New York City Hostels: The Best and Worst Budget Accommodations

By my count, I have visited New York City on overnight trips perhaps 30 times in the last 5 years...and lately, it’s been one a month. I don’t have my own place in the Big Apple, so that means I need to rent accommodations. And I have to admit, with all of the entertainment, nightlife, shows, restaurants, and events taking place in NYC, the *last* thing I want to do is blow hundreds of dollars on a room and a bed that I’m only going to use for a few hours each night – especially when a hundred dollars will buy me a show ticket or several great meals.

In all this time, I have learned that the most cost-effective way to stay right in Manhattan is to locate a good student hostel. Hostels are budget accommodations without many frills, and you share bathrooms with others on your floor. But they allow you to spend your money enjoying New York, rather than funding pricey real estate.

But I have also learned that some hostels are absolutely perfect for the budget traveler – and some are absolute horror stories. There are a number of websites that offer information about budget accommodations n New York, and even some that permit comments by visitors. Unfortunately, many of those comments are left by people who have only visited a location once, or who were unfamiliar with the concept of hostelling to begin with. Based on multiple trips to each of these hostels, I offer you my opinion of the absolute *best* - and *worst* - that New York City has to offer in accommodations.

The BEST – The Chelsea Highline Hotel (Link) at 184 11th Avenue, on the corner of West 23rd Street in the Chelsea neighborhood. Owned by Jazz Hostels, which has multiple locations, this has become my number one choice anytime I am staying in New York City. It is located across from Hudson River Park,

and is only three blocks from the C-E Subway (the “Blue”) line that runs, generally, along 8th Avenue with stops at Times Square/Port Authority, Penn Station, Central Park West, Washington Square Park, downtown Brooklyn and the World Trade Center. In essence, you can get *anywhere* in New York City with this as your base of operations. The neighborhood itself is a mix of nice residential brownstones, apartments, and an explosion of Art Galleries. Crossing overhead on West 23rd street is High Line Park, an elevated train platform that has been transformed into a walkway along Manhattan’s west side with gardens and benches. At the entrance to the High Line is the Half King Restaurant, a pleasant tavern with outdoor sidewalk seating (and a rear Garden Patio) owned by “Perfect Storm” author Sebastian Younger. Interested in a budget meal? Two blocks from the hostel, on the corner of West 23rd Street and 9th Avenue, are two diners, the Chelsea Square (my favorite) and the Moonstruck…and around the corner is Famous Ray’s Pizza, an absolute *must* for people who like their pizza slices delicious and BIG.

The Hostel itself appears to be just another undifferentiated grey-ish white apartment building from outside. But inside, one realizes one has found the best hostel in New York. The front desk staff are always attentive and as diverse as New York City itself. They are always pleasant and helpful. The small lobby has free wireless access if you bring your laptop, and in the mornings the hostel provides bagels and coffee gratis. (OK, I have to admit, the bagels were not classic NY bagels, and there was no cream cheese, and they offered powdered creamer instead of milk, so I didn’t really partake – but it is an amenity that most hostels do not offer at all.)

The rooms are located on the second, third, and fourth floors; I have been in nine of them on all three floors (picture at the top of this post).

The rooms are the largest I have ever experienced in a NYC hostel. The paint is fresh and neutral-colored. Each room has a sink/vanity/mirror, and new furniture that includes beds, night stands, rugs, a stool or chair, and some paintings. And amazingly, they all match, as if someone actually put some thought into making the guests’ stay pleasant. Double rooms (for couples) feature single, low platform beds or twin beds; “Family” rooms feature one queen bed and a bunk bed. The so-called “Family Rooms” are as roomy as a hostel gets; I have brought student groups to this hostel and four people can actually live in one room without tripping over each other. Doors close soundly and lock securely with no ‘gaps’ that characterize other hostels, and the rooms are pretty much soundproof. I have never been awakened by noise from other rooms.

The bathrooms are small “one-seaters,” located three to a floor. They are bright, clean, and newly-tiled, with efficient shelves to hold soap or shampoo, and hot water that actually works.

And unique to the Chelsea Highline: there is actually housekeeping service! Yes, someone comes in and makes your bed and empties your trash.

What would you pay for a night in NYC like this? If you like to be pampered at a hotel, a couple will easily spend between $200 and $400/night. The Chelsea Highline? Try $100 per night for a private double, or as little as $135 for a family room that sleeps four. And since the charges are based on the room, not the number of people, that means 4 friends can share a Family Room for about $35/night (plus NYC room taxes.)

As I said, I have *never* had a bad experience at the Chelsea (and I promise, the fact that my two favorite NYC nightspots – the Rawhide and the Eagle – are both within an easy 5 minute walking distance had nothing to do with my positive review. But of course, it doesn’t hurt either!)

The WORST – The Bowery’s Whitehouse Hotel, at 340 Bowery, between East 2nd (also called “Bond Street”) and East 3rd Street (also known as “Great Jones Street”). I will not even give you their web address: I do not want to be responsible for ever sending anyone to this house of horrors.

I will say this: if you are looking for the excitement, nightlife, and bohemian atmosphere of the East Village, the location of this hostel is unbeatable. The website makes it look like a pleasant stay, with subway access, on the funky east side. I beg of you – do not be deceived. It is beyond comprehension that the City of New York – which comes down hard on hostels – allows this place to exist.

I have stayed here on multiple occasions for a few reasons: first, the location really is fantastic; I can never believe that it could actually be so horrible every time, so I try it again; and, most often, I have stayed here because every other hostel in NYC was booked full. I will never do that again.

The Whitehouse is designed more like a homeless shelter than a hostel.

You may not take your key when you leave the hostel – it must be handed back in to the staff at the front desk. The staff may or may not be there when you return, or may be arguing with someone on the phone, and you may have to wait to get into your “room.”

I wrote “room” in quotes, because in actuality, there are no rooms. They have simply erected ‘partitions’ to divide each floor into units, slapping lime green and other cast-off paint colors on them. The partitions do not reach the ceiling: your ‘ceiling’ is a lattice work (with spaces large enough for you to stick your head – or entire body – through). That means that there is no quiet at all, because there is no ceiling blocking noise form the next unit. On multiple occasions we were awake for hours because we could hear every conversation taking place on the floor – even when people whispered.

The units are literally only large enough to fit a bed: you open your door, and there is about 10 square feet of floor space, and a bed fit into the unit and surrounded by partition walls on three sides. There are no sinks, no electric outlets (although there were exposed and capped wires dangling in the last unit I stayed in). The doors do not close completely flush: there are cracks and holes through which any passer-by can peer in.

Like the rooming units, the shower doors are broken and gaping. The first time I turned on a shower, the handle was improperly fitted against the broken tiling and I sliced open my knuckles. Long hair was wound around the shower curtain holders, and the water drained away from the drain flooding the floor and making it slimy.

The pipes are in need of serious repair. Hot water in the shower is a luxury; but as it courses through the building’s heating system, it bangs so loudly that the floor literally vibrates throughout the building. On my last night there, one toilet on the floor above us clogged and overflowed continuously; it completely drenched one neighboring unit, as the toilet water splashed on several more of us.

There is no wifi, breakfast, or amenities. Instead, the Whitehouse actually scams guests to hold on to funds. All guests are required to not only pay, but to put additional charges (an extra night) on their credit card as a “hold” against damages (how in the WORLD they would ever know how a room was damaged is beyond me, given their poor condition). When I checked out, I was told that the “hold” would take 10 days to clear, which is total nonsense. The desk clerk rolled her eyes at me when I objected, and insisted that this is their bank’s procedure and they couldn't change it. That, of course, is absolutely bogus. I launched into a speech about how I had paid several hundred dollars and was unable to sleep at all for two nights in a row and that the City Consumer Affairs Office was going to hear about this scam of my debit card. The ten-day hold (which was supposedly their ‘bank’s procedure”) on my debt card was suddenly lifted by the next day.

The Bowery’s Whitehouse entices unsuspecting travelers with nice pictures, a good website, a fantastic location, and available ‘rooms’ (for good reason!) – and then traps people in units with no room, no amenities, no ability to engage in peaceful sleep, and additional charges that normally stay on your card for 10 days.

If you’re thinking of staying here – don’t. Run. Far. Quickly.


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Massachusetts Colleges Push Back Against Service Dogs, Violate ADA

During last year’s Christmas season, we took a shopping trip to Fifth Avenue in New York City. Somewhere on the upper floors of the high-quality Bergdorf Goodman store, I rounded a corner and came “face to face” with a beautiful Portuguese Water Dog. Being a dog lover, I know I broke out in a smile from ear to ear as I dropped to my knees and greeted him.

This incident marks a growing trend I have noticed whereby dogs are being accepted more and more readily into the normal, daily human environment, and it is a trend I strongly support and enjoy. In the past, there was an assumption of “No Dogs Allowed!” in many business places, often justified by scientifically unsupportable fears about hygiene. And yet, when I walked into Home Depot and then a supermarket few years ago with a rejected baby lamb wrapped in a towel, no one uttered a negative word (after all, little lambs are cute…) A growing number of nursing homes and hospitals have recognized the therapeutic nature of animals, and have permitted access to pets by residents.

Much of the credit for this growing acceptance goes to the federal Americans with Disabilities Act, which was enacted in an effort to remove obstacles and improve access to services, offices, and business places that the non-disabled take for granted. Under the law, places of public accommodation – including office buildings, college campuses, supermarkets, apartment buildings, and just about any place that opens its doors to the public to conduct business – must have modified practices and procedures to permit the use of service animals by disabled people.

A year ago, the definition of “service animal” was revised in ADA regulations specifically to “any dog that is individually trained to do work or perform tasks for the benefit of an individual with a disability.” Years ago, many people equated a service dog only with a “Seeing Eye Dog” for the blind, but the definitions of “disability“ – and thus the roles that service dogs perform – have greatly expanded. Service dogs” include dogs trained to provide support for a wide variety of disabilities, including sensory, psychiatric, intellectual, mental and physical disabilities. These dogs ‘sense’ and alert their owners of seizure onsets, open doors, pull wheelchairs, pick up and carry items, and prevent loss of emotional control. Unfortunately, one of the most confusing areas of the law is that the ADA does not protect an animal whose primary role is to provide “emotional support, well-being, comfort or companionship,” or those animals normally classified as ‘therapy dogs.’ The difference is blurry: therapy dogs are also often trained to perform tasks that parallel “service dogs,” which are covered by the law.

A business owner who questions whether or not a dog is a service animal or “just” a pet is permitted under the ADA to ask only two questions:

“ Is the animal required because of a disability?”

and

“What work or task has the animal been trained to perform?”

If it is obvious to a casual observer what the animal is trained to do, even these two questions should not be asked. They are intimidating intrusions into the life of a disabled person who is seeking to gain access, and overcome obstacles, and they should not be made to defend or fight for their rights in each business.

In addition, businesses are prohibited from asking certain questions. They may not inquire about the nature or extent of the person’s disability. And they may not require proof of the service animal’s documentation, certification or training.

Nonetheless, a growing number of college campuses – particularly in Massachusetts – are doing just that. Similar to the Milton Hershey School’s (Pennsylvania) claim that they can refuse admittance to an HIV positive student (who is protected by the ADA) because ‘schools are different,’ a number of community colleges in Massachusetts have begun to cobble together ‘service dog policies’ that go far beyond what the law permits: they request that visitors “register” their animals with numerous offices; they request proof of certification and training; they request written confirmation of the animals vaccinations – none of which can be required by any place of public accommodation under the ADA.

In at least one college, a draft version of a policy which had been proposed by the administration actually required that the disabled answer inquiries posed not only by faculty and staff, but by fellow students as well: a full-scale invasion of privacy of the disabled using a service animal. This is precsiely the intimidation that the ADA was meant to curtail.

In addition, in spite of the constant use of rhetoric proclaiming that public colleges ‘provide access to higher education,’ these policies attempt to comply with only the absolute minimal ADA requirements by refusing to cover even trained, certified therapy dogs in their access policies.

These colleges - who so often see themselves as bastions of progressive thought - would do better to join the growing societal consensus that dogs in a ‘human’ environment provide more benefits than danger, and that the movement towards increasing access to public facilities for all people requires a less reactionary approach.

An Easter Message to my Liberal and Agnostic Friends

"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor; he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised, to preach the acceptable year of the Lord." Luke 4:18-19

With those words, Jesus proclaims the Christian message.

To care for the poor, the hurting, the prisoner, the sick and disabled. Other passages include specific concerns for widows, aliens, and orphans.

The “Christian” message has gotten a bad rap. Many of my liberal and gay friends have an almost knee-jerk, visceral reaction against “The Church.” Their reaction is understandable: the American Christian image is often limited to either the anti-scientific, academically deficient rantings of protestant fundamentalism on one hand, or the corporate and wildly-out-of-touch Roman Catholic hierarchy on the other. But anti-Christian jokes and comments still hurt, because as an educated, gay Christian, my faith is not the same as the caricature they so often see parading as Christianity.

The harsh, controlling, oppressive fundamentalist approach they see does not reflect the first several hundred years of the Christian Church. In fact, American fundamentalism is unique to the United States, and to the last one hundred and fifty years. It is a gross aberration.

In fact, American Evangelicalism is nothing short of an academically dishonest Cult.

For its first 400 years, the Church managed to operate without a single, agreed-upon set of Biblical texts. Rather than quote the Bible verse by verse, using excruciating hair-splitting exegetical methods, leaders in the early church quoted and misquoted from the Bible and other sources, loosely and freely, adding important ideas and drawing from multiple writers. Even Jesus himself does this: the quote at the top of this blog from Luke is such an example. Jesus is loosely quoting from two different earlier versions of Isaiah 61, and actually ends up stating a third version that is yet different from both.

The point is that for the early Church, a literal word for word dissection was never part of the program. Using the “Bible Only” as a Rule book for life was never part of the program either. And understanding everything written as “literal” was unknown to early Christian scholars.

Instead, in real Christianity, there is something much more holistic going on: it involves an understanding of the concepts and the ideas and the spirit that underlies the ancient writings and teachings. More important, it embraces a living, breathing, and growing understanding of man’s relationship with the spiritual and with each other that invites a constant re-discovery and better understanding of truths for each generation.

And overall, it is about love and caring for the entirety of the common creation. I think these passages bear out this thought:

Matthew 25:37-40 Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?' The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'

Leviticus 19:9-11
When you reap the harvest of your land, do not reap to the very edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest. Do not go over your vineyard a second time or pick up the grapes that have fallen. Leave them for the poor and the alien. I am the LORD your God.

Isaiah 5:8a
Woe to you who add house to house and join field to field till no space is left

Psalm 82:3-4
Defend the cause of the weak and fatherless; maintain the rights of the poor and oppressed. Rescue the weak and needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.

Zechariah 7:10
Do not oppress the widow or the fatherless, the alien or the poor. In your hearts do not think evil of each other.'

Luke 14:12-14
Then Jesus said to his host, "When you give a luncheon or dinner, do not invite your friends, your brothers or relatives, or your rich neighbors; if you do, they may invite you back and so you will be repaid. 13But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind,14and you will be blessed. Although they cannot repay you, you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous."

This is my Christianity. It is the Christianity I celebrate in my home and in my Episcopal parish. It is real and alive today. It is a Christianity that rejects Ayn Rand’s selfishness. It rejects a desire to ship immigrants home. It rejects the belief that making the poor ‘stand on their own two feet’ is proper. It rejects hoarding land and wealth as one’s own. It rejects a punitive attitude towards prisoners. It rejects the condemnation of single mothers. And it rejects the notion that America is the new Promised Land.

And it is in that spirit that I wish even my skeptical agnostic friends a Happy Easter…because that is the message of my Christian faith.

Christos Anesti! Tha Crìosd air èiridh! Christus is opgestaan! Le Christ est Resurrecté! Kristus Vstal A Mrtvych! Pikhirstof aftonf!

(“Christ is Risen” in liturgical Greek, Scots Gaelic, Dutch, French, Czech, and Coptic Egyptian)


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SugarBear Weekend – A Bear’s Guide to the Gay Village of Montreal

"Bears?"

"SugarBears?"

[Traduction dans le Français ci-dessous]

If you are unaware of the term, Bears are a subculture of gay men. I’m a Bear. I will never appear on the cover of Men’s Health Magazine, or be featured on an advertisement for male exotic dancers: I have a belly, and there’s not a hard abdominal muscle in sight. Rather than shave my face (or my neck or my chest or my belly), I allow my body hair to grow naturally wherever it sprouts. However they are defined, "Bears" represent a decidedly masculine side of gay culture; we are often mistaken as straight men, because we most often appear like "regular guys." We also tend to like our beer and our bourbon, and parties, and are a fairly tolerant, live-and-let-live lot. And we tend to be pack animals: there are Bear ‘events’ (called “Bear Runs”) all over the world, every weekend, enabling us choose any weekend and get away to have a party with old and new friends.

In 2005, a small group of Montréal Bears decided to share their French-Canadian Bear culture with the International Bear Community, and the very first "SugarBear Weekend" took place. With hundreds of participants each year, SugarBear Weekend has now become the largest bear event in Canada, promoted with a trademark “big furry lumberjack.” The event is held at various locations throughout the Gay Village of Montréal, a compact, walkable section of Montreal that is the epicenter of gay life. Like Greenwich Village in New York City or the Castro in San Francisco, “Le Village Gay” (or simply, “The Village”) is the heartbeat of Montréal’s gay culture. It is French enough to remind visitors that they are in a land as closely related to Europe as to North America, but “Anglophone” enough to insure that American visitors can navigate the nightlife and order a beer in a nightclub without a problem.

Of the eight SugarBear Weekends that have occurred since 2005, I have attended the last six (2007 – 2012) and, hopefully, will continue to attend for years to come. Based on my six SugarBear experiences, all of which took place during the last weekend of March, I offer the following diary from 2012 as a typical gay man’s foray into Montréal.

Day 1 (Thursday): There are usually no events planned on Thursday, but that’s just more of an excuse to arrive early: It gives you a day to get settled and go anywhere without a schedule. This past year, we arrived early – 1:00 pm – and enjoyed a full day before the planned activities began.

If you’re going to Montréal, don’t look to book a hotel. There are no large traditional hotels in the middle of the Gay Village – but there are more than a dozen Bed and Breakfasts, all catering to gay men, that put you within a few blocks walk of everywhere you want to be. I have stayed at several (such as Absolument Montréal and Sir Montcalm), and have visited others. The Conciergerie, perhaps the largest, always seems to bring smiles to guests’ faces – but it is located on Rue St. Hubert, at the far western edge of the Village, and after a while its distance from the center of the Village can get annoying.

As for me, my favorite has always been La Maison DesJardins, located a mere two blocks from the center of everything on Rue Logan. Beautifully appointed rooms, a friendly staff, a home-like feeling, delicious breakfasts, a reasonable cost and the perfect location is hard to beat….but they go further. In the backyard of this guesthouse is a hot tub available for guest’s use, and upon arrival at our B&B, our first stop was the hot tub, wine in hand.

For those of us guys who love dogs (and every Bear I’ve ever met loves dogs), La Maison DesJardins comes with an extra bonus: Gaia, a huge, lovable, friendly English Sheep Dog, who will gladly visit with guests if permitted. For our money, La Maison is *THE* place to stay in Montréal.

After our dip in the hot tub, we spent the afternoon walking Rue Sainte-Catherine, the main road through the Gay Village. Visiting shops and coffee houses, one is constantly aware of the French love of art, design and form; the architecture of houses, the parks & monuments - even the parking lot designs - all reveal a French appreciating of beauty in the built environment.

In the center of the Village, we stopped at “Le Club Sandwich,” an overgrown diner, for our traditional first night mean: Poutine. Poutine is a French Canadian meal consisting of beef gravy and farmers cheese melted over French Fries. I take mine “Lyonnaise,” meaning that I also have sautéed onions and actual beef mixed in with mine. It may be a bit hard on the waistline, but – just as I always have a bagel with lox for breakfast before leaving New York City – I always have Poutine before starting my first night in Montréal.

And that first night is always enjoyed at Le Stud, on the corner of Avenue Papineau and Rue Ste.-Catherine. Le Stud is a nightclub with 4 bars (and a fifth on weekends upstairs), a DJ, and a small dance floor, and is packed with middle-aged Bears on any given weekend night. It is the “headquarters” of SugarBear Weekend, where we register, get our event passes, and run into dozens of men we have seen many times before across the northeast and in Montréal (Bonjour à Nate, Richard, Hank, Volker, Stéfane, Thierry, Gregoire, Marc, Timothé, Tatsu, Rusty, Mikel, Jacques, Jean, Pierre...) As usual, we got too involved in the first night’s party, and don’t get into bed until after 3 o’clock in the morning...

Day 2 (Friday): This is the first official event, a “Beach Party” in March, which, really, is a euphemism for a gathering at a local bathhouse.

Now, a good friend of mine (Chaz) once put together a list of 10 things a gay man should never, ever do. One of those items read, “Do not *ever* try to explain a bathhouse to your straight friends.” And actually, that’s good advice, so I won’t. But I will say this: this year’s “beach party” was a little disappointing. In the past, the party was held at the “Sauna 456,” located, appropriately, at 456 Rue de la Gauchetière Ouest, which requires a taxi ride as it is located slightly beyond the Village. But the ride is worth it: the first floor contains an enormous swimming pool, a nice-sized sauna and steam room, a lounge and sitting area for conversations, and an actual bar with food and beer. One can enjoy a very innocent party here, and there was room for funny contests (such as inked butt prints…) Or, one could enjoy the dark labyrinths that exist upstairs.

But this year, the 456 was closed for renovations (we hear it is supposed to open again in November 2012), so the party was held at the Oasis in the Village instead. Unfortunately, the Oasis is smaller and lacks the first floor amenities that 456 has, and proved somewhat boring overall. There is another sauna just a few blocks away, “G I Joe,” but we didn’t have the opportunity to visit this one (although I have only heard positive reports).

Instead, as good Bears, we focused our energies on eating.

Last year, quite by accident, we stumbled, quite by accident, into an incredible Italian restaurant. This year was no different: we took a chance on a restaurant named “Resto-Pub St. André” on the corner of Rue St.-Andre and Rue Ste.-Catherine…and found ourselves having food orgasms.
My partner Danny and I each tried the Fettuccini au Saumon Fumé (Fettuccini with smoked salmon) that was absolutely amazing.

The smoked salmon was, as far as we could tell, a high quality cut of lox, cooked in ample amounts in the fettuccini cream sauce. The dish was rounded out with small diced tomatoes and smothered in melted cheese with a scallion garnish. We both fell in love with our waiter, Raul, for his efficiency and friendliness. As I attempted to order our dinner in my broken French, he assisted with the correct French phrasing and then repeated everything in English to make sure the order was correct. On delivering our dinner, he then offered us freshly grated cheese and cracked pepper.

It was one of the most delicious meals I have ever eaten, and the price was on the low side of moderate. We are going to try to reproduce it at home for Easter Dinner.

We complimented our dinner with Chanvre Blonde, a red-colored, Hemp-based blond beer that was delicious and complicated, beginning with a floral-citrus aroma, an initially nutty taste, and a slightly hop-like bitter finish. This was the first and only hemp-based beer I had ever tasted, and I loved it.

After dinner, we headed down to the corner of Rue St. Hubert and Avenue Viger, to the Auditorium des Archives Nationales du Quebec, where the Image+Nation LGBT Film festival which has been operating for 21 years), entertained us with two movies: The Rescue, 18-minute comedic short comparing the search for a boyfriend to the process of adopting a rescue dog at a shelter; and Boystown, a full-length Spanish-made film that can best be described as zany drama.

In the past, SugarBear organizers have tried multiple events on Friday nights, from fashion shows to dinner theaters, all of which were colossal flops. This time, they got it right – it was probably their best Friday night event so far, and we were glad we attended.

Day 3 (Saturday): This is “The Main Event.” The key gathering during the weekend is a full day of eating and drinking at a local SugarShack, in the finest of Quebeçois lumberjack traditions. We began by gathering once again at Le Stud (which opens at 10 am) for the obligatory Bloody Marys. When the school buses arrived, we men piled in and filled them for the trip to the Handfield Sugar Shack near St.-Marc-sur-Richlieu, some 40 minutes east of Montréal. Again, I have been to several sugar shacks near Montréal, and have always found this one the most welcoming and efficient, and the food ample and delicious.

When we arrived at mid-day, the owners greeted us, as always, with free samples of “Caribou,” a traditional stomach-warming drink. Various publications describe Caribou as a mixture of 3 oz. vodka, 3 oz. brandy, 12.5 oz Canadian sherry, and 12.5 oz Canadian port; or perhaps 3 oz. port, 1.5 vodka, .25 creme de cassis, and a splash maple syrup.

I however, have it on the good authority of a local Québecker who makes it all the time or their sugar shack (and speaking on the condition of anonymity), that Caribou is 4 parts Port, 4 parts Tawny Port (or Sherry), 1 Part Canadian Rye, 1 part Scotch Whisky and a splash of Maple Syrup – and that is how I make it home. Regardless, we drank a lot of Caribou, as we continued to order it once we settled inside for the feast.

In the dining hall, a blazing fire was roaring in the fireplace at one end, where fiddlers played French jigs and reels. Long picnic tables were lined up end to end in three long rows, and a hundred and fifty or Bears settled in with their buckets full of Molson or carafes of Caribou in anticipation of the piles of food which would follow.

Pork Pâté for spreading on fresh bread. Bean Soup. Fried Pork Rinds. Scrambled eggs, baked potatoes, and mountains of ham, all optionally smothered in maple syrup. And more again. And at some point, a Bear breaks into playing spoons in time with the fiddler, and someone else whoops, and a few guys start to wrestle, and the level of laughter increases, and more food comes out….and when there’s finally no room to eat any more, they bring out Maple Syrup Pie, quite possibly the sweetest substance known to mankind. And in the midst of all this frivolity, a raffle was held that raised over $700 for REZO, a Canadian organization dedicated to "the health and well-being of gay and bisexual men." This was the first I remembered them raising money for an organization, and I think it's a great addition to the weekend.

Rolling us out the door, we then made our own ‘sugar-on-snow’ by pouring hot syrup over shaved ice and using popsicle sticks to roll the syrup into sticky lollipops.

And many of us slept on the bus ride home….only to catch our second wind for another night at Le Stud, and another nightcap in the hot tub back at La Maison DesJardins.

Day 4 (Sunday): Today we said our goodbyes. First we explored the sale at Priape, Canada’s largest store catering to gay men with fetish wear, leather, and other items of interest to gay men. Unfortunately, as is so often the case at Priape, the merchandise is geared for a younger, slimmer set; I couldn’t find a single pair of jeans with a waist size greater than 34 – and very few of us Bears are going to fit into size 34 pants. We did find some neat leather wrist cuffs with a hidden compartment to hold id and cash, so we picked up a couple. Fortunately, Priape is not the only store for us in The Village….a new store, the Fetish Armada, is located just down the street on the corner of Rue Ste.-Catherine and Rue Montcalm. It’s smaller, but friendly and eager to do business with larger men; much of their business is custom work.

By Noon, it was time for the farewell brunch, held at Le Planète on Rue Ste.-Catherine (if you’re getting the sense that Rue Ste.-Catherine is where everything happens, there’s a reason for that. In the summer, it is closed to automobiles and becomes pedestrian and sidewalk cafe heaven.) Le Planète is a small and cozy food establishment…but I have to admit that its main draw was neither the food nor the modern decor….but a staff of adorable young bears (“Cubs,” as we call them) racing to and fro to take orders, serve Mimosas, pour endless rounds of coffee, and deliver meals.

For those who live locally, the day would end with a late-afternoon Lumberjack Contest at The Stud. For the rest of us who work on Monday morning, an afternoon departure is more in order. In the past, we have always made a quick stop in the Old City of Montréal, a retail district that is the site of the original settlement and characterized by narrow streets and alleys paved in cobblestones and lined with 300-year old stone buildings. While the Old City is home to dozens of T-shirt and tacky knick-knack shops, with a little time one can find unique paintings, artwork, glass lamps, Inuit carvings and other specialty items.

But this time, still full of maple-drenched ham and exhausted from our weekend, we headed home. We hope to return some day in the summer months to see what it’s like in warmer months; but whether we do or not, we will return to Montreal next March for SugarBear Weekend 9 for certain.
Montréal and the Province of Québec are wonderful, enjoyable places right on America’s doorstep; it’s a pity more Americans, gay or straight, don’t cross the border and partake in Montreal’s joie de vivre.

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Vendredi 6 avril 2012
Week-end de SugarBear - le guide d'un ours du village gai de Montréal

« Ours ? »

« SugarBears ? »

Si vous êtes ignorant de la limite, les ours sont une culture secondaire des homosexuels. Je suis un ours. Je n'apparaîtrai jamais sur la couverture du magazine de la santé des hommes, ou sois décrit sur une publicité pour les danseurs exotiques masculins : J'ai un ventre, et il n'y a pas un muscle abdominal dur en vue. Plutôt que rasent mon visage (ou mon cou ou mon coffre ou mon ventre), je permettent à mes cheveux de corps de les élever naturellement là où pousse. Toutefois ils sont définis, les « ours » représentent un côté décidément masculin de culture gaie ; nous sommes souvent confondus en tant qu'hommes droits, parce que nous apparaissons le plus souvent comme « les types réguliers. » Nous tendons également à aimer notre bière et notre bourbon, et parties, et sommes un sort assez tolérant et live-and-let-live. Et nous tendons à être des animaux de paquet : il y a des événements de `d'ours (appelés les « courses d'ours ") partout dans le monde, chaque week-end, en nous permettant choisissez n'importe quel week-end et partez pour avoir une partie avec de vieux et nouveaux amis.

En 2005, un petit groupe d'ours de Montréal a décidé de partager leur culture canadienne française d'ours avec la Communauté internationale d'ours, et le tout premier « week-end de SugarBear » a eu lieu. Avec des centaines de participants tous les ans, le week-end de SugarBear est maintenant devenu le plus grand événement d'ours au Canada, favorisé avec une marque déposée « grand bûcheron velu. » L'événement est tenu à de divers endroits dans tout le village gai de Montréal, un contrat, section walkable de Montréal qui est l'épicentre de la vie gaie. Comme le Greenwich Village à New York City ou Castro à San Francisco, « Le Village Gay » (ou simplement, « le village ") est le battement de coeur de la culture gaie de Montréal. Elle est assez française pour rappeler des visiteurs qu'ils sont dans une terre comme étroitement lié à l'Europe quant à l'Amérique du Nord, mais « anglophone » assez de s'assurer que les visiteurs américains peuvent diriger la vie nocturne et commander une bière dans une boîte de nuit sans problème.

Des huit week-ends de SugarBear qui se sont produits depuis 2005, je me suis occupé des six derniers (2007 - 2012) et, si tout va bien, continuerai à s'occuper pendant des années à venir. Basé sur mes six expériences de SugarBear, qui ont eu lieu pendant le dernier week-end de mars, j'offre le journal intime suivant de 2012 en tant qu'incursion d'un homosexuel typique dans Montréal.

Jour 1 (jeudi) : Il n'y a habituellement aucun événement prévu le jeudi, mais c'est juste plus d'une excuse à arriver tôt : Il te donne un jour pour obtenir arrangé et aller n'importe où sans programme. Cette dernière année, nous sommes arrivés tôt - le 1:00 P.M. - et apprécié un jour complet avant que les activités prévues aient commencé.

Si vous allez à Montréal, ne regardez pas pour réserver un hôtel. Il n'y a aucun grand hôtel traditionnel au milieu du village gai - mais il y a plus que des douzaine lits - et - les déjeuners, toute la restauration aux homosexuels, qui vous mettent dans la promenade de quelques blocs partout de vous veulent être. Je suis resté à plusieurs (tel qu'Absolument Montréal et monsieur Montcalm), et ai visité d'autres. Le Conciergerie, peut-être le plus grand, semble toujours apporter des sourires aux visages des invités - mais il est situé sur la rue Hubert de rue, au bord loin occidental du village, et après un moment sa distance du centre du village peut devenir ennuyante.

Quant à moi, mon favori a toujours été La Maison DesJardins, localisé de seuls deux blocs du centre de tout sur la rue Logan. Il est difficile de battre des salles admirablement désignées, un personnel amical, un sentiment intime, les déjeuners délicieux, un coût raisonnable et l'endroit parfait….mais elles vont plus loin. Dans l'arrière-cour de cette dépendance est un baquet chaud disponible pour l'usage de l'invité, et sur l'arrivée à notre B&B, notre premier arrêt était le baquet chaud, wine à disposition.
Pour ceux de nous les types qui aiment les chiens (et chaque ours j'ai jamais rencontré des chiens d'amours), La Maison DesJardins vient avec une bonification supplémentaire : Gaia, un chien de moutons anglais énorme, aimable, amical, qui visitera heureusement avec des invités si permis. Pour notre argent, la La Maison est endroit de *THE* à rester dans Montréal.

Après que notre immersion dans le baquet chaud, nous ait dépensé la rue de marche Sainte-Catherine d'après-midi, la route principale par le village gai. La visite des magasins et des cafés, un se rend constamment compte de l'amour français de l'art, de la conception et de la forme ; tous l'architecture des maisons, les parcs et les monuments - même le parking conçoit - indiquent une appréciation française de la beauté dans l'environnement établi.

Au centre du village, nous nous sommes arrêtés « au sandwich à club de le, » un wagon-restaurant envahi, parce que notre premier moyen traditionnel de nuit : Poutine. Poutine est un repas canadien français se composant de la sauce au jus de boeuf et du fromage de fermiers fondus au-dessus des pommes frites. Je prends les miens « Lyonnaise, » signification que j'également sautéed les oignons et le boeuf réel mélangés dedans au mien. Ce peut être un peu dur sur la taille, mais - juste comme je prends toujours un bagel avec le saumon fumé pour le déjeuner avant de quitter New York City - j'ai toujours Poutine avant de commencer ma première nuit dans Montréal.

Et cette première nuit est toujours appréciée chez Le Stud, sur le coin de l'avenue Papineau et de la chambre de rue. - Catherine. Le Stud est une boîte de nuit avec 4 barres (et un cinquième des week-ends en haut), le DJ, et une petite piste de danse, et est emballé avec entre deux âges concerne n'importe quelle nuit donnée de week-end. Elle est « siège » du week-end de SugarBear, où nous enregistrons, entrons nos passages d'événement, et course dans des douzaines des hommes que nous avons vu beaucoup de fois avant à travers le nord-est. Comme d'habitude, nous devenons trop impliqués dans de la première la partie nuit, et n'entrons pas dans le lit jusqu'à 3 heures le matin.

Jour 2 (vendredi) : C'est le premier événement officiel, une « partie de plage » en mars, qui, vraiment, est un euphémisme pour une réunion à un bain public local.

Maintenant, un bon ami à moi (Chaz) une fois remontés une liste de 10 choses un homosexuel devrait jamais, pour ne jamais faire. Un de ces articles lus, « pas essai de *ever* expliquent un bain public à vos amis droits. » Et réellement, c'est bon conseil, ainsi je pas. Mais je dirai ceci : la « partie de plage » de cette année était peu une décevante. Dans le passé, la partie a été tenue au « sauna 456, » situé, convenablement, à 456 Rue de la Gauchetière Ouest, qui exige un tour de taxi pendant qu'il est situé légèrement au delà du village. Mais le tour la vaut : le premier étage contient une énorme piscine, une salle gentil-classée de sauna et de vapeur, un secteur de salon et de séance pour des conversations, et une barre réelle avec la nourriture et la bière. On peut apprécier une partie très innocente ici, et il y avait pièce pour des concours drôles (tels que le bout encré imprime…) Ou, on pourrait apprécier les labyrinthes foncés qui existent en haut.

Mais cette année, les 456 étaient fermés pour des rénovations (nous entendons qu'on le cense s'ouvrir encore en novembre 2012), ainsi la partie a été tenue à l'oasis dans le village à la place. Malheureusement, l'oasis est plus petite et manque des agréments du premier étage que 456 a, et d'ennuyer légèrement prouvé globalement. Il y a un autre sauna juste quelques blocs loin, « G I Joe, » mais nous n'avons pas eu l'occasion de visiter celui-ci (bien que j'ai seulement entendu des rapports positifs).

Au lieu de cela, en tant que bons ours, nous avons concentré nos énergies sur la consommation.

L'année dernière, tout à fait accidentellement, nous avons trébuché, tout à fait accidentellement, dans un restaurant italien incroyable. Cette année n'était aucun différent : nous avons pris des risques sur un restaurant appelé « rue André de Resto-Pub » sur le coin de la rue de rue - André et chambre de rue. - Catherine… et trouvé ayant des orgasmes de nourriture.
Mon associé Danny et I chacun a essayé l'Au Saumon Fumé (Fettuccini de Fettuccini avec les saumons fumés) qui était absolument étonnant.
Le saumon fumé était, dans la mesure où nous avons pu dire, une coupe de qualité de saumon fumé, cuite dans des quantités suffisantes à la sauce crème à fettuccini. Le plat a été arrondi dehors avec de petites tomates découpées et étouffé en fromage fondu avec un scallion garnissez. Nous tous les deux sommes tombés amoureux de notre serveur, Raul, pour son efficacité et amitié. Pendant que j'essayais de commander notre dîner dans mon Français cassé, il a assisté la rédaction française correcte et alors répété tout en anglais s'assurer l'ordre était correct. Sur fournir notre dîner, il nous a alors offert le fromage fraîchement râpé et le poivre criqué.

Il était l'un des repas les plus délicieux que j'ai jamais mangés, et le prix était du bas côté du moderate. Nous allons essayer de le reproduire à la maison pour le dîner de Pâques.

Nous avons complimenté notre dîner avec la blonde de Chanvre, une bière blonde rouge-colorée et Chanvre-basée qui était délicieuse et compliquée, commençant par un arome de floral-citron, un goût premier à noix, et a légèrement houblon-comme la finition amère. C'était la première et seulement la bière chanvre-basée que j'avais jamais goûtée, et je l'ai aimée.

Après dîner, nous nous sommes dirigés vers le bas au coin de la rue Hubert de rue et l'avenue Viger, au DES de salle archive Nationales du Québec, où le festival de film d'Image+Nation LGBT qui avait fonctionné pendant 21 années), nous a amusés avec deux films : La délivrance, short 18 comique minute comparant la recherche d'un ami au processus d'adopter un chien de délivrance à un abri ; et Boystown, un film Espagnol-fait intégral qui peut mieux être décrit en tant que drame fou.

Dans le passé, les organisateurs de SugarBear ont essayé des événements multiples le vendredi soirs, des défilés de mode aux théâtres de dîner, qui étaient des effondrements colossaux. Cette fois, ils l'ont obtenu droit - c'était probablement leur meilleur vendredi événement de soir jusqu'ici, et nous étions heureux nous étions présents.

Jour 3 (samedi) : C'est « l'événement principal. » Le rassemblement principal pendant le week-end est un jour complet de la consommation et du boire chez un SugarShack local, dans le plus fin des traditions de bûcheron de Quebeçois. Nous avons commencé en recueillant de nouveau chez Le Stud (qui s'ouvre à 10 AM) pour le Marys sanglant obligatoire. Quand les autobus scolaires sont arrivés, nous des hommes avons empilé dedans et les avons remplis pour le voyage au sucre Shack de Handfield près de la rue - Marc-sur-Richlieu, environ 40 minutes à l'est de Montréal. Encore, j'ai été à plusieurs cabanes de sucre près de Montréal, et ai toujours trouvé celui-ci le accueil et efficace, et la nourriture suffisante et délicieuse.

Quand nous sommes arrivés à midi, les propriétaires nous ont salués, en tant que toujours, avec les échantillons libres de « caribou, » une boisson de estomac-chauffage traditionnelle. Les diverses publications décrivent le caribou comme mélange de 3 onces. vodka, 3 onces. eau-de-vie fine, xérès canadien de 12.5 onces, et porto de Canadien de 12.5 onces ; ou peut-être 3 onces. porto, 1.5 vodka, .25 creme de cassis, et un sirop d'érable d'éclaboussure.

I cependant, l'ont sur la bonne autorité des gens du pays Québecker qui lui font toute l'heure ou leur cabane de sucre (et parler de l'état de l'anonymat), ce caribou est 4 parts de port, 4 parts de porto fauve (ou xérès), 1 part Rye canadien, 1 part de whisky écossais et une éclaboussure de sirop d'érable - et c'est comment je le rends à la maison. Sans se soucier, nous avons bu beaucoup de caribou, car nous avons continué à le commander par le passé que nous avons arrangé à l'intérieur pour le régal.

Dans le réfectoire, un feu de flambage hurlait dans la cheminée à une extrémité, où les violoneurs ont joué les gabarits et les bobines français. Les longues tables de pique-nique étaient extrémité alignée à finir dans trois longues rangées, et cent cinquante ou ours ont arrangé dedans avec leurs seaux pleins de Molson ou de carafes de caribou en prévision des piles de la nourriture qui suivraient.

Porc Pâté pour écarter sur le pain frais. Soupe aux fèves. Écorces frites de porc. Les oeufs brouillés, les pommes de terre cuites au four, et les montagnes du jambon, tous ont sur option étouffé en sirop d'érable. Et plus encore. Et à un certain point, un ours divise en jouer des cuillères à temps avec le violoneur, et quelqu'un d'autre hue, et quelques types commencent à lutter, et le niveau du rire augmente, et plus de nourriture sort….et quand il n'y a finalement aucune pièce de manger plus, elles mettent en évidence le pâté en croûte de sirop d'érable, très probablement la substance la plus douce connue de l'humanité.

Nous roulant dehors la porte, nous avons alors fait notre propre `sucre-sur-snow'par verser le sirop chaud au-dessus de la glace rasée et à l'aide des bâtons de popsicle pour rouler le sirop dans les lucettes collantes.

Et bon nombre d'entre nous ont dormi sur la maison de tour d'autobus….attraper seulement un notre deuxième vent pour une autre nuit chez Le Stud, et un bonnet de nuit différent dans le dos de baquet chaud à la La Maison DesJardins.

Jour 4 (dimanche): Aujourd'hui nous avons dit nos goodbyes. D'abord nous avons exploré la vente chez Priape, le plus grand magasin du Canada approvisionnant aux homosexuels avec l'usage de fétiche, le cuir, et d'autres articles d'intérêt aux homosexuels. Malheureusement, de même que tellement souvent le cas chez Priape, les marchandises sont adaptées pour un plus jeune, plus mince ensemble ; Je ne pourrais pas trouver une seule paire de jeans avec une taille de taille plus grande que 34 - et très peu de nous des ours vont s'insérer dans le pantalon de la taille 34. Nous avons trouvé quelques manchettes en cuir ordonnées de poignet avec un compartiment caché pour tenir l'identification et l'argent comptant, ainsi nous avons pris un couple. Heureusement, Priape n'est pas le seul magasin pour nous dans le village….un nouveau magasin, l'armada de fétiche, est situé juste en bas de la rue sur le coin de la chambre de rue. - Catherine et rue Montcalm. Il est plus petit, mais amical et désireux de faire des affaires avec de plus grands hommes ; beaucoup de leurs affaires est travail fait sur commande.

Par Noon, il était temps pour le brunch d'adieu, tenu chez Le Planète sur la chambre de rue. - Catherine (si vous obtenez au sens cette chambre de rue. - Catherine est où tout se produit, il y a une raison de cela. En été, il est clôturé aux automobiles et devient ciel de café de piéton et de trottoir.) Le Planète est un petit et confortable établissement de nourriture… mais je dois admettre que son aspiration principale n'était ni la nourriture ni le décor moderne….mais un personnel des jeunes adorables soutient (« Cubs, » pendant que nous les appelons) l'emballage en avant et en arrière pour prendre des ordres, sert des mimosas, verse les ronds sans fin du café, et fournit des repas.

Pour ceux qui vivent localement, le jour finirait avec un concours de bûcheron de tard-après-midi au goujon. Pour le reste de nous qui travaillent le lundi matin, un départ d'après-midi est plus dans l'ordre. Dans le passé, nous avons toujours fait un arrêt rapide dans la vieille ville de Montréal, une zone au détail qui est l'emplacement du règlement original et caractérisé par les rues étroites et les ruelles pavées dans des pavés ronds et garnies des bâtiments en pierre datant de 300 ans. Tandis que la vieille ville est à la maison aux douzaines de T-shirt et le bibelot visqueux fait des emplettes, avec du peu de temps un peut trouver les peintures uniques, les lampes de dessin-modèle et en verre, les découpages d'Inuit et d'autres articles de spécialité.

Mais cette fois, encore pleine du jambon érable-trempé et épuisée de notre week-end, nous nous sommes dirigés à la maison. Nous espérons renvoyer un certain jour en mois d'été pour voir ce qu'est il comme en des mois plus chauds ; mais, que nous fassions ou pas, nous reviendrons à Montréal en mars prochain pour le week-end 9 de SugarBear pour certain.
Montréal et la province de Québec sont les endroits merveilleux et agréables juste sur le seuil de l'Amérique ; c'est dommage plus d'Américains, gai ou droit, ne franchissez pas la frontière et ne participez pas à joie de vivre de Montréal.

Monsanto Insecticides Linked to Honeybee Colony Collapse

Honeybees – critical agents for pollinizing the world’s food chain – have been dying off at rates of 20-50% a year for the last two decades. The phenomenon, called “Colony Collapse Disorder,” has been blamed on mites, viruses, urbanization, weather patterns, and a whole host of causes. But the reality is that the massive deaths of these insects is most likely due to a chemical whose prime purpose…is to kill insects.

In Thursday’s issue of the journal “Science,” two teams of researchers published studies showing that even low levels of a group of pesticides called neonicotinoids may have significant effects on bee colonies. Derived from nicotine, the pesticides are produced in mass quantities by Monsanto, the company that gave you Agent Orange, GMO lawsuits against family farms, and the Indian suicides crisis. Introduced in the early 1990s, these pesticides have exploded in popularity; virtually all corn grown in the United States is treated with neonicotinoids.

The first experiment was conducted by French researchers, and showed that the chemicals confuse honeybee homing instincts, making it harder for them to find their way back to their hives. Researchers at the National Institute for Agricultural Research in France fed honeybees a dose of neonicotinoid-laced sugar water and then moved them a half-mile from their hive. The bees carried miniature radio tags that allowed the scientists to keep track of how many returned to the hive.

In familiar territory, the scientists found, the bees exposed to the pesticide were 10 percent less likely than healthy bees to make it home; in unfamiliar places, that figure rose to 31 percent. Using a computer model to estimate how this would affect a hive, they concluded that a hive’s population might drop by two-thirds or more.

“I thought it was very well designed,” said May Berenbaum, an entomologist at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.

The second study, by scientists in Britain, showed that neonicocotinoids keep bumblebees from supplying their hives with enough food to produce new queens. In this study, Dr. Goulson and his colleagues fed sugar water laced with a neonicotinoid pesticide to 50 bumblebee colonies. The researchers then moved the bee colonies to a farm, alongside 25 colonies that had been fed ordinary sugar water. Dr. Goulson found that colonies exposed to neonicotinoids produced 85 percent fewer queens, which would translate into 85 percent fewer hives.

Jeffery Pettis, a bee expert at the United States Department of Agriculture, called Dr. Goulson’s study “alarming.” He said he suspected that other types of wild bees would be shown to suffer similar effects.
“Three or four years ago, I was much more cautious about how much pesticides were contributing to the problem,” Dr. Pettis said. “Now more and more evidence points to pesticides being a consistent part of the problem.”


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St. Tuathal (Tutilo), my Namesake's Feast Day (March 28)

St. Tuathal of Saint-Gall
Feastday: March 28

In the early middle ages, one of the most influential monasteries and centers of learning in Europe was located at St. Gall, in present-day Switzerland on the Bavarian border. It was a center of music, art, and learning whose effects are still felt today.

In the middle of the ninth century, a group of Irish monks stopped off at the abbey and several decided to stay; among them was Tuathal, who would remain there for the rest of his life, where he became known as Tutilo or Tuotilo, the Old Germanic translation of Tuathal. Tuathal is known as a “Renaissance Man” before his time: a musician/composer, painter, athlete, and sculptor/metalworkerbuilder, he was chosen to be the head of the monastic school.

He was headmaster at the abbey’s greatest height of influence. The Gregorian chant manuscripts from the monastery of St. Gall were standardized by St. Tuathal and are considered among the most authentic available, becoming the source of almost all the chant manuscripts that were distributed throughout Europe. They are illustrated in the style of Irish manuscripts such as the Book of Kells, attesting to the Irish influence in St-Gall.

Tuathal expanded the standard church liturgy by adding musical group choral responses called “tropes and sequences,” which marked the beginning of liturgical ‘drama.’ This device was eliminated from liturgies in the 13th Century, but is being restored in many modern churches as dramatic presentations become popular once again.

In every written account of Tuathal, he is described as large, athletic and muscular, and several accounts exist of him physically subduing enemies of the Abbey. He died at the Abbey in 915 AD. His paintings and sculptures can be found in museums and monastaries in Constance, Metz, Saint-Gall, and Mainz. The chapel in which he was buried, dedicated to Saint Catherine, was later renamed for him.


Muscle, Music, Teacher, Irish/German....is there any doubt as to why I chose Tuathal (pronouced "Too-wool") as my name?

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Morocco's Occupation of the Saharawi People and Lands Must End

In my last blog article, I attempted to explain the half-century-long fight of the Tuareg people to preserve their homelands and traditional ways. (Tuareg Right to Self-Determination) Today, I turn my attention to a similar situation in northern Africa: the Western Sahara, which has the distinction of being the last “colony” on the African continent.

The land, which borders the Atlantic Ocean, has been occupied by Morocco ever since the previous colonial power, Spain, withdrew from the colony in the mid 1970s. The long-term plan was to grant independence to the native Sahwari people; almost 40 years later, the Sahwari not only lack their own nation, they have been driven out, walled off, and had their resources plundered by Morocco and both European and American corporations.
The Sahrawis are growing understandably impatient with the supposed “peace process” that was mandated by the UN decades ago.

Sahrawi journalist Embarka Elmehdi Said recently told Green Left Weekly, an Australian paper, “No one will give us our freedom — we must take it!” A child when her family fled the Moroccan invasion of Western Sahara in 1975, Said has spent most of her life in a refugee camp on the Algerian border run by Polisario (the organization recognized by the United Nations as the official representative of the Sahrawi people.) Said’s two sons, aged 12 and three, have spent all their lives in refugee camps.

As with the Tuareg further south, the Sahrawi are enduring the standard forms of marginalization by their colonizers:

Military occupation of their lands; prohibition of their speech and lifestyle (their flag is outlawed in Morocco-occupied Western Sahara); the literal building of walls to prevent their return; impoundment in refugee camps or reservations; ethnic discrimination; the branding of those yearning for freedom as “terrorists;” the intimidation and impoverishment of the people; plundering of national resources and destruction of property; and torture of captives (justified because they are “terrorists.”)

It is a pattern that has been used against indigenous people around the globe, including Native American Tribes, Gaelic-speaking Celts, blacks under apartheid in the "old" South Africa, the East Timorese in Indonesia, Palestinians, Kurds, and indigenous people in Mexico.

Some history:

The Western Sahara was colonized by Spain in the 1800s. Most European powers granted independence to their African colonies in the mid 1900s, but Spain appeared to be dragging its feet. In 1965, the UN General Assembly adopted its first resolution on the Western Sahara, asking Spain to decolonize the territory. In 1966, the UN again addressed the issue, requesting that Spain conduct a referendum on self-determination. No referendum was held.

In 1975, the International Court of Justice declared that the population of Western Sahara possessed the right of self-determination. During the week of October 31 - November 6, 1975, Moroccan troops invaded the Western Sahara, followed by 350,000 new Moroccan occupiers. Within three months Spain relinquished control of the territory to neighboring Morocco and Mauritania, and soon those two nations found themselves at war over the territory.

The Sahrawi people countered by forming the Sahrawi National Liberation Movement (Polisario) to demand independence. Polisario proclaimed the land the “Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic” (SADR) and established a government-in-exile in nearby Tindouf, Algeria, creating a three-way battle for the land The Polisario forced Mauritania to withdraw in 1979, but Morocco then overran and secured control of almost the entire territory, including all major cities and natural resources. Foreshadowing a tool that Israel would utilize against Palestinians, Morocco then built an extensive sand berm in the desert, known as the Border Wall or Moroccan Wall, to contain and exclude the Sahrawi and protect their own occupation.

The Wall left the Sahrawis with control of less than 20% of their nation, and no access to cities, ocean ports, or national resources. This area now has only a small population of about 30,000 Sahrawi nomads. The Moroccan government views it as a no-man's land patrolled by UN troops; Polisario, whose troops also patrol the area, have proclaimed a village in the area, Bir Lehlou, as SADR's provisional capital.

Open hostilities between Morocco and Polisario generally ended in a 1991 cease-fire overseen by a UN peacekeeping mission with a transition plan. In the intervening years a new king has been crowned in Morocco, Mohammed VI, son of previous King Hassan II. He opposes any referendum on independence, and has said Morocco will never agree to one: "We shall not give up one inch of our beloved Sahara, not a grain of its sand".

In the years since the conflict began, there have been serious human rights abuses, most notably the displacement of tens of thousands of Sahrawi civilians from their own country. A little over a year ago, Moroccan troops violently dismantled the Gdeim Izik refugee camp near Laayoune. In a November 26, 2010 report, Human Rights Watch said that Moroccan security forces used excessive force, and engaged in “retaliatory” attacks on ethnic Sahrawi citizens. Among the casualties at Gdeim Izik was 14-year-old Nayem Elgarhi, shot by Moroccan security forces near the camp.

Morocco has been repeatedly criticized for its actions in Western Sahara by international human rights organizations, including Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, World Organization Against Torture, Freedom House, Reporters Without Borders, International Committee of the Red Cross, the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, Derechos Human Rights, Defend International, Front Line, the International Federation of Human Rights, the Society for Threatened Peoples, and the Norwegian Refugee Council.

While the political situation remains in limbo, Morocco and western nations have turned to resource extraction from the territory with Morocco’s blessing. In February, German engineering firm Siemens secured its first wind turbine orders on Morocco-occupied lands.

Last year, a fishing rights agreement signed by the European Union and Morocco granted fishing rights to Europe off of the entire coast of the Western Sahara. On January 25, The International Consortium of Investigative Journalists revealed that monster fishing vessels were sucking the oceans dry of small pelagic fish species off the Western Saharan coast. The eight country investigation showed that the world’s largest fish factory vessel, The Lafayette (which is the size of two football fields), accompanied by a fleet of trawlers, was actively harvesting fish populations off of the Western Sahara coast. The Moroccan state-owned oil company ONHYM continues to promote the uranium potential of occupied Western Sahara; only last month, due to international pressure, did US-owned Kerr McGee cease exploratory oil operations. (Source)

And throughout, the Sahrawi people have waited for a referendum on self-determination for their plundered lands that was guaranteed under the peace settlement with Morocco almost 21 years ago. The UN Mission for the Referendum in Western Sahara mandate has been extended 39 times without being fulfilled, largely due to international disinterest and the interference of Moroccan authorities.

The mission has drawn increased criticism over its failure to make headway, including from its former deputy chairperson Frank Ruddy. In 2005 he said: “Morocco dictated the where and when of the voting registration, controlled entry to the UN registration facilities, and even decided which Western Saharans got to register … Morocco’s abuse of the people of Western Sahara and its manipulation of the UN mission in Western Sahara was open and notorious.”

Learosi Abdalahi Salec, a volunteer at Afapredesa (a human rights organization based in the Rabuni refugee camp), said he could also see anger in the younger refugees. “They say this situation is unacceptable, especially for us … they told the leaders if you didn’t want to [return to] war, you can go away … we want new leaders, who take us to war.”

When asked why they want war, many around the camps point to the poverty, purposelessness and boredom that pervade their lives. Some young men sleep until midday, waking only to perform a few menial tasks. Others whittle away days on end just making tea. “Some say it’s better to die than live this life.”

Last October, three aid workers were kidnapped from the Rabuni camp by al Qaeda, a group, incidentally strongly opposed by Polisario. But immediately following the kidnapping, some western reports suggested that the Sahrawi people support al Qaeda.

That is, of course, entirely untrue. At the current time.

But the longer a people live a marginalized, impoverished existence...and the longer the west is indifferent to their pleas for freedom...and the longer their lands are plundered...the more likely a group a frustrated young people will turn to warfare to achieve their ends. And the more likely they will be branded, incorrectly and ignorantly, as mere terrorists.

Like the Tuareg in the Agadez, the Sahrawi must have their right to self-determination realized, and it must be sooner rather than later.

If the United States is serious about combatting terrorism, then instead of sending in US troops to endlessly occupy culturally dissimilar nations; instead of only being concerned with oil-producing giants and military-industrial work contracts; instead of engaging in and supporting state-sponsored torture and branding all poor freedom fighters as terrorists; we could do far better by helping indigenous peoples realize their aspirations for independence and govern nations of their own.


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Tuareg Right to Self-Determination: Western Support Long Overdue

The Pattern is the same around the world: Wealthy nations colonize a native people, redrawing the existing political lines and importing ‘settlers’; Native people are marginalized and forced by government decree to conform and assimilate; and those who seek to preserve their own lifestyle and homeland are branded as “insurgents,” “guerillas,” and “terrorists.”

Recent news reports concerning the coup in Mali two days ago reflect the western journalistic trend to lightly – and ignorantly – brand native peoples as terrorists – especially if some government merely asserts it is so. For those of you who missed the news, a military coup took place in the western African nation of Mali two days ago. The coup was staged by army members who thought the government was too ‘soft’ in fighting Tuareg separatists in the northern parts of the country. And, as the pattern mentioned above suggests, those responsible for the coup have wasted no time in branding the Tuaregs as terrorists and in league with al Qaeda, in an effort to garner western support. And, true to form, much of the mainstream media have simply repeated what has been asserted without any sense of history of the area or context.

And so, a bit of that history is in order.

The Tuareg are a nomadic people, made famous by their indigo-colored clothing which often stains their skin, earning them the name “the Blue Men of the Sahara” by 20th Century writers. Numbering between 5 and 6 million, they inhabit the interior and most inhospitable parts of the Sahara Desert, traditionally serving as caravan guides and security, trading in salt and supplies across the Sahara between the Mediterranean north and the ‘greener and wetter’ lands to the south, and herding goats. Ethnically they are Berbers, not Arabs, and, though nominally Muslim, their religion is a syncretistic combination of Islam, animist and even Christian elements. As is necessary to their survival in the Saharan environment, they are a pragmatic rather than a theologically-driven people.

The Tuareg are well-known for their highly elaborate silver crosses which have become fairly common as western jewelry in recent years; the men, not the women, wear the traditional veil in this society. And Tuareg women own the family tents, the most prized form of property in the society.

When European powers carved up Africa, France took control of much of their homelands, calling the territory “French West Africa.” When this territory was carved up into the nations that make up the modern map of Africa in the 1960s, the Tuareg found their traditional homeland – “the Agadez” - divided between Mali, Niger, and Algeria. A smaller number of Tuareg were drawn into Libya as well.

The Tuareg opposed this political division, as it established international political borders across their historic and traditional nomadic routes. In reponse, the new Malian army brutally repressed the Tuareg, slaughtering hundreds of people and their livestock flocks. Malian military rule was then imposed on this region of Mali for 25 years.

Modern nations don’t like nomadic peoples. Nomads don’t pay taxes and are difficult to control. The Tuareg have endured ethnic discrimination and marginalization ever since the Agadez was carved up. In some places their language, Tamashek, was outlawed. The Arabs to the north look down on the Tuaregs as primitive people who have little affection for law and order, and see their religious belief system as apostate. To the south, the Black-African majority states have sought to shut out the light-skinned Tuaregs from both government and business. In Niger, for example, the government chose to invite Chinese workers to operate a uranium mine in the Agadez, leaving the local Tuaregs without jobs and saddled with pollution of their land and limited water supplies.

Draw new political lines. Fence them in. Outlaw their language. Discriminate based on ethnicity. Dominate with Military Force.

Isn’t this a story we’ve seen time and time again? The story of the Native Americans? The Gaelic-speaking Irish? Palestinians?

And so, lacking jobs and an ability to engage in their traditional lifestyles, the Tuareg – particularly in Mali – have been seeking their own homeland in an on-again, off-again rebellion for the last half-century.

Meanwhile, in Libya, Colonel Gaddhafi seized the opportunity to hire thousands of Tuaregs into his private militia. When the Gaddhafi regime fell, these trained – and armed - Tuareg returned to the Agadez. The number of returning Tuareg fighters range somewhere between 800 and 4,000. While all journalistic and political eyes were focused on the events in Libya, the returning warriors joined other independence-minded Tuareg and formed the National Movement for the Liberation of the Azawad (Mouvement National de Liberation de l'Azawad) or MNLA. And the MNLA had some immediate success.

In January of this year, the MNLA routed the Malian army, which lost complete control of the Azawad region to the Tuareg. More than 1,000 Malian troops were killed, and their defeat was accompanied by the humiliation of having run out of ammunition. The MNLA issued a press release stating that it aimed "to free the people of Azawad from the illegal occupation of its territory by Mali". As indicated earlier, the Azawad region covers not only northern Mali, but northern Niger and southern Algeria as well. Suddenly, multiple African states - and the west - have become attentive and nervous. Within the last few weeks, the MNLA has been reinforced by Tuareg deserting the Malian army and young recruits from within the region. Estimates put the former as high as 1,500 and the latter at 500. The accompanying map shows Tuareg gains in the last 3 months.

In the wake of the success by the Tuareg, remaining members of the Malian army, bitter over their stunning defeat, turned their wrath on their own government, ousting Malian President Amadou Toumani Toure and his cabinet and installing a military junta openly hostile to the Tuareg.

Which brings me to the most important part of this Blogpost.

Governments around the world are beginning to issue cautious statements about the overall situation. Journalists unfamiliar with the region are reaching for any quote they can get. And the new junta in Mali is issuing statements pleading for legitimacy. In all of this flurry, the Tuareg are being called everything from Islamicists to Al Qaeda allies.

They are neither.

They are, like so many indigenous people, asserting their right to their own homeland, one not drawn up by colonial powers and imposed on them.

One journalist who knows the situation well is Ben Barber, who has written about the developing world since 1980 for Newsday, the London Observer, the Christian Science Monitor, Salon.com, Foreign Affairs, the Washington Times and USA TODAY. Yesterday, he was a bright spot in an otherwise foggy and murky reporting flurry, when he wrote:

“The United States, which has sent special forces, trainers and other troops to Mali and the region to fight Al Qaida, should lead diplomatic efforts to bring the Tuareg and the governments of Mali, Niger and Algeria, to the table with concrete proposals.

The Tuareg should have some say in the administration of resources in the desert. They should get access to land with water as they move their flocks away from a drought-affected region. They should be invited to join local governments, police and armies as equal citizens of their home countries. And a pan-Tuareg cultural or trade union could be formed to facilitate their nomadic journeys and preserve their unique lifestyle.”

Any effort to ignore the legitimate demands of the Tuareg can only become a self-fulfilling prophecy: at best, the 60-year old instability will continue to rock the region; but at worst, an ill-informed anti-Tuareg western response may drive yet another indigenous people right into the arms of the terrorists that we insist we are trying to defeat.

(For a similar story regarding the Sahwari people, see Morocco's Occupation of the Sahwari People... on this Blog)


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Trayvon Martin: Murder by Racism

I have been following the saga surrounding the murder of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin every day. And every day when I read or hear about it, my voice breaks as I try to speak and the tears flow. Because I know, but that for chance or circumstance, Trayvon could have been one of my children.

I am white. I have six adopted children, and one grandchild. They are minorities: the ultimate rainbow family of Black and Native American and Caribbean and Latina and White ancestries, with a gay dad, all rolled into one unmistakably American family. I also live in a very white community in a very white state, as I have for the last 20 years.

Like Trayvon’s mom and dad, I am divorced from their mom. And that means that my kids do not live with me all the time – but they are here at least once a week. They stay here, enjoy holidays here, come here after school. They BELONG here with me. It is not unusual for one of them to run out of the house to walk to town to go buy some candy. My oldest daughter often stays out with friends, and walks home on her own at night through the white neighborhoods.

And every day that George Zimmerman remains free; every day that Trayvon’s parents plea for help; every day that black crowds demand justice and not a single white face shows up in the crowd along side of them; every day some ignorant internet post tries to blame Trayvon and exonerate Zimmerman; every day that this goes on, my anger burns.

Because, but for the grace of God, there goes my own son or daughter.

And if the black community in this country explodes, I will be there with them.

If you’ve never lived, day by day, in an interracial family, you may not understand. But award-winning film maker Michael Skolnik, Editor-In-Chief of GlobalGrind.com, gets it. And so when I ran across his most recent blog article, I couldn’t help but repost it here:

White People, You Will Never Look Suspicious Like Trayvon Martin
by Michael Skolnik

I will never look suspicious to you. Even if I have a black hoodie, a pair of jeans and white sneakers on...in fact, that is what I wore yesterday...I still will never look suspicious. No matter how much the hoodie covers my face or how baggie my jeans are, I will never look out of place to you. I will never watch a taxi cab pass me by to pick someone else up. I will never witness someone clutch their purse tightly against their body as they walk by me. I won't have to worry about a police car following me for two miles, so they can "run my plates." I will never have to pay before I eat. And I certainly will never get "stopped and frisked." I will never look suspicious to you, because of one thing and one thing only. The color of my skin. I am white.

I was born white. It was the card I was dealt. No choice in the matter. Just the card handed out by the dealer. I have lived my whole life privileged. Privileged to be born without a glass ceiling. Privileged to grow up in the richest country in the world. Privileged to never look suspicious. I have no guilt for the color of my skin or the privilege that I have. Remember, it was just the next card that came out of the deck. But, I have choices. I got choices on how I play the hand I was dealt. I got a lot of options. The ball is in my court.

So, today I decided to hit the ball. Making a choice. A choice to stand up for Trayvon Martin. 17 years old. black. innocent. murdered with a bag of skittles and a bottle of ice tea in his hands. "Suspicious." that is what the guy who killed him said he looked like cause he had on a black hoodie, a pair of jeans and white sneakers. But, remember I had on that same outfit yesterday. And yes my Air Force Ones were "brand-new" clean. After all, I was raised in hip-hop...part of our dress code. I digress. Back to Trayvon and the gated community in Sanford, Florida, where he was visiting his father.

I got a lot of emails about Trayvon. I have read a lot of articles. I have seen a lot of television segments. The message is consistent. Most of the commentators, writers, op-ed pages agree. Something went wrong. Trayvon was murdered. Racially profiled. Race. America's elephant that never seems to leave the room. But, the part that doesn't sit well with me is that all of the messengers of this message are all black too. I mean, it was only two weeks ago when almost every white person I knew was tweeting about stopping a brutal African warlord from killing more innocent children. And they even took thirty minutes out of their busy schedules to watch a movie about dude. They bought t-shirts. Some bracelets. Even tweeted at Rihanna to take a stance. But, a 17 year old American kid is followed and then ultimately killed by a neighborhood vigilante who happens to be carrying a semi-automatic weapon and my white friends are quiet. Eerily quiet. Not even a trending topic for the young man.

We've heard the 911 calls. We seen the 13 year old witness. We've read the letter from the alleged killer's father. We listened to the anger of the family's attorney. We've felt the pain of Trayvon's mother. For heaven's sake, for 24 hours he was a deceased John Doe at the hospital because even the police couldn't believe that maybe he LIVES in the community. There are still some facts to figure out. There are still some questions to be answered. But, let's be clear. Let's be very, very clear. Before the neighborhood watch captain, George Zimmerman, started following him against the better judgement of the 911 dispatcher. Before any altercation. Before any self-defense claim. Before Travyon's cries for help were heard on the 911 tapes. Before the bullet hit him dead in the chest. Before all of this. He was suspicious. He was suspicious. suspicious. And you know, like I know, it wasn't because of the hoodie or the jeans or the sneakers. Cause I had on that same outfit yesterday and no one called 911 saying I was just wandering around their neighborhood. It was because of one thing and one thing only. Trayvon is black.

So I've made the choice today to tell my white friends that the rights I take for granted are only valid if I fight to give those same rights to others. The taxi cab. The purse. The meal. The police car. The police. These are all things I've taken for granted.

So, I fight for Trayvon Martin. I fight for Amadou Diallo. I fight for Rodney King. I fight for every young black man who looks "suspicious" to someone who thinks they have the right to take away their freedom to walk through their own neighborhood. I fight against my own stereotypes and my own suspicions. I fight for people whose ancestors built this country, literally, and who are still treated like second class citizens. Being quiet is not an option, for we have been too quiet for too long.

Originally posted at Global Grind


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