Coming Home to the Castro

After the year I turned 21, now more than thirty years ago, I took two trips that felt monumental to me. Iconic, even, though mostly because I had never really traveled on my own before. Until then, the world had been something I imagined more than experienced.

The first trip was to New York City. I went to meet a guy named James, a law student at NYU. I spent a whirlwind weekend with him and his friends, people who already seemed impossibly grown-up to me. We drank wine in Little Italy, ate incredible food in Chinatown, and I had my first ever meringue cookie.

I met James online in a gay.com chatroom using a dial-up modem, which should tell you everything you need to know about the era. That trip mattered, but this story isn’t really about New York.
This story is about the other trip. San Francisco.

As a newly out gay man, San Francisco existed for me as mythology. The gay capital of the world. The Castro Theatre. Endless hills. A place where people like me didn’t just exist, they thrived. I had met a couple online, also through gay.com, who lived just outside Los Angeles.

I spent a week with them, and as a boy from Florida, this was the first time I ever had Cuban coffee. We toured Hollywood, went to an Emerald City party in West Hollywood, and then decided to drive up the Pacific Coast Highway. They gave me two options. Vegas or San Francisco. I chose San Francisco without hesitation.

The drive itself was unforgettable. I remember falling in love with Carmel, which later became famous for Clint Eastwood’s stint as mayor, and stopping in Long Beach, where my parents had gotten engaged. But the real jewel was waiting at the end of the road.

San Francisco.
Our first stop was the Castro District. I wanted to see the theater I had heard so much about, and I decided to get my hair cut. That haircut accidentally started a tradition I still keep. Ever since, I get my hair cut everywhere I travel. Madrid, Krakow, Berlin, New Orleans, New York, Chicago. The list keeps growing. In Madrid, after a haircut, I decided to bleach my hair blonde. When I left the country, the passport agent looked from my photo to my newly blond head and said, “Oh… so you’re rubio now?” I like change. Always have.

Back to that haircut in San Francisco.
The shop had a big picture window, and I could not stop turning my head. One hot guy passed by, then another, and another. Shirtless. Muscular. Beards. Hairy chests.

I was completely undone. The barber, who was also bearded and very muscular, finally grabbed my head, turned it toward him, took off his shirt, flexed, and told me to look at him so he could finish the cut. I behaved impeccably after that. And somewhere between the clippers and the window, I fell in love with the city.

Now, all these years later, I am packing boxes, selling my car, and getting ready to make that love official. By the time you read this, I’ll be unpacking, exploring, walking everywhere, riding the train, and living a dream that has been quietly waiting its turn.

I’ll look for the same rainbow steps where I once sat and had my picture taken. I’ll see a show at the Castro Theatre. I’ll go to Twin Peaks for the first time and have an Irish coffee. I’ll eat fish and chips at the pier and watch the sea lions bark at the fog.

So goodbye, Tampa Bay. Hello, San Francisco Bay. Your boy is coming home.

And yes, the very first thing I’m going to do once I get there is get my hair cut in the Castro District.

Lead Pic by Piotr Musioł on Unsplash