I started this year in Cancún, Mexico. It was my first time there. Leaving the downtown bus station with my roller bag skipping along behind me, it was just a short walk to the small family-run hotel where I was staying.
The first person I encountered was an American woman. She was in heels. Her makeup was smeared on her face. She carried her broken suitcase in her arms like someone would carry a baby. I could see a feather boa and sexy lingerie hanging out of it. Did I mention it was around 10 a.m.? Did I mention that downtown Cancún is not very touristy and is very far—hours and hours of walking or a very expensive taxi ride—from the Zona Hotelera, where 99 percent of visitors stay? This woman came up to me and asked, “Do you know where the bus station is?”
Having been in Cancún for mere minutes, this was the only question she could have asked that I could actually answer. “It’s right over there,” I said, pointing.
“Thank you.” She walked off in the direction I’d indicated.
And that was that. I had so many questions. Where had she come from, and how on earth, in those heels, carrying that bag, had she gotten downtown? Had this woman just had the best night of her life or the worst? Had she just scammed someone or had she just been scammed? Broken up with someone or been dumped? And where could someone who seemed like she didn’t have any connections to Mexico possibly be taking a bus to?
Some of us have been there. We head out for a gay travel adventure, and sometimes the adventure takes over. A few weeks into that trip to Mexico, I found myself in Mexico City, wandering around an unfamiliar and rather chaotic neighbourhood looking for a gay club hosting a jockstrap party. It took a while for me to figure out that I had to take the elevator up to the sixth floor. I stripped down to my jockstrap only to notice that nobody else was wearing one. The most popular feature of the club was a geodesic dome/yurt that was lit up inside with super bright LED lights so, it seemed, patrons could make videos of themselves having fun. You could close a wooden door, to have some privacy while you did so, but most patrons didn’t bother to lock theirs—photobombing seemed welcome. The club also had a recreation of a Mexico City metro train car, complete with sound effects and a moving light that made it feel like the car was in motion. It was also a busy area of the club. Some people’s fantasies!
“I couldn’t make this stuff up,” I thought to myself.
And here at Wander+Lust, we don’t make it up. It’s all real and, for the most part, available for others to follow in our footsteps. Since we launched in April 2023, this newsletter has celebrated the travel adventures of gay and bi men. Even when we don’t travel with lust as our main purpose, we like to know that there are opportunities to meet other guys—it’s a way into a culture.
Conversely, even when we travel primarily to experience gay life—the bars, clubs, saunas and coffeeshops that help us find each other—we also want to experience things that are beautiful, historic, tasty, glamorous, moving. Culture and fun are not mutually exclusive.
In my travels this year, I’ve been amazed by where I’ve found openly gay guys. Running a guesthouse on the island of Vieques, Puerto Rico. In small towns in the coffee-growing region of Colombia. A suburb of Liverpool or Detroit (which I’ll write about in the new year). They’re usually friendly and not always looking for just one thing.
What have I learned? Trust your instincts. Take fewer (or no) risks when you’re inebriated. Always respect your host. Not everybody wants to be your friend, but that doesn’t mean they mean you any harm. You’re more attractive than you think you are, especially when you find your own tribe. Even though your phone can be very helpful, it never hurts to have some idea of where you are, where you’re going and how to get back to where you’re staying. Tip. Be friendly. You might be coming back sooner than you think.
