We certainly had a close view of Colombian bounty tonight. If I could understand why I feel so much more myself in a place like Friends Tavern, I would likely have the secret to life. Friends, for homeboys not in the know, is a glorious gay bar located on Roosevelt Avenue, in Jackson Heights, Queens. Within 10 blocks, you can hit Little Colombia, Little Mexico, Little Ecuador, then round it all off with Little India. There are moments on this street that remind me of Tijuana: the color, the smell, the pandemonium.
Rach and I headed to Jackson Heights to get Mexican food, ate phenomenal corn on the cob (you have the option of slathering butter or mayonesa on the corn...Rach chose butter, with cheese and lime), tamales and tacos. Truth be told, I am really over white kids hitting these neighborhoods and glorifying their "obscure authenticity". The truth is that either these neighborhoods are a) too frightening, b) like a quick vacation across the border, or c) a brief whiff of home. The best part of the night by far was Friends Tavern. I have had the good fortune of visiting Friends before, with gay Colombians, and dancing until the wee hours. Fortunately, Rach and I hit the "Viernes a las siete STREEEPPER!" ("Fridays at 7pm, STRIPPER!") who quite literally mounted each of us then "dick-slapped" us. Was this phrase in my vocabulary before the experience? Not really. Do I fully understand what it means now? And plan to have my clothes sterilized? YES.
Then we cumbia-ed until we couldn't cumbia no more.
But what makes Jackson Heights special? Like any ethnic enclave, there is the flavor of home. The shopkeepers speak Spanish, the bars play salsa, the fryers are cooking samosas. There is something that speaks of that faraway home...in the past, but still in the present.
And did notice that Rach is wearing an ikat Etoile by Isabel Marant jumpsuit? With white Adidas? Bet you didn't.......
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