Quentin Fottrell'sfirst gaycation was to Mykonos. The Greek island is one of several hot gay tourism spots - so if you go in high summer, expect to meet half od gay Dublin.
MYKONOS WAS MY first planned gaycation. I was attending a wedding on Paros, in Greece, and decided to take a solo trip to the nearby island of Mykonos. I packed my rucksack, not forgetting my Dolce Gabbana chocolate-brown swimming trunks, and told the remaining wedding guests: "I am off to visit my people."
One treacherous hovercraft ride later and I was wandering the narrow streets of this seaside town. Mykonos is no Ibiza, thanks be to God. There are no high-rise apartment blocks or mega rave venues. It has a carnival atmosphere, and three glorious white sandy beaches - Paranga, Paradise and, my favourite, Super Paradise - are within easy reach by boat service.
Mykonos has half a dozen gay bars. Icaros, Pierros and Manto are next to each other just off Taxi Square, which is a hive of activity after midnight, with people spilling on to the street. One drag queen regaled me with tales of her love affair with a local policeman. Porta, a bar near the seafront, is a bit like traditional pub. Kastro Bar, by the harbour, is a nice place to watch the sun set. Montparnasse, aka the Piano Bar, is a mixed venue, with the gays and the straights tapping along to the music and drinking cocktails. But you're probably just as likely to have a holiday romance on the beach or splashing about in the surf. That's where the real posing begins.
It was here that I learned one hard fact about gaycations. You might think you're getting away from it all, but if you visit a European gay destination in high summer you will meet half of gay Dublin. They will be at the next table over lunch or in one of the bars at night. Whether you like it or not.
And so it was. I was sitting pretty on Super Paradise Beach. Sunglasses: check. Sun hat: check. Factor 30 for my face: check. Factor 8 for the rest of me: check. International Herald Tribune: check. With a National Enquirerfolded inside: check. And, two umbrellas away, 10 guys from Dublin, one of whom I knew in a past life, who have been drinking beer since lunchtime: check.
I was sure my sun hat, my sunglasses and the newspaper held high over my head would ensure anonymity. I hid my face as the rowdy group, their feet scorched, passed by in pursuit of more beer, their Dublin accents prominent. But with my milk-bottle legs, my factor 30 and my International Herald Tribune, they spotted me a mile away.
It turned out my bias against Dubliners abroad was unjustified. We spent the night hanging out and bar-hopping. At sunrise we had a Bloody Mary breakfast by the harbour.
Coincidentally, the same crew were in Sitges the following year. Sitges, a seaside town outside Barcelona, is the gay capital of Spain in the same way that Mykonos is the gay capital of Greece, Fire Island the gay capital of New York state, Miami the gay capital of Florida and Manuel Antonio the gay capital of Costa Rica's Pacific coast.
Sitges is wonderful for its four kilometres of beaches. Its reputation as a countercultural resort began in the 19th century with the modernist Spanish painter Santiago Rusiñol. He helped it become one of the country's major salons of the counterculture movement for painters, poets and writers fleeing the fascist dictatorship of Franco. There are many fine art museums, including one, the Cau Ferrat, in Rusiñol's former home.
Our week in Sitges coincided, to our surprise, with Bear Week. Bear is a term of endearment for big, hairy, burly gay men. Our token heterosexual male friend, who had eaten a few pies in his time, thought it an outrageous rebranding. "I'm straight, so I'm considered fat. Yet he," he declared, pointing at a man who ate all the pies, "is considered a bear. How is that fair?" It's not.
On that note, Bears' Bar is like a biker's bar - leather and denim - with a gay twist. At many gay bars in Sitges you can peer through the windows from the street. Not here. It adds to the vibe, but on obligatory shirtless nights, when they won't let you through the door unless you take yours off, it can be intimidating.
My favourite bar is Parrots, in the old town square, where you can sit outside and people-watch. Most gay bars have a rainbow canopy or flag as a heads-up.
The past came back to entertain us in Sitges in the form of a Malaysian friend from Kuala Lumpur whom I knew during my years in London. He was very proper, had been educated at a posh English boarding school and spoke the Queen's English. As it was Bear Week I asked: "Are you a Kuala bear?" He didn't think it was very funny. After that he avoided me.
We did everything but clutch a piece of string as we manoeuvred our way through the dance floors, but I frequently saw Kuala Bear doing a two-step in one bar while his friends were scattered around others. We ate together and set up camp on the beach together, even when there were new additions to our posse. Holiday romance or no holiday romance, nobody got left alone.
It didn't always run smoothly. In Sitges one of our group kissed the waiter from our favourite restaurant at a foam party. (I don't get the foam thing, either.) It didn't work out. We could never go back. Another met an Australian hunk with flowing locks on the beach. The Aussie ran his fingers through his hair proudly. It was a glue-and-go. "I have the same weave-maker as Beyoncé," he said.
Our hotel was full of gay Americans on the first stop of a gay cruise. For days the breakfast hall was alive with chit-chat about who said what to whom, with the clanging of plates, with eye- popping beachwear, with carefully applied tans and with multicoloured tank tops.
Then, one morning, they were gone. Their ship had sailed. It was like all the colour and music had been drained from the world.
For that reason I decided then and there, come rain, hail or shine, Mykonos and Sitges, or Miami and Fire Island, could never be grey places.