What is a Collective Noun for Gay Men?

Saturday was a kickback day. I wanted to catch up on some things and we had another social event planned to the evening. After Friday’s marathon walk, we needed to do less for a day. 

One problem we had was the ATM machine in Miami spit out $50 bills, causing us problems getting them broken here. As our neighbor Howard explains, you give them a $10 note for a tab of $5.60 and their face scrunches as they ask “Don’t you have anything smaller?” We were stuck with two $50 bills. Some problem, right? 

Mike suggested we go across the street to a money change place to see if they would change it. Ron went, but they wanted a passport, which he did not have on him. Going up three flights of stairs and coming back down again was not an option on Marathon Friday. Of course, on Saturday, the place is closed. 

Where oh where were we going break this? We needed coffee beans, but knew the coffee roasting guy would not be able to make change. Off we went to the grocery store called TIA. Though it means aunt in Spanish, it really is an acronym for a corporation. We bought just enough to get by: eggs, broccoli,

and butter. When I handed over Ulysses S. Grant, the male cashier’s face turned into some character from the TV show Grimm. He looked at me with disgust and said “No change!” I opened my wallet and said “No mas dinero.” This was like show down at OK Corral. Who was going to fold first? I waited for him to make a decision. Finally, his hunched shoulders slackened and he yelled for someone to rescue him. A young woman arrived, took Grant and held him to the light. She looked at our changeling, while nodding her head. He opened his draw and gave me change from the copious amount of $20s and $10s in his draw.

Carting a few groceries, we continued to our grinder man. Ten feet from this café, it started to sprinkle. This is the place where we were held captive last Saturday. We wondered if this was a déjà vu moment. After a delightful espresso and our bag of beans, we were off. 

Dear and darling, Howard Wood and Mike Frohling were thoughtful enough to include us in their plans for a “Boys Night Out”. A group of their friends and friends of their friends has periodic group events. We understand the last one was a bowling night. Thankfully, we missed that one. I can only handle so much humiliation. Tonight’s event was dinner at Césares Internazionale Restaurant located at Tarqui 9-61 between Bolivar and Gran Colombia. 

We knew there were to be about 22 men all together. This caused me to think what collective noun has been coined for a group of gay men. Hmm… a group of geese is a gaggle, for flamingos it is flamboyance, and for critics it is a shrivel. A group of men is called a band, but that just does not do justice to gay men. Having to look it up, an ensemble is the word for a group of homosexuals. As very dramatic sounding as it is, homosexual is such a clinical term. For gay men, I want to coin the collective noun as exquisite. A group of gay men is exquisite. 

However prior to dinner, their friends George and Chad offered a pre-dinner cocktail hour at their place on Primero de Mayo. We had no idea what was forthcoming. It was a mind-blowing experience on so many levels. 

We had to take a taxi; George and Chad live a walkable distance away, but it was raining again. This lovely modern building had a security guard at the front desk where Howard signed us in.

After taking the elevator to the fifth floor, the top of the building we entered their entry hall where we discovered there were already 12 men chatting and drinking cocktails. Without any of the attitude or game playing so often encountered, each and every one of these men embraced us with introductions. Again, the warm welcoming demeanor took me aback not only how they reacted to Ron and I, but to each other. Not everyone there knew everyone there. Feelings of a platonic love fest were one of the thoughts that ran through my mind. 

Besides having an exquisite apartment with the most spectacular view, two complete walls of the living room are glass. There are no obstructions for the view. What is even

more jaw-dropping is the wraparound balcony that covers 1,200 square feet. Never in my life have I seen a balcony like that connected to someone’s apartment. Chad and George were the perfect hosts who made the best guacamole I have ever tasted.  

Mike Frohling, Howard Wood, Ron and Ryan

George called and ordered a small fleet of taxis to whisk us all away to the restaurant. Groups of men started down in the elevator. When Ron and I squeezed in the elevator had reached its capacity, refusing to move. We waited for the next lift to arrive. When we reached the front door, everyone was gone. They had all taken off in taxis. Two more taxis arrived, but we did not know the address of the restaurant and our driver had no clue based on the name alone. A little quick thinking was in order. Our cocktail hosts were last to leave to lock up. I went up to get them while Ron waited downstairs. We made it to the restaurant.

For as large a group as we were, there was only one server who had to double behind the bar. The meals arrived one at a time, but somehow we all had hot meals. Dinner was superb. I enjoyed the jalapeño chicken while Ron savored the tomato garlic sea bass.

As I was looking around and remembering the pairs of men we met, almost all of them have been together for 10 years or more and most have married their spouse. Another observation was the age range. I do not think anyone was younger than 45 years old and the ages progressed into the 70s.  When you think about it, this makes sense for people expatriating. You need to have made your money first if you are going to move to a new country to retire. That said though, there were a few couples who have created businesses here as well. The fortunate few! 

We finally parted for home around 9:30 pm floating on Cloud 9. This social activity is going to make the rest of our Ecuador travels pale by comparison. 

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Mercado Mercado Mercado

Ron found this restaurant listed in our guide that is supposed to have exceptional breakfasts.We needed the fortification for a day of exploring Mercado after Mercado after Mercado. We honestly checked and there are no museums here in Antigua. Without a museum to learn about culture, the next best thing is to shop. As we were heading to the restaurant, we confirmed our shuttle ticket reservations for Christmas Day when we will move on to the next city. Don't ask me what it is. Ron does all of the planning, so I am surprised when we leave one place and wind up in another.

The restaurant did have an excellent breakfast at a reasonable price, so much so, we booked reservations for dinner. They have some sort of dance performance. Until dinner time, we had to work up our appetites. As we were meandering toward the first Mercado, the old cathedral was open for exploration. It is not much more than a shell now, but it had some great architecture in its time, some still in evidence. Apparently, it was destroyed in earthquakes. They charge 3 Quetzals for entry, well worth it to explore what is still standing.

Our first Mercado was right in the center of town. We had passed the door a number of times, but did not realize what it was. Once you enter a long hallway, there are over a hundred stalls with goods that range from t-shirts to blankets, sculptures scarves. It is like a war zone. As one passes each stall, you are assaulted with the vendor's offer to give you a special price on whatever they have to sell. Of course this price is only in effect for today, so you must hurry. 

It is like a mine field trying to get past each one without having to stop and look at merchandise you have no interest in. If they should have something that catches your attention, you are doomed. Once you stop to look at something, even for a second, it is as if you have been trapped into a game of negotiation. I could kick myself each time I stop to check out something that has caught my eye, but on closer inspection is of no interested at all. A powerless comes over you. You know you need to make a quick get-away, but you are torn between courtesy and fear.

We made it down one whole row of about 45 stalls, but at the very end, Ron was attracted to painting and stopped. I have to admit, it was interesting. It was from the perspective of the ground up, while other paintings were from a bird’s eye view. There was a special deal for us for today because we were special people, but it was way too high. We left with the salesboy, not yet a man, begging us for forgiveness. Our hearts of steel carried us forward.

Mercado number 2 was a distance away, causing us to traipse through dusty streets frequented by a number of chicken buses and trucks. My first inclination was to skip over this part of the adventure and move on, but Ron persevered. Thankfully, he did. This was a cultural experience bar none. The Mercado is covers 4 square blocks and is filled with booths that sell everything and anything. It reminded me of the Chinese Market in Budapest, but items here were better quality. Still, you see the same merchandise at least 27 times throughout the Mercado. How can anyone compete? This is not a tourist area, as we were in the minority. Most of the shoppers had a better coffee color than we did and many dressed in cultural clothing that tourists generally don’t wear.  It is a maze that one could get lost in if you dare leave the straight path cutting through. I was tempted to look at other merchandise a few spaces to the left, but was afraid I would not be found again until New Years. We did look for the paintings we saw in the other Mercado, but it just doesn't exist outside of that one booth.

Our last Mercado of the day was another one in town. It is a giant cooperative where you can find many of the same things as everywhere else, but there were some differences. As the t-shirts in Cambodia say “Same-Same, but Different”. We found a great set of 4 posters, modern, a touch of indigenous, but inviting colors that we will have framed when we return.

Of course, we could not escape Clara, our wandering saleslady in the park. She decided we needed a set of table mats, which did trigger the notion that it would be good to have for the new apartment. Of course, we should buy the table first, but what the heck. After telling her that none of her colors met our needs, she promised to have a better selection tomorrow. She did sell us another table runner while she had us in her web.

We had to torture ourselves by visiting that one painting one more time in the first Mercado to see if we could reach a realistic agreement. Because it is located in the very back of the market, I told Ron we would have to make a mad dash, running past all of the other hawkers. We set a new record, but there was still no agreement on negotiations.

With great anticipation, we headed back to the restaurant where we had reservations. For the dinner show, you are seated in a different dining room than the uninitiated who haven’t been privy to live entertainment. There is no charge for the show other than your meal costs. Feeling special, we decided to order cocktails; they were listed on the drink menu and quite honestly, I have been thirsty for a Manhattan for some time now. The last time we splurged on cocktails was in Ljubljana where they tasted okay, but lacked liquor. I ordered a Manhattan and Ron ordered a martini, both specifically without ice. I would have said we wanted them “UP”, but I thought that would be lost in translation.

The drinks arrived. Ron’s martini had little ice floes floating around where miniature polar bears could have lounged or hung over the sides to catch fish. My drink was a dead give-away that there was more wrong than a polar experience. The glass was not a Manhattan glass, but one that you would use to serve a daiquiri or any of those sissy drinks that contain mini-umbrellas. Good grief, it also had a slice of orange on the side. The final clincher was that it was cloudy, not clear. I had to taste it in the waiter’s presence before sending it back. It tasted like Kool-Aid mixed with a scoop of sugar, but as far away from a Manhattan as Beijing is.

The head waiter wanted to know what was wrong. I explained how a Manhattan should be prepared. After a thousand apologies, they took it back and returned with a new drink. It looked identical with the exception that this one was adorned with an orange slice and a cherry. The cherry was all of the progress they made. The drink was identical.

Our dinner choices lost something in translation also. I ordered enchiladas, which I have been hungry for for some time, so was thrilled to see them listed. Ron ordered Chile rellenos. While we anticipated our gastronomic delights, a group of 6 xylophonists played in tandem. Six men playing in unison is a great feat and they performed superbly.

Hot plates were set in front of us. My enchiladas, note the plural, turned out to be a singular tostada. My culinary hopes vanished into thin vapors of steam coming off of my platter. Ron’s Chile rellenos was even more perplexing as it was sans the Chile. They must have stuffed the pepper, cooked it and then peeled the pepper off and tossed it.

Distracting us from disappointment were the dancers. Dressed in Mayan costumes complete with masks, they danced for fifteen minutes, the last 5 with audience participation. Once the show was over, we mourned our dinner another minute before paying the bill.

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