This will seem a little self indulgent, but it’s something I feel I should share. I have observed an unusual shift in the way I feel about myself as I walk further down this transgender path.
At moments in which I’ve felt the disapproval of others I have chosen not antagonise anyone. I find rudeness is rarely a solution to anything, and if my appearance offends someone I generally choose to retreat a little.
I have contained myself a little and I fall into a more androgenous behaviour. I generally feel the desire to appease rather than confront. However, recently my perspective on the question of presentation has shifted a little.
Recently I was in a bar with a couple of friends enjoying a beer. I glanced across the bar room and noticed a trip of young men looking in my direction. I wouldn’t describe their attention as exactly hostile, but it certainly was ‘something’. But who can guess what is in someone else’s mind?
I found my immediate reaction was to look at my reflection in a nearby window. Were my forearms looking a little too masculine? Was I appearing a little too masculine?
Swiftly my thoughts shifted, though, and I found myself thinking I wanted to present in a more feminine manner. In other words I wanted to push the needle further to the feminine side of the gauge. I felt no desire to retreat into the androgynous space.
I’ve become aware that as I progress further in this transgender journey the desire has become to dress better rather than to dress in a less confrontational manner. And of course, the dressing is merely the aesthetic. An expression of who I am, rather than actually ‘who I am’.
It really comes down to my simple acceptance of myself. I am what I am.
I really don’t wish to force that on anyone. However, I am not responsible for others discomfort. They own that.
While I won’t intentionally antagonise others I do have a right to be myself.
And the three young men? Well, they certainly weren’t rude to me. Perhaps their attention wasn’t so malevolent, after all. Instead I chose to think that it was nice to be noticed.
A few moments later a drink arrived at our table courtesy of the young men across the room. It just goes to show, first impressions can be wrong.
The first people you will meet in Marrakech are taxi drivers. Iâm not sure how you avoid this, as the hand to hand combat of the awaiting drivers is a gauntlet all visitors to the kingdom are compelled to run.
While taxi drivers in Paris and Rome are licenced to kill, in Marrakech they donât require a licence. Each driver exists only to go down fighting, preferably with his fare. Their only qualification, it seems, is to have a dead goat concealed somewhere in the their vehicle.
Sylvester and I got to our Bed and Breakfast, after our driver had kindly taken us to all the other ones, and we found ourselves staying in a beautiful Riad inside the Medina. With a front door that resembled the entry portal to a leper colony, the unprepossessing entry opened onto a palatial interior of a traditional Marrakech Riad. Tiling of exquisite detail, a cooling pool and a courtyard open to the night sky welcomed us.
I was looking forward to getting into the market in the morning to find something cool to wear. I do love some of the traditional styles.
You know Sylvester can be a total clutz. Yes, somewhere between getting on the plane in Lyon and here he had been bitten by something. He had a small but brightly colored bite on his elbow.
Now, I think you know me. I am a born healer. Itâs not just the sympathetic nature and gentle bedside manner. Itâs something âgivenâ. Bestowed.
Yes, I examined Sylvesterâs elbow and frowned.
âPolysporin. Definitely. And cover it. You donât want that going nasty.â
Simple words. Words easily ignored. Words that proved portentous.
The following night after a hard day of travel I took another look.
âI donât like it. It definitely doesnât look right,â I said. The bite had been banged around and looked quite livid.
Sylvester reluctantly agreed we should go to the medical clinic in the morning.
The following morning we taxied to the clinic. Sylvesterâs arm was very swollen and he was running a fever.
When asked by the nurse to roll his sleeve up Sylvester revealed the swelling.
âOh my god, that thingâs huge!â said the surprised nurse.
I cannot say her surprise filled me with confidence. What followed was the strangest medical exam I have ever been witness to.
Our nurse hurried of to get a doctor and I had the distinct impression it was to show them what was clearly an object of curiosity â Sylvester.
The doctor, another young woman, inspected Sylvester, presumably satisfied he was human. She palpitated his swelling, and Sylvester nearly went through the roof. She traced the outline of the swelling, and examined his arm in detail.
While the nurse readied an infusion for Sylvesterâs arm I couldnât help but notice a cat wander into the examining room. I glanced at the doctor and the nurse, neither of whom was the least bit interested in the feline visitor.
About to ask if the cat lived here, I was pre-empted in my guess as a security guard came into the examining room with a net. By now the cat was sitting on the beep beep machine, looking skeptically at the security guard.
His net was the kind youâd use to remove leaves from a swimming pool. Its long handle caught the doctor round the back of his head as the security guard maneuvered to catch the cat. The cat, being faster than the security guard quickly threw off the poor fellows attempts to catch him and scampered off in the direction of the morgue.
The chaos the security guard left in his wake seemed just an everyday happening as his running footsteps receded down a corridor.
After some X-rays, and prescription of various antibiotics I took Sylvester back to our accommodations to rest up and hopefully get over this thing. Only the following day he was worse. His fever was almost constant, and his arm had swollen more. The traced outline of the swelling now seemed more like a single contour, and we traced another, bigger this time.
And then there was the âveinâ issue. With the swelling being a livid red, I had noticed a redness spreading in a thin line up the inside of Sylvesters arm. I could see this was inflammation running up the basilic nerve. This was progressing hour by hour.
Sylvester was in and out of fever most of the day. Very disturbingly he seemed to get a string of WhatsApp calls from Amanda, apparently concerned for his health. I have some questions to ask about their relationship at some point, I think, but not just yet.
Now I was really concerned about Sylvester. Some of you know Iâve spent years in Africa, though it was a while ago. However, some things donât change. Here things can turn bad real fast. A minor scratch can lead to an abscess and become sceptic very quickly.
I should add that by now we were no longer in Marrakech. We were hours away on the coast. To leave meant a three hour dash through the bush before weâd even get to Marrakech. This was going to take some organising.
The following day Sylvester was too sick to move, but I booked the earliest possible flight out of Marrakech to Paris, with a connecting flight directly to Vancouver.
The following 48 hours were a taste of misery. I donât think I need to detail the flight across empty landscapes and then the onward journey. By the way if youâve ever wondered what qualifications you need to work at Charles De Gaul airport in Paris, believe me you only need one; to hate anyone who travels.
I resisted the temptation to tease Sylvester. I know what youâre thinking, I am all heart, I know. Itâs who I am. However, it was very tempting to say âif you think it hurts now, wait till the larvae start to hatchâŠâ
Eventually we arrived in Vancouver and one of our friendly border security people welcomed us home, along with Ali, Sebastian and Amanda all waiting for a very sick Sylvester.
I am writing this watching the dawn break over the medina in Marrakech, Morocco. As the sun breaks through the temperature will soon rise to over 100F. I am surrounded by the sound of birdsong and the smells of the morning.
In a moment like this I find it easy to reflect on my progress through my own transition. I am aware of the many changes, and if you read much of my writing youâll know the least of these are the physical shifts. Perhaps the most unusual of these shifts is in the form of my dreams.
Last night I dreamed of a situation where I was being at first pursued, and then actively seduced by a woman. She was a statuesque raven-haired beauty. I couldnât quite make it out, but I think she may have been some sort of political leader, an autocrat, from a central American country.
Lyon is a city of stairs. Yes, itâs an unusual thing to say about a city, but then this is an unusual city. The bank of the river Rhone is steep, and in the summer heat struggling up those streets on foot is something one does oneâs best to avoid. Currently weâre experiencing 40 degrees of heat.
And itâs not just me. Roman soldiers struggled up these hills two hundred years before the birth of Christ. Generations of Lyonnaise women have done so, and soldiers of the Wehrmacht did so in the second war. The sweat of many have dripped onto these stones. We were in notable, if not âgoodâ, company.
Yet, off these steep streets run still steeper steps of stone that lead to many of the older houses. It was up these steps that Sylvester and I found ourselves struggling in the 38 degrees (100 degrees F) of summer heat. Sylvester has been saying for some time that he wanted to get in shape. Of course, he didnât specify into the shape of what. Either way, between the heat and the steep incline I felt sure this would help.
We paused in our climb and I gasped for breath the sweat glistened on my cleavage. I said to Sylvester, between heaving breaths, âWhat the hell possessed us to come up these steps?â
âMy mother lives up here. You know that,â he replied.
âShe climbs these stairs?â I said astonished.
âSheâs a tough old bird,â he said as we gathered our strength. âFit as a fiddle, but deaf as a post.â
Eventually we found the right doorway off the steps. There were tearful greetings, glasses of sparkling water pressed into our hands, and I gratefully sat down. As it happens, we were visiting at a time when two of Sylvesterâs nieces were also visiting their grandmother. These two lovely thirteen year old girls were twins, both a picture of innocence and giggling girlishness that one who is trans will likely never know. Big eyes, curling locks falling over their elegant shoulders and faces of angels. Bridgette and Claudette were the image of young French loveliness.
âBonjour,â both had said in chorus, twins are so delightful. One can see so swiftly that they share an almost psychic connection. They blushed slightly, embarrassed to giggle at my terrible attempt at replying in French.
It so happened that Sylvester had to go out with his mother, to assist with carrying some shopping. This left me with the two girls, and barely any language in common. It was only for an hour or so, and Sylvester pointed me in the direction of the kitchen and I made a cup of tea for the tree of us, as Sylvester disappeared out the door.
How is it that teenage girls can giggle so much? I asked myself this as I poured the tea, placed the pot and three cups on a tray and carried the refreshments to the front room where the girls were sitting demurely on the couch. I poured the tea and we attempted to talk until shortly after our little soiree had started there was a ring at the door.
I looked a little surprised, unsure of quite what to do. The girls laughed and Bridgette pressed her finger to her lips, motioning me to be silent. Claudette went to the window, and gingerly looked through the shutters. She hurried back to the table, sipped her tea and tried to stifle a giggle unsuccessfully. Some French conversation in hushed tones took place between the two girls and Claudette went to the shutters, only to collapse in barely stifled laughter.
I was at a loss.
In broken English Bridgette explained.
âItâs the Amazon man. He has to climb the steps,â she laughed.
âOh dear,â I said. âHadnât we better let him in?â
âOh no. This is more fun! Itâs the third time today. We always do this. Grand mother doesnât hear the door bell,â she said by way of explanation.
Alarmed I said, âWhat? Thatâs terrible.â
The doorbell rang more insistently.
I sipped my tea, unsure of what to do.
âWhatâs he delivering?â
The girls dissolved in laughter, and Claudette managed to stammer out something unintelligible. I took out my phone and opened Google translate and handed it to her.
She typed in some text, handed it back to me and went back to the window.
I starred at the scene and then blurted out, âQuelle the fuck! A mattress! A bloody mattress!â
âHeâs crying this time, Bridgette!â said Claudette excitedly.
I went to the window and stared out at the receeding figure leaving with a rolled up mattress in is arms.
I looked at the two girls in horror.
âThis isnât how we do things in Canadaâ, I said in broken French.
âVive la difference!â said Bridgette between gasps of laughter.
What a joyful experience it is to travel to Europe and escape from the abject insanity of life in our busy advertising agency. Why, sometimes I have had to appear in the office as early as 11 am!
âItâs this crazy North American work ethic,â Sebastian commented while behind me his hands gently manipulating my hips, adjusting my yoga position.
I had left the office a little early, at 2 pm since an air conditioner on the second floor had failed.
âItâs inhuman expecting staff to work in these conditions,â I had pointed out to Brenda, our human resources manager. Admittedly my office is on the seventh floor, but itâs the principle of the thing.
âWhat you need is a holiday, Fiona,â said Sebastian as he adjusted my pose. Heâs right, of course. I do so much more than the required amount of work. Thatâs the sort of person I am. Always âover deliveringâ.
âYouâre running a serious risk of burn out. And then what would people do?â he continued. âWith so many people depending on you, youâre almost honor bound to get away. Itâs the kindest thing to do.â
I sat upright and took a sip of Perrier.
âItâs true,â I said. âFew people understand the pressures on a transgender advertising executive.â
You might think I am joking but the very same thing was said to me the other day when I took a couple of hours out of my work day to see my masseuse, and I always find it wise to listen to the advice of experts.
This is how I came to be sitting on an Air France flight to Paris with my friend Sylvester who had decided it was time to visit his aging mother who lives in the beautiful ancient city of Lyon. After touch down we quickly cleared customs, a process made all the more human by the total lack of human contact as we progressed through the airport. Gone are the days of invasive baggage searches by curious homeland security perverts wondering why I had so many exciting items of lingerie. Prior to going on hormone replacement therapy, while still in the realm of emergent crossdressing, this had been the humiliating ritual I went through when traveling anywhere in the States. Fortunately most of Europe has made the technological leap forward that leaves their US counterparts clutching at their flies while mumbling about tariffs. In Europe the technology exists not to need to do searches, or they just donât care enough to give travelers a hard time. As a result, disembarkation to clearing customs took no more than five minutes.
We quickly found the TGV â a train that would swiftly carry us to Lyon two hundred and forty miles from Paris. I should explain something here, for the benefit of my American readers who have not experienced European train travel. Trains have come a long way since they first started carrying fare paying travellers. While Amtrak appears to be stuck in the dark ages, believing male engineers who told them that female passengers travelling at speed would experience their ovaries exploding and the uteruses flying out of their bodies, elsewhere things have moved forward. Admittedly this would add a little color to an Amtrak journey.
While Sylvester fiercely defends the great American train journey, I prefer the TGV. I find it comfortable and fast. No, I mean really fucking fast. The TGV rushes from Paris to Lyon at speeds of up to 200 mph. Yes – you read that right. Check it out.
I remember traveling to LA on one occasion to visit a client. After a humiliating airport search we sat in traffic for two hours to travel a full 15 miles to their office. In France in that time we covered more than 240 miles to arrive in Lyon.
The journey was easy and uneventful, other than occasionally having to rebuke Sylvester.
âNo, Sylvester! Iâm begging you, never again say visiting Paris is just like âthat time you travelled to Anchorageâ. Youâll start an international diplomatic incident.â
I sometimes think itâs like traveling with a child. Iâve seriously thought about having Sylvester tested for, well, something.
Here the in-crowd manages to radiate cool when they go out in the heat of the summer night. Itâs a quality we may manage to imitate but can never master. The difference is no less than the difference between a parrot and a poet.
Welcome to Lyon.
The next episode in this collection will be out in a few days.
âYou are never going to get all that in there,â I said to Sylvester.
âI squeezed it in before,â he replied, reaching down and pressing harder.
âYou should try to sit on it,â I suggested helpfully.
Sylvester is one of those people who try to pack too many things into his ancient suitcase, and then expects it to close as though itâs half empty. Itâs always this way. And I have to say itâs never the way it is in the movies. I mean, James Bond doesnât go through the sort of trials and tribulations at checkout time that Sylvester does. Heâll be trying to close an overstuffed suitcase, and finally when he does he finds heâs zippered his tie into the thing and is walking around the hotel room trying to disentangle himself from 20 kilos (45 lbs) of suitcase. It would be funny if it wasnât so sad. Poor Sylvester.
âAll you should do is gently tuck everything out of the way. Donât over do it. It just doesnât need to be so hard,â I told him.
âBut Iâm carrying the bare minimum,â he protested.
âI would hardly say that,â I replied.
I glanced down at the contents of the case.
âWhat are these,â I asked, holding up a large pair of oversized shorts. âBeagling shorts? Were you planning on going Beagling when in Brazil?â https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beagling
âTheyâre comfortable,â replied Sylvester.
âI think the Capybara Protection League might have something to say about that,â I muttered.
Sylvester looked thoughtful for a moment and then asked, âDo you think people hunt Capybaras?â
âWell, I donât really know how they taste,â I said.
âTheyâre a bit like beaver,â mused Sylvester and then said, âAnd people eatâŠâ
âShut up, Sylvester!â I snapped. You know he really can be quite coarse.
Actually, the capybaras are friendly lovely things. Theyâre quite big too. Like an over inflated guinea pig. Two hundred pounds of guinea pig.
Iâll be heading back to Vancouver shortly, and posting a lot more content. I have a sense that the Canada I return to is very different from the Canada I left. I am picking up a lot of anger about the situation in the US. I will write more later.
On to more serious issues: I have today read about a tragic murder of a trans man in the US. I urge all my members to be very careful in the current climate in the US. I would strongly suggest you get off dating sites until some of the tension dies down. If you have to meet someone unknown please be extra careful. That means making sure someone knows where you are, and that you will contact them after your meeting ends. Let whoever you are meeting know someone is expecting to see you after the meeting. And use your phone to share your location with a trusted friend. Be careful.
If you are on my Patreon youâll know a lot more about whatâs going on in the transgender world, and of whatâs happening for me. Iâd love to see you as a member. Join my Patreon here.
Itâs still a wonderful world, itâs still the Gulf Of Mexico, and I am still transgender â regardless of anyoneâs executive order.
I don’t really like to approach the bathroom issue. It seems so divisive for some people.
My mother always used to say that a guest may use any bathroom they wish – otherwise why invite them into your house? Sadly in some places this line of thinking seems just a little too adult for the simple minded. I’m thinking particularly of the Montana State Legislature.
In a display of outright bigotry and a childish attempt to embarrass a duly elected member of their Congress, a motion was introduced to ban Zooey Zyphyr from the female bathrooms in the building. You can see the attempt, and watch it fail, here – https://youtu.be/LTJJi4QrKCQ?si=P18xXcI3lzUgodBV.
Zooey is an elected member, simply doing her utmost to represent the members of her constituency. She is a fine trans woman and takes her public service seriously. Regrettably some members of her state body are too infantile to accept that they have a responsibility to work like responsible adults – but what can you do!
Meanwhile, here in Brazil, where I am currently traveling, I have found people not so much ‘tolerating’ of transgender people, but more calmly indifferent. It is, to use the common parlance – like, ‘whatever’. The idea that people are people is quite the norm. Why would anyone have an issue?
I am currently in Curatiba, home of the capibyra and beautiful art. I will do more on that a little later, however last night Sylvester and I treated ourselves to dinner at Hambergay, a gay restaurant. In fact it was so gay we were practically showered in glitter on arrival.
The food was lovely, I had the Barbie burger, and Sylvester chose the flamboyant Gaga burger, both of which came with rich toppings including edible glitter. In fact, the drinks (Margayritas) also had edible glitter in the ice cubes. Fabulous!
The restaurant is genuinely family friendly, a couple seated by us included their young children. Halfway through the cocktails I was provided with a pink feather boa, and led to their photo wall and photographed extensively. Perhaps, I thought, my fame had stretched even to here, but ‘no’, most guests get the same treatment. The staff are courteous, engaging and add a note of fun.
Now, Sylvester being Sylvester, had to make some vulgar comment about needing to use the bathroom, and disappeared into a pink mist that led the way to the facilities. After a suitable time he came rushing back, out of breath, and at first I thought he had done something self indulgent in there – as you know he can really be quite coarse.
But, no. He was excited to announce it was one of the most extraordinary bathrooms he had had the pleasure of… Well, using. I include some photos above.
I shall be contacting my people back in Canada and suggesting we adopt this very decor in our Parliament building. It seems very appropriate. Justin is usually quite attentive to such things when we chat.
This post first appeared on my Patreon. I’ve been traveling in Brazil and following some tech challenges could post only on my Patreon. If you’re not already a member on there, this might be a good time to join.
As I continue to travel here in Brazil I am falling into a routine of listening to the news as I shower and prepare for the day.
I wash and shave, even with HRT there’s still a little shadow there. I don’t really suffer from dysmorphia, but I really don’t like facial hair. It is something of a reminder of something I want to leave behind. So I shave thoroughly, as the BBC newscast goes on and I hear of further erosion of trans rights in the US.
In the mirror I see the reflection of my upper body. I see the curve of my breasts and I brush my hair, now long and lustrous after years of care.
On one breast I have the names of Nex Benedict and Brianna Ghey tattooed, memorializing two of the many trans people who have been tragically taken before their time. I honor them and say their names each morning.
I say a prayer for all my trans sisters as I ready myself for the day. That reflection reminds me that the sun will still come up, I am still transgender, and no executive order will change that fact. The Gulf of Mexico is still the Gulf of Mexico, and life does go on.
The actions of one insecure little man will not change any of this. It is still a wonderful world. Those who mistreat us define themselves through their cruelty.
I do love to travel. So much so, that when a friend invited me to travel to Curatiba in Brazil I was not going to turn down the offer.
So here I am in the south of Brazil, in what to me is a rather unusual AirBnBâââbut something that is very common here. Itâs basically an entire tower block turned over to AirBnB accommodations. Iâll describe this in another post later, but itâs quite remarkable. I think itâs what happens when thereâs little in the way of regulation around this type of accommodation.
The rooms are small, they have a basic kitchen and a bathroom. Travelling with Sylvester, the bathroom arrangements are rather important. The fact that the place is so small is a concern. To put it delicately, after a visit to the bathroom by Sylvester, thereâs what is best described as an environmental hazard for some time.
Sylvester, bless him, had bashfully suggested buying a scented candle, however there really is only so much one can ask of a candle. To be quite honest I also feel disinclined to have a naked flame around at a moment like this. Unusual as it may seem, our bathroom seems to have two doors, one opening inwards and another opening outwards. I can only put this down to a serendipitous choice buy the management to limit the blast radius from Sylvesterâs bowel movements.