Do Cry for Me Argentina
By Bryan van Gorder
We had already waited almost two hours along the Avenida de Mayo in Buenos Aires for the Gay Pride march, La Marcha, to start. Our little multinational group—a gay Brazilian, a German lesbian, an Australian lesbian and I (a gay American)—had managed to keep ourselves entertained by drinking giant cans of beer and watching the colorful characters pass through the crowd like human confetti. To our left, a trio of super-glam drag queens in mile-high wigs approached, but was stopped every few feet to pose for photos. A couple holding hands passed by and seemed to be dressed either as a strip of bacon and a mouth or, more likely, a tongue and a vagina. Before I could figure it out, though, a hot pink roller derby team zipped by and sent my gaze off in an entirely new direction.
Having polished off our last beers, we all agreed that La Marcha probably wouldn’t happen any time soon, and even if it did, that night was our first chance to make up for some missed opportunities from earlier in the trip. We couldn’t even get a Gay Pride parade to work for us. It was starting to seem as if our big gay trip was being repressed.