It all began with my entrance ticket. It was big. It looked like I was going to the movies, or a concert or something. Then there was the locker key – big, clunky, and needing to be kept around my wrist. I can already tell that the people frequenting this venue are not the most “serious” swimmers. I proceed down the red carpet (literally, it’s red) with walls covered in pictures of Chinese Olympians wearing their medals and holding flowers in the air. How inspiring for a gay and lesbian travel afficionado! At the end of the red carpet is a ticket taker. She looks so happy to be welcoming me to the “Shanghai Olympic Aquatic Center.” I enter the locker room and after throwing my clothes in the correct unit, I proceed to shower (required, obviously). Then it’s time to trudge through a sunken pool called the “decontamination pit.” How inviting! Finally, I surface on the pool deck!

The pool is 50 meters long, 8 lanes across. 5 lanes, however, have no lane-lines and are instead filled with people floating on rafts, cruising in snorkel gear, and playing that “dive for the rings” game. Only three lanes are reserved for lap swimming. As usual, I am already a spectacle. I thought it would be real lap swimming, with people doing freestyle, etc. Nope. They all do breaststroke, but not real breaststroke instead they are doing the I’ve-never-swam-before-breaststroke. Their kicks fill the lane, which leaves no room to pass. Apparently though, passing is a major faux pas. Everyone swims one lap in order, stops, rests, then pushes off in order again to start the next lap. Essentially, we were doing the same thing as all the people in the unorganized lanes, only we were doing it in a row…while running into each other.

At this point, I realized that this wasn’t for me. It wasn’t the crowds or the throng of “fans” that turned me off. It was the lack of ability to move ahead and go faster. This gay and lesbian travel freak has a need for speed. It was the orderliness of the “swimming” that instead made the entire thing totally impossible. Swimming was going to be my escape from the noise and frustration of the busy city and instead, it was just a wetter version of the same stuff. The mid-pool crashes were so reminiscent of the city streets, that I was waiting for the men to blow whistles to replace their honking horns. It looks like a treadmill and regular yoga classes will have to do. Hopefully I can find my inner peace there, because there is no peace for this gay and lesbian travel maven in the pool!

Our plane touches down in the 72-degree warmth of inviting Tunisia, which while not necessarily a gay and lesbian travel destination is still worth the trip. As the jet comes to stop, the five of us let out a collective cheer. We’re no longer in Dubai. We are a rag-tag bunch of foreigners, united in crisis and excited by adventure. We’re like the A-team.

First there is Adam (nickname: Andy because that’s what I called him the first day we were slobbing around the hotel). He’s a son of Oz living in London and working as a Sports Coordinator for nearly twenty schools. Built like a nuclear bomb shelter, he has taken the role of quiet enforcer.

Second, we’ve got Charlie (nickname: Squirrel because she forages for food at every opportunity, constantly offering us suckers, candy, and Frosted Flakes). Living in South Africa but headed home to England for a wedding, her laugh is contagious and she keeps the energy levels up.

Next we have Emma (nickname: Laura because that’s what Charlie thought her name was for several days). From London and living in London, she takes on 26 three and four-year-olds every day of the week, prompting her to label this trek “a piece of cake.” She’s got a sharp wit, and she was the first to frolic in the Tunis fountain. Good on ya!

Then there’s Dave (nickname: Snap, Crackle, and Pop to identify his three distinct anger levels, which elevate without warning). Our resident Kiwi, he lives in London and works as a digital strategy consultant. He’s an absolute character, and you can’t help but wait with bated breath to hear the next great line.

Finally, me – I’m Kyle (nickname: Plow because that’s what Dave actively believed my name to be since, “you know, Americans name their kids really weird things like Stephanie”). I’m just happy to be getting to Europe and I’m willing to fill the role of typical American.

We managed to get Adam into the country despite VISA requirements, grabbed our bags, and got in a cab to see the city before moving onward to Spain. Our driver managed to get us to agree to some astronomical price before we could figure out the exchange rate, then proceeded to offer us a “very nice three hours driving tour around Tunis for a very good deal.” We managed to resist so unfortunately I didn’t have time to compile one of my classic gay and lesbian travel guides.

Bags dropped, it was into the city to explore the Mosques, squares, and markets of this not-quite Cairo, more than Marrakech city. We wandered stalls, ran through fountains, and even managed to meet the real-life, self-proclaimed Tunisian “Tom” Cruise, who only works the market on the weekends since he is a college professor of Political Economics during the week.

Some lamb kebob, kitschy souvenirs, and public arguments later, we were whisked away by the same driver to get a move on back to Europe. No worse for wear. Somehow, our flight even manages to depart 20 minutes early. With things looking up, we can’t help but wonder what might go wrong next.

The really wild part is how well we were getting along. Remember, we only met a few days ago and only banded together because of a volcano called Eyjafjallajökull and a desperate desire to travel to the gay destination that is London. Charlie noted that, “anyone who met us would just think we’re a group of old friends on holiday” and I couldn’t agree more. It really is true that times of crisis bring people who were total strangers just 48 hours earlier so close together. Our personalities mesh, the inside jokes roll, and we each fill a unique roll that has transformed us from five travelers into a genuine team of rag-tag go-getters. These will be friendships for life. At the moment, however, we’re all just over the moon about the free coca-cola we’re getting on the plane. Maybe, just maybe, travelling to the gay and lesbian travel hotspot that is London won’t be so bad.

In our epic quest to travel to the best gay and lesbian travel destination (London for those of you not paying attention) we’ve had breakfast in Dubai, lunch in Tunisia, and dinner in Spain. I’m feeling a bit goofy from non-stop travel fueled solely on adrenaline. Thankfully, a friend in London booked us into a great hostel on the outskirts of the city, which became “Ferocious Five” headquarters for the evening. Now that we had sorted out getting to Calais, the next step was crossing the Channel.

True to form, no websites would process our booking requests to get to our gay destination. Not Eurotunnel, no P&O, and not SeaFrance. It was all “critical errors” and “impossible operations,” much like our lives in general at the moment. As a result, we were up late into the night (or was it early into the morning?). Sleeping just 3 hours, it was once again time to move. Following a mesmerizing free breakfast of dry cereal and bizarre muffins, we loaded all five bags and all five people into a car the size of my thumb. Every iota of space was full of something. We had even emptied David’s bag so that we could fit shoes, socks, and shirts under seats, between headrests, and inside other bags.

The next 15 hours of non-stop driving is a real blur, full of inside jokes that probably aren’t funny, kind service station employees drawing maps on the back of receipts, and the same six songs played over and over again on the two radio stations we could tune into. At this point we are all so exhausted that we have invented the plumen-goggle-strassen (plume viewing goggles), which is the only piece of equipment that lets you actually see the volcanic plume cloud floating overhead in an otherwise pristine sky. New nicknames were issued (Swervy McSwerverson was a good one), Red Bulls were imbibed at alarming levels, and we even the use of toddler toilets at rest stops top avoid the line. We were well on our way to London, but I think we were taking a rest stop somewhere around ridiculous.

Despite the frantic nature of this marathon, there was also something particularly beautiful about it. Here we are, five total strangers thrust into an impossible situation, crammed into a tiny car packed to the brim and we were genuinely enjoying each other’s company. As we pulled into Calais minutes after midnight, the thought of it all ending seemed more sad than anything. Couldn’t the adventure of traveling to the number one gay and lesbian destination of London live on forever?

Realizing there was no hope of getting walk-on tickets, we made the call and had Gillian and Malcolm (our Knights in Shining Armor) board the dog gone ferry. Now with nearly two hours of free time on our hands (free time you say? CRAZY!) we decided it would be a good idea to do a dry run of their route to make sure we could give very accurate instructions so as to make the 4:45am ferry instead of waiting until 6:15am. FYI: 3am dry-runs on a highway by 5 sleep-deprived people might not be the best idea.

The ferry exit leads directly to a highway that has only one exit 5 miles down the road. That exit has both a left and right turn option which leads to a roundabout that swoops under the highway and back onto the ferry return lane, shooting vehicles back into the boarding zone to go back to England. Confusing? Try putting all of that into a text message, which took us 15 minutes to agree on wording. It was the first and only moment where we got testy with each other. The Ferocious Five were nearing a state of meltdown.

Because it was a highway, we had to lug our bags out into the middle divider, flap our arms to flag down the cars, dump in our bags, and zoom into the customs line. This was, of course, after we parked the car at the end of the lot, ran the key to the drop box in the ferry terminal half a mile away, then raced back to our makeshift pick-up zone. Magically, the entire operation went off without a hitch. As our rides crested over the horizon and our salvation become visible, the excitement exploded. “I have never actually jumped for joy like I did just now,” David said.

Cars and bags safely stowed below, we toasted to our success with ferry-quality champagne, watching the sun rise over the White Cliffs of Dover as we approached good old England. We had done it. We had pulled off the greatest escape in travel history. Bring it volcano. Bring it.

As our train pulled into London and we each headed in our own direction, the end of the Ferocious Five neared. Why, again, did we want the adventure to end? For the life of me, I can’t remember. Getting to the gay and lesbian travel mecca of London wasn’t easy, but at least I have an excellent pair of plumen-goggle-strassen to check out cloud of volcanic ash!

Long live the Ferocious Five!

Unfortunately, I did what I always do and got sidetracked by this strange-looking device between the beds. It looked like a Star Trek command center, with ten little switches that controlled everything in the room. “Bed Light One, Bed Light Two, Hall Light, Bathroom Light, Room Light, Reading Area Light, TV, Vanity Light, Radio,” and, finally, “No Bother.” Yes, the last switch said “No Bother.” You can imagine how intrigued I was! What could “No Bother” possibly do in China? I sat down, braced myself, and flipped the switch…in an instant, the TV and radio both turned on, and all the lights began to flash on and off! It was my own private epileptic seizure-making dance party! Apparently “No Bother” means one-man dance party with Chinese Opera music blaring and TV static in the corner. It was certainly news to this gay traveler.

South London (Vauxhall & Around): Known for opening at 3am and partying until noon, Vauxhall is home to every niche gay community you can find, from Bears and Leather to Twinks and “Straight Gays.” It may be a short trip to get there, but there will be even more people on a trip of their own once you’ve arrived. As is characteristic of London Gays, everyone will no doubt be incredibly friendly and welcoming to the gay and lesbian travel maven as long as you’ve followed the dress code. Try Hoist, Area, XXL, and Fire.

Kyle Taylor – Guest Blogger

We’ve heard the stories and we’ve seen the pictures. We know that Dubai is not a great gay and lesbian travel destination. The Dubai skyline is massive, and it popped up nearly overnight. Of course, we’ve also seen the most recent update: Dubai is totally broke. While that doesn’t mean a whole lot for the 500,000 Emirati who are actually citizens, the other 5.5 million Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi immigrants most definitely feel the crunch. While the superficial Dubai is all glitz and glamour – the world’s tallest building, the world’s biggest hotel, the world’s largest indoor ski slope, an entire island development made to look like the World, every western chain from Applebee’s to TGI Friday’s – the underbelly of the city is built entirely on the backs of foreigners.

Beyond the tall buildings that line Sheik Zayed Road, nothing really passes two or three stories. While the gargantuan air-conditioned shopping malls are deserted, the street markets are bustling. The market for kid’s goods is huge, as five million of the 5.5 million immigrants are men with families back at home. They go home every 14 to 18 months for 2 or 3 weeks (this after working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week non-stop for those 14 to 18 months) and when they go, they bring piles of goodies home to their families.

While the history of Dubai is fascinating – it’s growth from a tiny nothing town in the middle of a sandy desert to one of the World’s largest transport and shipment hubs – the real story lies deep in its current situation. There may be no place better than this city to see “both sides” of the world as we know it. There may be no place where developed and developing clash in such an open and honest way. Indeed, even though this isn’t a gay and lesbian travel destination there may be no place like Dubai, period.

We bundled up and hit the road in the wee hours of the morning (it was 10am, but when you travel to Iceland 10am can still be pitch blacki) to meet my Defender-driving Icelandic outback version of John Wayne. After fording a few raging streams we arrived at our destination: an enormous block of ice that has been permanently frozen between two ridges for more than 500 years aka one of Iceland’s incredible glaciers. No big deal. Hiking glaciers is just one of the better things to do when gays and lesbians travel to Iceland.

Sadly, my mountain man had forgotten the rental boots, which left me strapping military-grade clamp-ons to my multi-colored Aasics Tiger sneakers. Bad idea, but I wasn’t going to travel all the way to Iceland and not hike a glacier was I? An hour into the half-day escapade the clamp-ons were grinding deep into my Achilles. The rest of the day was spent attempting to hike without bending my ankle.

The trek wound up the side of the glacier where the oldest ice now rests. As the new layers of ice form in the winter, the older stuff slowly moves downhill, meaning the most ancient layers are furthest from the center. The darker the ice looks, the more compact it is. In fact, that dark blue color comes not from a different or superbly clean source of water, but from being so tightly compacted that no light can be captured, reflected or filtered through it.

If you’re looking to get a visual on climate change, this is the place to do it. The glacier we were hiking across is roughly one mile wide, five miles long and half a mile deep. Twelve years ago, however, it was nearly double the size. While research has been done on whether such changes in mass are cyclical, it was determined – without question – that this latest thaw does not match in any way, shape or form the traditional freezing and melting patterns of this glacier. In fact, the glacier has lost the same amount of mass in the mast twelve years that it lost in the previous 500 years before that.

After leaping back down onto earth with tired legs and gashed feet, I re-boarded the earth-galloping Defender and headed back to the “big city” of Reykjavik, a whole lot to think about and a whole lot of nighttime during which to do that thinking. Gay and lesbian travel in Iceland is beautiful and thought provoking. I suggest you check out the glaciers.