It is both trite and the truth to say that the world is a different place than it was in the 80's: for all of us, and maybe much more-so for anyone who is gay. I was living in San Francisco then, in a neighborhood next to the Castro - the center of gay male life. In those days, the Castro Street Fair was mostly for the locals, and for those of us too young to realize that perhaps this was a party we weren't invited to. I remember walking with a friend through the crowds of bodies pressed up close to each other, trying to maneuver our way through. I was probably also trying hard not to act too shocked at the array of gaudy colors, feather boas, and leather parading by. And then I saw little Bianca Zamora, a four-year-old girl in the preschool class I co-taught, on the shoulders of her dad. The look in his eyes told me the macho Latino man persona he had so carefully cultivated was layered on top of a very different persona. And without exchanging any words, I knew that I was not to mention that I had seen him at this event. I never did.

Here's Bianca on the far right, staring straight at me as I took her photo. That was in 1984, which means she is about 35 years old now. That's a frightening thought. I wish I knew what became of her and the other kids in my class at the Holy F… — Here's Bianca on the far right, staring straight at me as I took her photo. That was in 1984, which means she is about 35 years old now. That's a frightening thought. I wish I knew what became of her and the other kids in my class at the *Holy Family Day Home* in the Mission District of San Francisco, in its gritty, pre-hipster days.

I like to think that the world has changed since those San Francisco days. In a stunning example of how Amsterdam accepts everyone and everything, Gay Pride week got the month of August off to a colorful start here; it let me see firsthand how much the world really has changed. I had heard from expats in the know that the Gay Pride parade (which takes place on the canals, of course), is the second biggest canal-side party, after King's Day (see my May 1 post). When it comes to Gay Pride, Amsterdam takes the top prize, at least compared to other cities in Europe. There is a long history of acceptance here, starting with the fact that homosexuality was decriminalized in 1811, the first gay bar opened in 1927, and in 2001, the Netherlands because the first country in the world to legalize gay marriage.

Here is the Homomonument, the world's first tribute to the gay and lesbian soldiers who lost their lives fighting in WW II. The three sides of the triangle point to different locations in the city: one to Dam Square - where the WW II monument s… — Here is the *Homomonument*, the world's first tribute to the gay and lesbian soldiers who lost their lives fighting in WW II. The three sides of the triangle point to different locations in the city: one to *Dam Square* - where the WW II monument stands - another to the *Anne Frank House*, and the third towards the COC - one of the world's first gay rights organizations.

Curious about how accepting Amsterdammers really are, I set off with some friends for the first big event in Amsterdam Gay Pride Week, the Drag Queen Olympics. Who wouldn't want to be a part of this athletic gala, with events like the Stiletto Sprint and the Handbag Discus Toss? However, when we arrived there were very few spectators, and I worried about the athletes, as some of them they puffed away on their cigarettes. Were we mired in an 80's mentality, thinking this was not an event open to everyone? Were people afraid to come and watch? Despite this year's theme - "Share the love. Love the differences" - maybe people were not loving the differences. My favorite line from The Times They are a Changin? fits here: "Don't criticize what you can't understand."

I secretly wondered if these guys were really just lawyers and bankers trying on a new look for the night.

Before I knew it, however, the crowds poured in: loads of 20-somethings with their tattoos, but also couples in capris, families with children, and tourists. Not gawking, but just enjoying the fun. I learned that in addition to drag queens, there are drag kings. Of course! The D.J.'s kept the crowds amused until the games began with a medley of popular gay anthems (Vogue, It's Raining Men, Bohemian Rhapsody). Those songs were also anthems for me (and my peeps), judging from the way we sang along because we knew every, single, word. Here's a quick glimpse of the mixed crowd. At the very end you can see our friends Rob and Darlene.

A picture is worth a thousand words. Let the games begin! The proud winner is on the bottom row, right. On the bottom row, left, was the stunning, gloriously animated sign language interpreter.

In an example of just how small a city Amsterdam can be, I spotted the bartender we visited the weekend before at the oldest genever (a precursor to gin) and liquor bar called (no kidding) Wyand Fockink. It's been in business since 1679, and it's famous for filling its glasses up to the tippy-top so you have to lean down and take a bit sip before you can pick up the glass with your hands. I had to go just to be able to say the name of the bar again and again, although, as many of you know, I hung up my hard-drinking shoes long ago. Seeing the bartender out and about was like seeing your kindergarten teacher at the grocery store. What? He has a life outside his job?

The next day was the signature event: the Gay Pride parade. When I tell you that the streets were mobbed, that would be a gross understatement. In a city of only about 800, 000 people, there were tens of thousands of spectators lining the canals.

It would have been nice to know someone with an apartment with a view. Instead, we were down in the trenches.

In a sign of just how accepting this city is, the police, the firemen, and even AkzoNobel, Peter's company, all had "floats", boats sliding down the canals, with music blaring. And that man perched atop the blasts of water? On an unusually hot day in Amsterdam, he had the best seat of all.

I hope you can get a sense of just how much of a community event this was. Take a look at the last photo, above, on the left side of the photo. You can see a group of girls in the window that looked like they were hanging out after a sleepover. Who needs T.V. or video games when you have a parade outside your front door?

This set of quadruplets was happy to pose with any families who passed by.

I loved that the shops and restaurants supported Gay Pride by decorating their stores with rainbow colors or balloons. The florist in our neighborhood even designed some "special" vases.

Sadly, all the festivities resulted in a huge trash extravaganza the following day. A local politician was quoted in the morning paper as saying, "Tourists are supposed to be photographing our beautiful buildings, not our rubbish mountains." Amen to that!

I know this was originally billed as a blog about my life in Amsterdam, but as you have come to realize, it's also about the me I was before I arrived. And so, I will share with you that even as I enjoyed the energy and laughter that went along with the Gay Pride Festival, I also thought a lot about my friend John. He was one of my best friends in high school where we went to our junior year prom together; he insisted on driving (at a jaunty clip) my mom's car from the pre-prom party to the country club where the prom was held. And that was before he got his license. Sorry, mom. We shared a love of - among other things - the singer Joan Armatrading, dancing, and laughing. He grew up in Princeton, N.J. at a time when no one in high school was gay. But he went on to Yale, and was able to begin to be the person he always was inside. We stayed in touch and when he worked as a writer in New York, he reveled in knowing the off-the-beaten-track spots where we could meet for dinner. John was a gifted writer, and I think of him often as I write this blog. I wonder if he would have been a dad, in addition to a funny and wise uncle to all his many nieces and nephews. John died of AIDS in 1990, a time that feels both so far away, and sometimes, like it was yesterday.

A few years ago, I was doing a late night quick-read of the New York Times. I came across an article about the Yale AIDS Memorial Project, an initiative to document and pay tribute to the lives of the many Yale students and faculty who died of AIDS. There he was, John, in the pages of the New York Times. He was one of the first wave to be profiled. I stayed up late that night pouring over the tributes from his parents, his sister, and his friends. The line that stood out for me was from his bestest friend Allison, who wrote, "No matter how old he would have grown, John would never have lost his boyishness. He wouldn't have become elderly - he would have become a boy who had grown old."

Here's the eternal boy: John Wallace, 7/22/1960-2/28/1990. — Here's the eternal boy: John Wallace, 7/22/1960-2/28/1990.

I can picture that boyish John blazing a trail through the crowds in Amsterdam, finding a viewing spot for us right up front, right on the edge of the canal. He would have been clutching a bag of frites, extolling the virtues of the Dutch custom of serving mayonnaise on fries instead of ketchup. I can see him waving at the parade floats, and calling out the Dutch words he asked me to teach him - "Lekker" (delicious) and "Leuk" (really nice) - and laughing at himself. When the parade was over, we would have gone out for dinner together with our friends and families. I miss you, John. So, so many of us miss you.

So when I think back to those long ago days in San Francisco, and the scared glance Bianca's dad shot at me, worried I would "tell on him", I think that maybe, just maybe, times have changed and continue to change. As John's beloved Joan Armatrading sang, "Things can change. There's always changes. And I wanna try some rearranging." Yes, we complain about little things like the trash and the less-than-crisp restaurant service here, but on Gay Pride weekend, I was proud to be an Amsterdammer. This is a place you can come to rearrange yourself, and that makes me proud.