Old Times, New England
At this time of year, with St Patrick's Day on the horizon, my thoughts naturally turn to Iceland. No, I haven't gone dyslexic. What I mean to say is, five years ago today, I set out on a journey of discovery, and the first stop was Keflavik.
After de-planing, I made my way to a spa, undressed and immersed myself in warm water, surrounded by naked bodies. Just like any Saturday in Glasgow, really. Except in this case, I was also surrounded by volcanic rocks lunar landscapes and ice. The Blue Lagoon was bloody freezing, but floating happily on a sea of sulphur I was warm as toast. Then, after a quick towel-down, it was back on the bus and off to America. As one does.
There followed a full week of jollity. I spent some time in Provincetown in the company of five other gay men. In private, we played out our most intimate fantasies and confessed our deepest desires. Yes, it was a writing workshop. And a bloody good one, too. It replaced my desperation with inspiration, and it's still paying dividends to this day.
Meanwhile, I made merry in Massachusetts and left my pawprints all over New England. The wonderful bix02138 was generous both with his time and his transport, carrying me off to the beauties of the region. I experienced superb State Houses, gorgeous gorges, magnificent museums and some very bizarre place names. Even now, in moments of stress, I find tranquility by ejaculating Woonsocket.
One of these days, I'll get back there. But half a decade later, the memory lingers on.
