I'm in Germany.

I arrived at Frankfurt's beautiful glass dome airport/trainstation on time and within an hour, got on the first train to Köln with Johannes. My only impression of Frankfurt was a blur of identical white houses with brown roofs, random flags of WorldCup countries draped across their windows.

It was my first time on a Real Train and it felt a lot like riding a reitred old rollercoaster, no longer in the mood for dips and loop-dee-loops.

I was impressed by all the German grafitti, mostly names rendered in phat fonts and colors that put to shame all the half-hearted renditions of penises and frat symbols back home in Cebu. I wanted to see them all but they, too, began to blur between stations.

My head was buzzing with jetlag although I couldn't tell at the time. Johannes said we needed to nap as soon as we got there because we'd be up all night, partying on The Night Before CSD.

CSD = Christopher Street Day = Gay Pride = Johannes' Christmas

A little history: Christopher Street in NewYork was like the gay area of the city, where a lot of homo folks came to meet in bars and such. As a result of its visibility, it was constantly being harrassed by local people of other sexual persuasions, especially authorities. One day, the gay people decided to unite and fight back for their rights, they attacked their attackers and laid claim to their territory with bloody fists. Revolution born of a sense of togetherness, a sense of 'I deserve better than this', and 'Mind your own fucking business!' This is the reawakening of Gay Community. We Are Family. The seed of a parade based on Pride.

Köln is 'Cologne' in English, which lends its name to 'cologne', invented there way back before the World Wars, when men wore pretty wigs instead of backwards caps.

I didn't wear any cologne but I did reek of beer most of the time. Each region in Germany has its own beer and I drank a lot of Köln's local brew that night (and the next). It's called Kölsch and I never pronounce it correctly on the first try. Tastes a bit like SanMigLight.

I don't recommend partying two nights a row after a long flight. However, it was my first time in Europe/Germany/Köln/CSD and that was excuse enough to extend my limits. It didn't feel so much like partying though. I was silent most of the time, listening to everyone speaking Deutsch, content to take pictures of everything and think about my stories. I would leave Johannes' group of friends often and just wade in the sea of gay people, clownfish swimming away from their anemones, schooling, mating, drinking like fish. It was nice and warm. I sat down with a bum on the street and shared my tictacs and beer. He wants to go to Canada some day. He heard the pot there is excellent. I confirmed his marijuana fantasy.

I met a Filipino there named 'Amboy'. He's from Australia now and wants double-D's someday. Unimpressed by Köln's gay pride festivities, he extolled the wonders of Sydney's gay mardi gras. I rolled my eyes inside and so did the Germans but I made polite conversation because Amboy was necessary, Amboy was important, we sort of clung to each other through the whole Night Before CSD, comforted by our common Filipinoness, our English-speakingness. I'll never see him again or if I do, it might be on a Chicks with Dicks rag and then I can chuckle to myself and think, "Kababayan!"

The streets were totally congested with gay people, drinking, hugging, kissing, exchanging glances and stares and fluids. They shattered their glasses and bottles on the street Russian style and in my head I was singing Annie Lennox, "Walking on, walking on broken glaaass." Impoverished Germans went round with sacks picking up the unbroken containers so they could collect the 10cent refund. They must have made a lot of Euro that night

I went to bed around 4AM and woke up around 6AM, walked barefoot around the house of Johannes' bestfriend, Thomas who was kind of enough to welcome me into his home for the weekend. I marvelled at all the gay touches, the D&G swimwear hanging by the sauna door, the paper mache pigskin above the kitchen door, the huge painting of skeleton feet in my room, the corn stalks growing beside the red roses on the veranda, and so on. I played with his suicidal cat, Luigi, who spent unusual amounts of time on the balcony, staring down onto the pavement he wanted so much to be a part of. He limped away from me in search of death.

An hour long nap was broken by the sounds of Gloria Gaynor. "I am what I am!" Then "This is my life!" Then "I will survive!" Johannes fiddling with his iPod, broadcasting Pride into the morning. Thomas said, "The problem with Christmas is that you have to hear the same songs over and over again." I wore the smallest,pinkest shirt I had (thanks, Sas) and covered my eyes with shades so people could imagine a more rested expression on my face. Off we went, Christmas Day, carols repeating.

I was absolutely out-of-my-head, jelly-knee wobbling, hand shiveringly exhausted. But it was Gay Pride Day. My First Gay Pride Parade and I was gonna be Proud, damn it. I stood there for hours (we were unbelievably early) camera in hand, waiting for the march. It was so hot, I imagined I was in the Philippines and that brought me some comfort. I marvelled at my companions, Johannes, Thomas, his boyfriend, Alex, and his two friends Sven and Angie, already drinking beer at 10 in the morning - and after last night! I met Johannes' very cute ex-boyfriend, Tim, who is the Pied Piper of Lesbians in Germany. I liked him very much and wondered why they broke up.

Finally, the Dikes on Bikes came, roaring down the narrow street with their butchness even louder than their motorcycles. They were followed by truck after truck of every gay interest group and faction you can think of: Gay teachers, Lesbian mothers, Bondage Bears, Strippers, Prostitutes, S&M teens, Homos for Jesus, handicapped gays, Politicians, Gay dance troupes, Lesbian drum troupes, Gays Against Alcoholism, Gays promoting Ford, Gay Catholics, Gays for the Environement, Proud Bisexuals, Homosexual Firefighters and Cops, Gays from Peru, Lesbians from Ireland, New York City Homosexuals, and so on and so forth. It was raining condoms, confetti, and propaganda. People in the parade used water bottles to splash back the crowd firing at them with water guns. It was wet, hot, long, and exhausting. A good fuck.

By the end of the parade, I was ready to die, but I napped, got up, showered, got dressed, and went out for CSD Night. It wasn't as crowded as The Night Before CSD but how could I refuse? This was My First Gay Pride and I was gonna go the whole nine yards.

But I didn't go the whole nine yards. I watched the people around me loving each other in an alcohol daze and I began to feel totally jealous. To my right, Johaness' old friend, an ex-priest was telling me about hypocrisy but I wasn't really listening. I ran down to the bathroom of Iron Bar and vomited. I swallowed 7 tictacs afterwards as a man at the urinal eyed me with some interest.

Back in the crowd, totally naked men were hugging each other, twenty-somethings that looked like porn stars sat on curbs and made out, looking like the parts in videos you fastforward through. I stood there transfixed by all the sex in the air, doe in the headlights, unthinkingly thinking. Alex noticed and took me into a tiny little bar, hoping I'd have more fun there. Some not-so-good-looking, smashed little man gave me a wide smile and pulled my head towards him for a kiss. I turned my head so that he only smeared his saliva on my cheek. I could've pulled away instead but I think I let him kiss me on the cheek because A.) He was totally drunk and not my type. B.) He was a total stranger. C.) I knew it would be my one kiss on My First Gay Pride. The sadness in him recognized the sadness in me and he kissed it, not away but hello. I Know You.

Alex shooed him away and said, "He's mine." He took me back out and apologized. I smiled and said it was okay. "I seem to attract the best guys." I tried to avoid the sadness for the rest of the night but it spread inside me like ink in water, impossible to contain. Johannes asked me if I was having fun and I said, "It's my first gay pride!"

Finally in bed at 2AM, I lay there completely spent as I jerked off semi-braindead, watching miniature Tibetan prayer flags slowly flap against the prussian blue sky, imagining my ex-boyfriend from the days before our breakup, humming "What's it all about, Alfie?"

The next day was nicer, neater, less head-pounding but sadder. Boxing Day. Johannes took me to the Ludwig Museum where I saw pieces by Oldenburg, Jasper Johns, Lichtenstein, Picasso, Dali, Kirschner, Arp, Miro, and even pieces by Beck's grandfather, Al Hansen. My favorites though were the Warhol's. There she was, Marilyn Monro in lurid pop colors, all in a row repeating like an easy line in a dance classic. And His Brillo Boxes! Sir Raymund would have flipped. Right there in front of me were his Brillo boxes. I could touch them and I did.

Germany's been a strange, conflicted experience so far. I am so Scarlett Johannsen in Lost in Translation right now. All I need is Bill Murray to show me the way and whisper something in my ear that the audience will never hear.