and vintage cine- ma. Somehow, I’ve stumbled upon Bohemia’s best new inn.

My hotel happens to be only a seven-minute walk to Kantyna, a restaurant recommended to me by a local, where I enjoy the best meal I will have in Eastern Europe. Kantyna is set inside an old bank and doubles as a butcher shop offering cafeteria-style service and different stations serving hearty portions of meat, vegetables, sweets, and beers. I arrive to throngs of territorial customers huddled around high boy tables with steins in hand and wedge myself between a couple who only begrudgingly allow me to set my tray down and who seem amazed by how quickly I make the pork cheek, the stalks of asparagus, the garlicky potato pancakes, and the mini yeast buns with creamy custard disappear. It’s all so good I can barely stand it.

I walk off dinner by wandering Prague’s impressively kept city streets. As dusk settles over the city, its fairytale features come into vivid display. There are the shops doling out trdelnik (a rolled pastry filled with ice cream) to happy tourists; the showy astronomical clock at Old Town Hall featuring the hourly procession of the 12 apostles; the approximately 500 spires sitting atop the city’s legendary Gothic architecture and poking at the clouds above; and the Charles Bridge with its gaslit lamps that are a true delight. I make sure to walk the bridge several times.

The gay scene in Prague is better than in most Eastern European countries. At The Saints, I meet a Russian named Andrej, a Scot named James, and Belarusian Ilya, a cute and skinny boy with porcelain skin. Collectively we look like a queer United Nations. “Our president is shit,” says Ilya, “so better to live in country where I won’t get killed.” Ilya initially fled to Stockholm where he met a guy on Grindr (which he pronounces as Green-der) who brought him to Prague. “Beer is only one Euro here and because I have alcoholism I decide to live here forever.”

By midnight, club TerMIX around the corner is full and the Czech boys on the dance floor are grooving to Madonna, Britney, P!nk, etc. Beyonce finally brings me to the floor where I discover that while Czech boys may have dominated ‘90s porn, they’re dancefloor footwork needs help.

PRAGUE TO MUNICH
I rise, shine, and ignore the Scruff message on my phone from “thickn- cut” so that I may walk the city, following narrow cobbled streets and stopping often to gawk at the spires, one last time.

On the road to Munich, it makes more sense to travel via bus so that’s what I am doing, though I pay for two seats for additional leg and elbow room. The driver’s playlist is American classic rock, and we breeze into hilly Bavaria to jams like “Dust in the Wind” and “Hotel California.” Midway through my journey, my Berlin hookup messages me with Munich restaurant recs.

In Munich, I once again enlist the help of Misterbandb and end up at the flat of Franz and Adjat, a bi-national couple from Germany and Madagascar. Their centrally located apartment looks like the backstage at a production of “Kinky Boots” and includes displays of high-heeled boots, wigs, props, and abundant queer art. Neither guy is home when I arrive and I am instead met by their flat mate Lorand, a grinning Hungarian with puppy dog eyes who directs me to a lip sync battle Franz and Adjat are producing tonight at a venue called Lost Weekend. “It is not gay,” Lorand explains. “Gay is sex and drugs; this is queer.” Sounds good to me.

Lip sync battle at Lost Weekend turns out to be the most fun I’ve had on the town in Europe yet. We are all packed into the room like little queer sardines and I at last meet Franz and Adjat (in marching band gear and high heels no less). Tonight’s theme is Broadway Musicals, and one contestant lip syncs “No Way” from the Henry the VIII musical “Six,” a rendition so rousing I add it to my playlist the next day. In a genderbending twist, a trans man takes on Hedwig—complete with Hedwig’s famed wings outfit.

Under the spinning disco ball at Prosecco, my next stop for the night, a hundred cute and smiling guys are twirling to passable dance music. I keep my flirtations at bay as I have an early tour booked in the morning, but this lowkey club moves at my speed. Dudes just keep coming in, and although the room is tiny it manages to absorb them all. As everyone throws their hands up in the air to “Dynamite,” I notice a hot guy smiling at me…like a lot. But just when I think it’s time to make a move, he starts making out with the one lady in his group. Wait…what? How did I mis- read this? I start to wonder if gaydar diminishes over time, like eyesight. Dismayed I grab some nearby shawarma (Turkish cuisine is everywhere in Germany) and call it a night.

In the morning some dude in boxer shorts stumbles into the bathroom. I have no idea if he is another flat mate, a visitor, or a trick. I never see him again. I also stumble into the bathroom to shower and dress for a morning tour of Dachau, the Nazi concentration camp which sits about

30 minutes outside the city and is accessible via train. Hitler opened Dachau just a few weeks after being appointed Reich Chancellor and used it to jail his political opponents and later Jews and foreign nationals. More than 41,500 people died at Dachau, and it’s a sobering and somber experience to walk through the holding cells and crematorium. It’s also a stark contrast to Munich, a bright and humming gingerbread metropolis.

In a city where beer flows freely, it’s hard not to imagine the Isar River as gushing Pilsner. I’m on the river searching for Flaucher FKK, a nudist strand, and my horizon scan at last reaches groups of men in assorted bikinis and some in nothing at all. It’s only May and within seconds of dipping my toes into the river’s icy waters I go numb from the ankles down. The beach is rocky, and visitors should bring several layers of towels to get comfy (many locals bring yoga mats), but between the nude and clothed sections, literally everyone is here today including my hosts.

Franz, wearing a simple pair of white Aussie Bum briefs, waves me over to a patchwork of blankets where he and several friends, an assorted blend of polysexual, queer, and topless peeps, have gathered. Roommate Lorand is there and the only one fully nude. He’s so pretty I can barely stand it. Everyone approves of my leopard print swimsuit, a crowd favorite, and all proceed to pass around pot and prosecco for a day of idyll under the German sun.

Of course, I have so much fun that I run late for my appointment at Deutsche Eiche, the legendary gay sauna located within a hotel near Old Town. At first, it’s disorienting to walk into the lobby of a hotel (in this case the Hotel Deutsche Eiche) and see a queue of horny gay men, but the outside world fades away once I’m handed a towel and directed to the locker room.

Deutsche Eiche is very nice. In general, European saunas are cleaner and more social than their US counterparts (though I’d argue our bars are generally bigger, better, and less smoky). The sauna is labyrinthine and cruisy, the whirlpool is much more relaxing and chill. In the basement there are numbered rooms and play areas. The inhabitants of room 25 are so loud that after just listening in for a few moments I walk away having memorized all the German words a bottom moans during sex. As for whether I get any action, let’s just say that thanks to an Italian stud with only passable English, I am late again, this time for my dinner reservation.

The server at gay-owned restaurant Fesch is kind enough to let me practice my German without automatically speaking English so I regale him with simple ordering phrases and end up with a lovely schweinebraten (pork roast) that I enjoy while sitting amongst the clearly queer crowd dining al fresco on a lovely Sunday evening as trams, mopeds, and bikes whizz by. Afterward, I stroll the Marienplatz (Munich’s central square), where even late on a Sunday evening there’s an impressive half flicker of life, mostly folks drinking beer on the square.

MUNICH TO NUREMBERG
I stumble out of the gate on my day exploring Germany’s Romantic Road, first by waiting in a long line to pick up my rental car, a second time in underestimating distances, and thirdly in trying to both find and stay on

the road. But what I do see…wow! Every little hamlet along the road boasts towering, half-timbered houses with gingerbread trimming and isosceles peaks. They also have cobbled streets, labyrinthine alleys, charming guesthouses, and café dining where artery-clogging schnitzels are washed down with beer. It’s like a scene straight out of Beauty and the Beast and internally I break into the song “Belle” more than once. The walled city of Rothenberg featuring its oft-photographed Plönlein (small square with a fountain) is the road’s most picturesque stop.

I drive the road to my heart’s content and drop the car in Nüremberg at dusk. I get lucky. In town for just one night, I want my stay to be perfect and the Karl August delivers. It’s a chic little boutique hotel that I vibe with right away. The room is great. Mine is slanted so that I feel like I’m in a little Parisian attic, but of course everything is super functional as is the German way. It sits just minutes from both the Pegnitz River, which connects the old town via a series of stone bridges I keep crossing again and again. The hotel is also just steps away from the site of Nüremberg’s famous Christmas market, which happens annually in December.

The concierge at Karl August kindly indulges my kindergarten under- standing of German and points me in the direction of Travolta, a casual café serving wood-fired pizza. It’s a Monday night, but Nüremberg is humming with energy. It’s youthful, energetic, and tidy. The Gothic Lorenzkirche opens onto a pretty plaza and is famous for its impressive organ (wink, wink), but the loveliest sounds tonight are those of the German people, it seems like none are missing out on a night like this. They are in the streets, drinking, dining, and chattering in unison like a thrumming orchestra of crickets across an Iowa cornfield.

The bartender at gay bar Einfachso, speaks barely any English, a rarity among gay Germans, and seems confused that I’m not ordering beer. I take my vodka soda outside and sit as close as I can to the other patrons. “Like A Prayer” by Madonna is playing and I sing along in hopes that my American accent will attract some attention. No such luck. The only eye contact I make is with my server from Travolta who is out on a delivery run and hoisting a stack of hot pies.

I awake and discover I’ve slept 8 hours, a first on this entire trip, so that’s another hats off to Karl August. At onsite Brasserie Nitz I take a window seat facing the river where I’m greeted with a carousel of break- fast treats including assorted rolls, sweets, meats, and cheeses. Germans breakfasts are my favorite.

NUREMBERG TO PARIS
There is no arrival to the City of Light that doesn’t feel like a Tour de France victory lap. Every time I stroll along the Seine at dusk, marvel at Monet’s Water Lilies murals at the Musee l’Orangerie, or idle at a café in Le Marais for hours with coffee and croissant in hand, it’s accompanied by the same confetti and champagne high. I love Paris.

A nighttime arrival leaves me in search of after-hours dining options. Luckily, café-lined Montorgueil in the 1st and 2nd arrondissements is flush with night owls crowding around tiny bistro tables and cracking open end-of-day baguettes, slurping French onion soup, and clumsily plucking recalcitrant escargot from their shells. It is chilly, but I sit out- side anyway. How can I not? I am in Paris.

The next morning, I rise and shine in tandem with my Misterbandb host, a charming Parisian gent named Alex who I am sharing a flat with in the 20th arrondissement just steps from the particularly lovely Gambetta Metro roundabout. His comment at breakfast, “I like your underwear, you have a nice big butt,” I correctly interpret as the beginning of a flirtation and book- mark it for a hookup I correctly predict we’ll have later.

Alex’s handsome flat is located around the corner from Pere Lechaise, arguably the world’s most famous cemetery, and I spend the morning exploring the graves of its most famous queer spirits who include Gertrude Stein, Oscar Wilde, Chopin, and Proust.

My server at lunchtime restaurant Le Servan is yet another Parisian cutie. This young lad sports a giant burst of unkempt mop top hair; he looks like a Beatle without a brush. A corner eatery with a celebrated reputation that commands advance reservations, Le Servan nimbly com- bines Asian and French flavors as is the handiwork of two half Filipina half French sisters. I nibble at the signature wonton de boudin noir starter because it’s so pretty to look at, but by the time the morel tart and pork belly reach my table, I devour with gusto. Dessert is a single profiterole.

Dusk in La Marais pushes the sun westward, a cue for the city’s streetlights to flicker on in unison. The cafes, shops, and bars along Rue de Archives and Rue de Temple are filling with homosexuals, but nowhere is as busy tonight as ox Bar. Fetish night is feted with Parisian men in harnesses, jock straps, latex, and other assorted gear crowding the streets around the bar while the afterglow cast by the setting sun softly illuminates their fetish gear.

The last time I visited Cox Bar, I met a gay couple from Santa Monica who were traveling the country on babymoon while awaiting the arrival of their second child. They were looking for an uninhibited stop, so I sent them to L’Impact, a cruise bar famous for its nude nights. This time around I attract a lean and chiseled fortysomething guy to the high- boy table where I am sipping a vodka soda alone. He is an Italian actor and one of the few people I meet on this trip who is genuinely excited to learn that I am from Los Angeles. He claims Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer as his cinematic idols and it’s hard not to laugh. “I am like Monica Balluci,” he says, a reference that is lost on me. At one point he pulls up his shirt and pounds on his visible abdominal muscles. I consign him to the Eurotrash dustbin and move on.

Around the corner from Cox is Freedj, an immensely likeable neighborhood bar. Out front, a drag queen is mooning someone while taunting them in French. Inside, I meet a trio of Americans, clearly on the same bar crawl as me. They are wondering when to hit up Le Raidd, the gay bar famous for its nightly shower shows. I’m wondering the same thing. They are from DC and each one is so Ken doll attractive I can barely tell them apart. I end up elbowing my way into their convo and discover they are in town with their mothers and awaiting the Beyonce show at the Stade de France where daughter Blue Ivy will make a surprise appearance. When I leave Freedj, the same drag queen is still out front, though now she is hissing into her phone.

I finally make it to Le raidd, home to the world-famous shower show, and hit the jackpot when I sidle up to a table populated by a half dozen svelte members of Munich’s gay swim team. I strike up a convo with sev- eral in the group and when they ask how well I can ask for sex in German I respond with “Kann ich du fichen.” They love it and laugh. The shower show, meanwhile, happens almost an hour behind schedule and is basi- cally six minutes of Magic Mike bachelorette party tomfoolery featuring two pumped Frenchies in jock straps clumsily pawing at each other. But I will admit, watching the water cascade down their chiseled bodies is not the worst. I depart well after midnight and am surprised to see the line to get in to Le Raidd is down the block. I wish I knew how to say, “Don’t waste your time” in French

PARIS TO SITGES
The Train to Sitges (via Barcelona) is going 166 kph, but I’m so ready to be naked on the beach and canoodling with Spaniards in crowded alleyways that it feels like we’re crawling to Sitges via rickshaw. To pass time I head to the dining car, which might be the most happening place on the continent right now. It’s the beginning of a long weekend for both France and Spain and the train is abuzz with multilingual holiday makers beelining it for the Costa Brava. Outside Montpelier, I see palm trees for the first time on this trip and beam from ear to ear.

The left wheel on my carry-on came flying off back in Prague and with- out it my luggage grinds slowly along the cobbled lane ways of Sitges like a wounded dog. I make my way to Elite Hotel, a gay-owned boutique property attractively located along a narrow and winding street just steps from the beach. Its owners are a couple named Stéphane and Stéphane. Inside the lobby, there are LGBTQ-themed magazines displayed in accordion fashion, queer drink coasters, and gay necessities for sale like lube and cock rings. One of the Stephanes (both are handsome) checks me in.

Happy hour on the roof includes a mojito served by the second Stéphane, after which I slide into the clothing optional jacuzzi where I meet a Minneapolis man and two South Africans. For dinner, someone recommends an excellent lesbian-owned tapas restaurant named La Picara. Tapas for one is a balancing act, but the Chilean owner courses it just right and I enjoy a prawn croquette, patatas bravas, pinxtos of grilled foie gras, and baked codfish with aioli mousse.

Afterward, I join the crowds cavorting along Carrer de JoanTarrida, that one gay street we get to call our own. It is lined with bars like Queenz, XXL, El Horno, Man Bar, and others. Overlapping English, French, German, and Spanish spoken on the street offers the cacophonous sounds of an orchestra warming up. I perch myself on a stool where to my right a couple of bears are arguing vigorously. Can’t they fight at home and save money? I then dip into XXL. I wasn’t expecting it to be a cruise bar featuring a maze of darkrooms on the second level. A flashing sign in many languages warns of pickpockets. The TV is muted, but the porn is a Star Wars reenactment. (If Han Solo’s character isn’t renamed Han Job, it’s a missed opportunity.)

I rise and shine early the next morning and decide to take advantage of the rooftop shower at my hotel. but am rebuffed by one of the Stephanes who pops out of a random doorway in the buff to warn me there is no hot water in the morning. I relent to a hot shower in my own room, enjoy a mid-morning breakfast at the hotel, and look up the schedule for the Ting Ting, the little tourist tram that runs the length of the strand and drops riders about 20 minutes from Playa Muerto, a famous gay beach.

It’s a perfect summer day. The sun is so big and round in the sky that it looks like something a child has drawn, and I happi- ly lap up its stick rays while riding the tram to the beach. Along the way, I check out all the Spanish men frolicking along the strand. Unfortunately, the seawall separating beach from boardwalk is just high enough that I can’t tell if they’re in swim trunks or skimpy bikinis and decide the wall is homophobic for blocking my view.

I hike past an abandoned building, up a hill, and follow the train tracks to Playa Muerto, a sleepy, sun-drenched cove that’s been attracting gay sunbathers since 1930 and is supposedly the oldest gay nude beach in the world. Here I run into Jamie and Andrew, a couple I had met last night on the town. One of them had been wearing an Orville Peck t-shirt and I used that as a conversation starter. They buy me a drink from the beach’s makeshift bar, and we proceed to plop down separately. Playa Muerto is lovely. Marked by a rainbow flag, it’s a small, sheltered cove featuring gentle waters and rough sand. In fact it’s a little pebbly, which must be hard on the knees of the fellas who head to the cruising area situated through a narrow opening in the cliff just past the western edge of the beach.

There are two gay nude beaches in Sitges and I decide to hit up the second one before sunset. Playa de los Balmins sits on the opposite side of town, only about a 10-minute walk from my hotel and near Sant Bartomeu, a Baroque-style church and skyline fixture. It’s a mixed beach, but gay men are everywhere. A friend of mine saw Billy Porter here once. I’m not quite that lucky, but I do get a wave from my Parisian host Alex who is here for the weekend and splayed out on a towel at the far end of the beach, his resting penis flopped to one side. He says he saw me wandering the gay area last night and called out to me, but I was apparently in a daze.

I have an afternoon snack at Gaby’s, a laidback, gay-owned restaurant whose owner Bryan is from the US and named the casual eatery after his dog. I order the fried chicken, “That’s very American of you,” he says. The food is great and the promenade vibes just what I wanted. This is Wilson’s second restaurant; there’s also a Gaby’s in Budapest.

After the sun sets over the city, I move through the queer bar strip one final time. It’s early, which means the co-mingling of languages is still present, but the volume is significantly lower. It’s my last night in town, and that means I have one final opportunity to wander into a bar, strike up a convo with a handsome European, and get lucky. Then again, I’ve just spent a dozen days crossing Europe having one amazing adventure after another. I’ve gotten lucky already.

Travel Resources

CZECH REPUBLIC

Nana Macs – Quirky and whimsical bou- tique hotel in the heart of the city. Palack- ého 4, Nové Město, Prague. Tel: 420-603-779-586. nanamacs.cz)

Kantyna – Bustling cafeteria-style eatery serving heart portions of Czech cuisine. Politických vězňů 1511/5, Nové Město, Prague. Tel: 420-605-593-328 kantyna.ambi.cz

The Saints – Downstairs queer bar with an eclectic crowd. Polská 1352/32, Republic, Prague. Tel: 420-222-250-326. facebook. com/TheSaintsBar)

TerMIX – Queer club featuring a tiny dance floor blasting pop classics. Třebízského 4a, Vinohrady, Prague. Tel: 420-252-540-992 club-termix.cz

FRANCE

Cox Bar – Jeans and t-shirt men’s bar in the Marais. 15 Rue des Archives, Paris. Tel: 33-1-4272-0800. cox.fr

Freedj – Marais queer bar featuring DJs and a cute crowd. 35 Rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie, Paris. Tel: 33-1-4804-9514. freedj.fr

Le raidd – Marais gay bar famous for its nightly shower shows. 23 Rue du Temple, Paris. Tel: 33-1-5301-0000. facebook.com/LERAIDDPARIS

Le Servan – Filipina-owned restaurant serv- ing French-Asian fusion cuisine. 32 Rue Saint-Maur, Paris. Tel: 33-1-5521-5882. leservan.fr

L’Impact – Basement cruise bar famous for its nude nights. 18 Rue Greneta, Paris. Tel: 33-1-4221-9424. impact-bar.com

GERMANY

Checkpoint Charlie – Historical monument and former crossing point when Berlin was a divided city. Friedrichstraße 43-45, Berlin. visitberlin.de/en/checkpoint-charlie

Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site – The first of many concentration camps built by the Nazis during WWII. Alte Römerstraße 75, Dachau. Tel: 49-81-3166-9970. dachau.de/en

Einfachso – Low-key gay bar in central Nuremberg. Klaragasse 26, Nüremberg. Tel: 49-911-2110-0380. facebook.com/ein- fachso.pilsbar

Flaucher FKK – Nudist beach located on the Isar River and populated by both gay and straight patrons. Flauchersteg, Munich)

Früstück 3000 – Schöneberg outpost of trendy breakfast eatery located in the heart of the gayborhood. Bülowstraße 101, Berlin. Tel: 49-151-7058-3461. Fruestueck3000.com

Hotel Deutsche Eiche – Hotel that also includes a legendary German bathhouse. Reichenbachstraße 13, Munich. Tel: 49 89 2311660. Deutsche-eiche.de

Karl August – Chic and trendy boutique hotel in the heart of Nuremberg. Augustiner- hof 1, Nüremberg. Tel: 49-911-376-7660. karlaugust.de

Lab.oratory – Sprawling gay sex club located in the same complex as nightclub Berghain. Am Wriezener bhf, Berlin. laboratory.de

Lost Weekend – Café and event space occasionally hosting queer events. Schellingstraße 3, Munich. Tel: 49-89-2870-1881. lostweekend.de

Prosecco – Tiny bustling queer club full of cute Germans. Theklastraße 1, Münich. Tel: 49-89-2303-2329. facebook.com/proseccobar.muenchen

Travolta – Charming pizzeria and Italian restaurant with outdoor seating. Adlerstraße 28, Nüremberg. Tel: 49 -911-9532-8350. tonitravolta.de

Wirtshaus-Fesch – Trendy gay-owned restaurant serving elevated versions of typ- ical German fare. Müllerstraße 30, Munich. Tel: 49-89-2300-2992. wirtshaus-fesch.de

HUNGARY

Central Grand Café – Oldest coffeehouse in Budapest and elegant setting for tea and pastries. Károlyi utca 9, Budapest. Tel: 36-30-945-8058. centralgrandcafe.hu

CoXx Men’s Bar – Basement cruise bar featuring dark rooms. Dohány u. 38, Budapest. Tel: 36-1-344-4884

Hospital in the Rock – WWII hospital-turned-museum built inside a cave. Lovas út 4/c, Budapest. Tel: 36-70-701-0101. sziklakorhaz.eu/en

Menza – Bustling eatery specializing in Hungarian cuisine. Liszt Ferenc tér 2, Budapest. Tel: 36-30-145-4242. menzaet- terem.hu/en/

Rudas Baths – Legendary thermal baths in the heart of Budapest. Döbrentei tér 9, Budapest. Tel: 36-20-321-4568. en.rudasfurdo.hu

Szek – Trendy eatery specializing in Transyl- vanian cuisine. Andrássy út 41, Budapest. Tel: 36-1-721-3154. szeketterem.hu

Szimpla Kert – The largest of Budapest’s many “ruin” bars. Kazinczy u. 14, Budapest. Tel: 36-1-352-4198. ruinbarsbudapest.com/szimpla-kert-ruin-bar

Why Not Café and Bar – Centrally located queer bar and hangout for young LGBTQ Hungarians. Belgrád rkp. 3-4, Budapest. Tel: 36-1-780-4545. whynotcafe.hu/en

POLAND

Hotel Santi – Charming and affordable hotel in the heart of Old Town. Dominikańska 1, Kraków. Tel: 48-797-991-337. santihotel.pl

Lindo Bar – Basement queer bar located on the outskirts of Old Town. Sławkowska 23, Kraków. facebook.com/LindoKrakow

Pod Baranem – Busy Polish eatery sitting just outside Old Town. Świętej Gertrudy 21, Kraków. Tel: 48-12-429-4022. podbaranem.com

SPAIN

Club XXL – Popular two-story cruise bar located on a popular queer nightlife strip. Carrer de Joan Tarrida, 7, Sitges. Tel: 34-

695-893-204.

Elite Hotel – Gay-owned boutique hotel just steps from the beach. Carrer d’en Tacó, 13, Sit- ges. Tel: 34-937-098-137. elitehotelsitges.com

Gaby’s – Charming waterfront eatery owned by a gay American expat. Passeig de la Rib- era, 19, Sitges. Tel: 34-615-405-756. face- book.com/GabysSitges

La Picara – Fantastic lesbian-owned tapas restaurant. Carrer de Sant Pere, 3, Sitges. Tel: 34-938-110-285. gaysitgesguide.com/restaurant/la-picara

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