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Whistler WinterPRIDE 2008: “THEY MUST HAVE KNOWN THE HOMOS WERE COMING”

Rainbow_over_howe_sound_copy
Story and photo by Aefa Mulholland

Not since I got on that central Sydney-bound train for my first Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras have I been in line for public transit with so many impeccably dressed, hot guys. Instead of the usual herds of slouchy young Australian kids clutching boards and backpacks, the travelers waiting for this Friday morning bus from Vancouver to Whistler are clad in designer attire, color coordinated luggage propped neatly alongside.

This bus ride itself is the gayest I’ve been on since I traveled down the Florida Keys to Key West last year with a troupe of hung over, off-duty drag queens. Taking into account that none of my fellow passengers have skis or snowboards and that the conversation is entirely après-ski focused, my guess is that the hardcore sports enthusiasts scooted slopewards earlier in the week.

This busload seems more concerned with WinterPride’s social shenanigans and, in that case, I am definitely in the right place: I’ve never been on a ski, board or snowshoe in my life.

Hurtling through downtown Vancouver, we glide through the pines and firs of Stanley Park, and over the Lion’s Gate Bridge; the sun glinting on the Georgia Strait as we pelt north. Soon we’re out of the city and on the Sea to Sky Highway: islands are dotted about the Howe Sound, ferries scuttling between them.

An hour later the clouds lift and a double rainbow appears over the inlet. “Look,” says the guy in the seat behind me to his boyfriend in deadpan tones, “They must have known the homos were coming.”


Story and photo by Aefa Mulholland

Not since I got on that central Sydney-bound train for my first Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras have I been in line for public transit with so many impeccably dressed, hot guys. Instead of the usual herds of slouchy young Australian kids clutching boards and backpacks, the travelers waiting for this Friday morning bus from Vancouver to Whistler are clad in designer attire, color coordinated luggage propped neatly alongside.

This bus ride itself is the gayest I’ve been on since I traveled down the Florida Keys to Key West last year with a troupe of hung over, off-duty drag queens. Taking into account that none of my fellow passengers have skis or snowboards and that the conversation is entirely après-ski focused, my guess is that the hardcore sports enthusiasts scooted slopewards earlier in the week.

This busload seems more concerned with WinterPride’s social shenanigans and, in that case, I am definitely in the right place: I’ve never been on a ski, board or snowshoe in my life.

Hurtling through downtown Vancouver, we glide through the pines and firs of Stanley Park, and over the Lion’s Gate Bridge; the sun glinting on the Georgia Strait as we pelt north. Soon we’re out of the city and on the Sea to Sky Highway: islands are dotted about the Howe Sound, ferries scuttling between them.

An hour later the clouds lift and a double rainbow appears over the inlet. “Look,” says the guy in the seat behind me to his boyfriend in deadpan tones, “They must have known the homos were coming.”


Story and photo by Aefa Mulholland

Not since I got on that central Sydney-bound train for my first Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras have I been in line for public transit with so many impeccably dressed, hot guys. Instead of the usual herds of slouchy young Australian kids clutching boards and backpacks, the travelers waiting for this Friday morning bus from Vancouver to Whistler are clad in designer attire, color coordinated luggage propped neatly alongside.

This bus ride itself is the gayest I’ve been on since I traveled down the Florida Keys to Key West last year with a troupe of hung over, off-duty drag queens. Taking into account that none of my fellow passengers have skis or snowboards and that the conversation is entirely après-ski focused, my guess is that the hardcore sports enthusiasts scooted slopewards earlier in the week.

This busload seems more concerned with WinterPride’s social shenanigans and, in that case, I am definitely in the right place: I’ve never been on a ski, board or snowshoe in my life.

Hurtling through downtown Vancouver, we glide through the pines and firs of Stanley Park, and over the Lion’s Gate Bridge; the sun glinting on the Georgia Strait as we pelt north. Soon we’re out of the city and on the Sea to Sky Highway: islands are dotted about the Howe Sound, ferries scuttling between them.

An hour later the clouds lift and a double rainbow appears over the inlet. “Look,” says the guy in the seat behind me to his boyfriend in deadpan tones, “They must have known the homos were coming.”

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