The high school reunion?
So strange. I’ve tried to put a good spin on it. I mean, I went into it honestly expecting everything would be alright. And to be fair, many of the people at the reunion, perhaps even most and certainly including some I barely remembered, were welcoming. And almost without exception, everyone was at least coldly polite.
But what I really got out of that reunion, and it came to me suddenly while we were massing for the traditional group photo before the big dinner on the second day and a brave soul aimed an anonymous anti-gay slur at me, was that even though like most teenagers I had spent my high school years desperately trying for the approval of my classmates, I no longer needed it. That since I had warm and loving friends in progressive cities on three continents, Odessa and I could get along just fine without each other.
So with no goodbyes I left the reunion before the dinner, went over to Manuel’s, a favorite Mexican restaurant of my youth that was still in the same location, and had a delicious farewell dinner by myself.
Like the rest of the town, Manuel’s hadn’t changed much; but in Manuel’s case, that was a good thing.
Here’s San Francisco’s Ferry Building in the morning:
