It was a beautiful day. I was
strolling through one of St.
Petersburg’s most prominent
parks. Yes, it was a tourist
attraction. I was a tourist.
On a two-night stop on a
Baltic Sea gay cruise, if you
can imagine that. I like to
imagine it. Even though I’m
pretty sure I was there. I
have photos. And the port’s
architectural skyline burned
into my brain. So it must be
true? Anyway, if it was, as we
were strolling through this
tourist area in St. Petersburg,
suddenly there was a bit of a
louder set of vocal noises coming
from the sidewalk that our tour
guide has us strolling down,
toward some magnificent desti
nation, I’m sure. I turned around
to see if I could determine what
the hubbub might be and all I
noticed at first was that there was
a group of people of various ages
and heights, women and men, it
seemed, dressed perhaps a bit
differently than the rest of us, and
they were hauling ass down the side
walk in, around, amongst us naive
foreigners. It all happened quite
fast, the group sped through and
were gone. It was only shortly
thereafter that there were murmur
ings of pickpockets – my gay cruise
tour through the middle of St. Peters
burg had been targeted by a professional
gang of pickpocketers. The stories of
what had been taken started circulating
around – they had done quite a bit of
damage to our little group. They got
nothing from me, though. I had been,
as is my habit, walking with my hands
in my pants pockets with my left hand
wrapped around my wallet, which I had
for many years been placing in my front
pocket, for fear of it being pickpocketed.
I wouldn’t have had that much in it. Much
more, I suppose than I’ve carried around
in a very long time, I’m sure, but for a
foreigner in Russia on a guided tour, not
a lot, relatively speaking, I’m sure. For
a long while, back when I had friends,
one by one they each began getting
mugged in my city, here in San Francisco.
That was a rite of passage I wanted nothing
to do with. I’ve no second thoughts about
wandering the city, even some of its most
traditionally shady areas, in the middle of
the night or very early in the morning
before the sun rises. It’s not a city that
is up all night, the kind I thought would
have been for me, but there is something
calm and comforting to me about walking
at night through a quiet, sparse metropolis.
But I generally stay on the street when I
walk, and move swiftly, always aware of
what’s going on around me. So, I suppose
fear has been a huge motivator for me. In
general. And probably is for many of us.
But in this age of bullying and fearmongering,
dispensed for power and money, I find myself
growing complacent. Perhaps this is a personal
protest to what has changed most significantly,
to my eyes, on this planet we inhabit. The
pickpocketing gang was more of an amusement
to me at the time than anything else. But the
pop of a firecracker or the initial rumblings of
an earthquake are enough to make me jump
and run around in a frenzy in search of whatever
I impulse has me think of as safety. Or safer. I
don’t want to die a tragic death. This seems like
a universal desire. But maybe I’m headed there.
Sixteen years ago I was on a gay cruise on the
Baltic. I visited Russia. I haven’t been outside
of the San Francisco Bay Area but once in the past
fifteen years. I know I’d take the onrush of that
gang of thieves over complacency, over another
ten years of complacency, or just to have another
ten years, just to know, just to force myself back
out into a perhaps more dangerous world, just for
a few more international adventures, maybe
walk the entire night through the streets of a city
that is abuzz at all hours of the day and night. How
to build such actions back into the realm of the possibility,
that’s the question I’m realizing, with a lot of sadness,
that I have at the moment. Forcing a soliloquy on the
distinct possibility of a lack of hope for such an outcome
is worth a try, I suppose. I hope. Sure, why not?
fast, the group sped through and
were gone. It was only shortly
thereafter that there were murmur
ings of pickpockets – my gay cruise
tour through the middle of St. Peters
burg had been targeted by a professional
gang of pickpocketers. The stories of
what had been taken started circulating
around – they had done quite a bit of
damage to our little group. They got
nothing from me, though. I had been,
as is my habit, walking with my hands
in my pants pockets with my left hand
wrapped around my wallet, which I had
for many years been placing in my front
pocket, for fear of it being pickpocketed.
I wouldn’t have had that much in it. Much
more, I suppose than I’ve carried around
in a very long time, I’m sure, but for a
foreigner in Russia on a guided tour, not
a lot, relatively speaking, I’m sure. For
a long while, back when I had friends,
one by one they each began getting
mugged in my city, here in San Francisco.
That was a rite of passage I wanted nothing
to do with. I’ve no second thoughts about
wandering the city, even some of its most
traditionally shady areas, in the middle of
the night or very early in the morning
before the sun rises. It’s not a city that
is up all night, the kind I thought would
have been for me, but there is something
calm and comforting to me about walking
at night through a quiet, sparse metropolis.
But I generally stay on the street when I
walk, and move swiftly, always aware of
what’s going on around me. So, I suppose
fear has been a huge motivator for me. In
general. And probably is for many of us.
But in this age of bullying and fearmongering,
dispensed for power and money, I find myself
growing complacent. Perhaps this is a personal
protest to what has changed most significantly,
to my eyes, on this planet we inhabit. The
pickpocketing gang was more of an amusement
to me at the time than anything else. But the
pop of a firecracker or the initial rumblings of
an earthquake are enough to make me jump
and run around in a frenzy in search of whatever
I impulse has me think of as safety. Or safer. I
don’t want to die a tragic death. This seems like
a universal desire. But maybe I’m headed there.
Sixteen years ago I was on a gay cruise on the
Baltic. I visited Russia. I haven’t been outside
of the San Francisco Bay Area but once in the past
fifteen years. I know I’d take the onrush of that
gang of thieves over complacency, over another
ten years of complacency, or just to have another
ten years, just to know, just to force myself back
out into a perhaps more dangerous world, just for
a few more international adventures, maybe
walk the entire night through the streets of a city
that is abuzz at all hours of the day and night. How
to build such actions back into the realm of the possibility,
that’s the question I’m realizing, with a lot of sadness,
that I have at the moment. Forcing a soliloquy on the
distinct possibility of a lack of hope for such an outcome
is worth a try, I suppose. I hope. Sure, why not?
