Prideful Afternoon in Amsterdam

It was long, sweaty and hot. The hordes welcomed the suprising sunshine after three days of typical Amsterdam rain. Some things, however, did rain down on that Saturday afternoon in early August: smiles and pride. With appearances from a Cher look-alike, tons of pale buttocks, and a glut of fallac symbols, the 2006 European Gay Pride Parade had everything a progressive, fun-loving individual could want. And for a mostly heterosexual being, I found the whole afternoon more than worth the trip.

Andy and I woke up late again after sleeping like logs in our rented apartment a few tram stops outside the main Amsterdam tourist center. The parade began at 2 pm so our delayed start did not deter us. My feet were hurting after two, 9-hour days of trekking through Europe’s version of Sin City. For breakfast, we sipped on some local juices and snacked on granola and milk bought at the corner grocery store. Our, 45 euro-a-night room was treating us right, despite the terminally uncomfortable folding chairs, and bathroom that was two floors down in another person’s apartment.

We loped off to catch the 2 Tram to the Princengracht Canal wih plenty of time to spare. I was preparing myself for crowds after all that I read about the event, and when I disembarked from the Total Recall-looking tram, I was met by groovy Europe, an estimated 200,000 of them, and they were here to celebrate.

We scored a spot right behind a no frills houseboat, one of hundreds parked up against the canal walls. We stood there waiting for the parade to start, taking in all the crazy, beautiful people while basking in the sun for the first time in a while. Most of the men there were openly gay and you could tell they loved being themselves. The standard look was shaved head and jean shorts with white, cotton sleeveless t-shirts. Some also went shirtless and were showing off their stellar physiques. My favorite t-shirt was the one that read, “Don’t tell anyone I’m gay.” Needless to say, people were OUT!

The parade began 20 minutes late, effectively killing the reserve power I had stored away in my feet. The monotony of standing there, waiting for the festivities to commence was beginning to weigh on me. Suddenly, a jolt of electricity shot through the crowd as the first float appeared. The large barges came crawling through the canal, one by one, in full costume. Every possible theme was represented. Heaven and Hell was there, of course. Also on hand was a lip-synching Marilyn Monroe, 40 men dressed as Dutch milkmaids dancing uniformily to Gloria Gainer’s “I will survive,” horned creatures from another planet, and corporate sponsorship such as IMG Bank with men and women dressed in suits and ties performing “9 to 5” with Dolly Parton in drag.

I watched the first hour of the parade from the front row. As the crowds grew, so did my fear of being enclosed with no way out. I took a few steps back and found a perfect seat and table right outside a Jamaican coffeeshop named “Easy Times.” Amsterdam really is grand! While there, I took part in all Amsterdam deems legal and I was happier than I could imagine despite being surrounded by so many people. Andy, the trooper that she is, didn’t need the Jamaican pick me up and remained enthralled by the passing joy.

It certainly felt as if every type of person was represented that afternoon. Well-dressed European families looked lost among the beefcakes. Two older couples snagged a prime bench right along the canal, but were also nudged out by the growing crowds. Scantily clad women, both gay and straight, used the parade as an opportunity to show off what god gave them.

Loud music was blaring from each passing float. Of course, the Village People’s “YMCA” was mixed together with a funky beat and the classic, “It’s Raining Men” got a roaring crowd response. Dutch firemen were on hand spraying everyone with their “hoses” and the crowd loved it. There was, of course, the obligatory political message thown in. One included an AIDS relief barge using long fishing nets to collect money from onlookers. Another float urged locals who had a vote to cast it in favor of gay rights.

Three and a half hours later, with the parade still floating past us, the time had come to call it an afternoon. We had taken in all the Pride Party could offer and we were beaming with anticipation for the evening’s all night dance parties. We found a café to sit down, have a drink, smoke a cigarette and eat some dinner. If you have never been to Amsterdam, you should know that this is the easiest thing in the world to find. Every street has at least three different places to do just that. For the Dutch, sitting at a café drinking and smoking is like a Californian being stuck in traffic: it’s inevitable and everyone does it.

So, when in Amsterdam, we did as the Dutch do. We smoked, ate and drank and then began walking home. Just as we realized we needed to take a nap before the nightlong clubbing affair, we turned our heads and were utterly lost in the city’s rotating streets and maze-like canals. We walked quite a bit more trying to figure out how to get to a tram that would take us home and those last 30 minutes effectively killed all I had left in my feet.

Being avid clubgoers and young enough to remember when the rave scene hit our high schools, Andy and I decided to skip the Pride clubs that evening. The blaring dance beats and sweaty bodies sounded fun and inviting earlier, but now, after a full day packed with prideful people, we were effectively drained. We had contributed mightily to the afternoon‘s festivities cheering and wooping and snapping pictures - and felt that the dancing and flirting was best left to those that it was meant for.