Madrid, Spain — Yesterday, July 4th, we slipped into the streets of Madrid to celebrate Pride. The party spread out all across the city. We saw floats at the Plaza de Cibeles, witnessed masses of heads bobbing to DJs on stages that dwarfed them, and admired the magnificent backdrop the city’s architectural riches provided—many of them illuminated in the joyous colors of Pride.
But of course, the real show was the people who promenaded up and down the streets: the shirtless men with muscles to spare, the dolled-up divas in body paint and feathers, the leather-bound street subs, the scowling broncos, and multitudes of people like you and me who came to celebrate the greatest triumph of love and freedom over prejudice the world has ever seen.
And watching over it all were Madrid’s finest, whose chiseled good looks and muscular bodies were accentuated by bulletproof vests as they stood benevolently on overwatch. Their close-cropped beards and perfect haircuts suggested they, too, had primped for the occasion, knowing they would be the recipients of so many admiring glances.
We ended the night at an old sherry bar, La Venencia—a simple wooden place of bare lightbulbs, barrels of sherry, and the tastiest sliced chorizo ever. A last stand of old Madrid, where junkies and drunks once lined the streets and children played in dirt plazas, the bar was rumored to be one of Ernest Hemingway’s hangouts. Try to snap a selfie or enter with a beverage other than sherry, and the barmen will harangue you out the door.
A very tall man dressed all in white walked in, accompanied by a very short man (by comparison) who would not meet my gaze—a sort of hanger-on or servant to the tall man. The tall man smiled benevolently my way from atop his flowing white gown, bestowing his blessing upon me.
A trans woman in a backless sequined dress that hugged every perfect curve and revealed the diminutive underwear below entered with a strong and handsome man. They joined the mismatched couple at the bar and then moved to a table, where the sequined woman declined to sit because sitting would have dishonored that long, feminine body.
As I leaned against the bar, where the bartender kept my tab in chalk, and sipped my third glass, I was suddenly whisked away to other Fourths of July full of barbecues, parades, and fireworks.
My mother loved a party. Birthdays, Halloweens, Christmases, and Thanksgivings all featured bustling preparations and giddy expectations for us kids when the day arrived. With each, the house would be transformed: carved pumpkins, autumn garlands, evergreen wreaths, and mistletoe. For the Fourth of July, the theme was flags.
My mother loved her country, and especially the men who wore uniforms and had risked their lives for it. In our family, there were gaping holes where two of my uncles, both pilots, should have been.
In the morning, we would go to hang the flag above the front door. There was nothing solemn or formal about it; being part of the great history of the United States was merged with her own life journey, from living on charity during the Depression to living in a mansion on a hill. Like everyone else, my mother had plenty of sorrows—a drunk, ne’er-do-well dad; being run out of the Catholic Church when she divorced; losing the love of her life; and unspeakable betrayals—but through it all, she had something priceless: the sheer joy of just being alive. It was her superpower and she wanted to share it with everyone around her.
And that was the gift she handed down to me, the greatest inheritance I could ever have received and the one that has guided me through life.
And it was for that, at that storied wooden bar in Madrid, surrounded by grizzled regulars and the gorgeous specimens that floated in on the tide of Pride, that I raised my glass of amontillado: to the pursuit of freedom and happiness, to love in all its forms, and most of all to the many joys of just being alive. Because when life is good—and even when it is not—it is right to give thanks and praise.
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