I went to BAM last Friday to see Paris is Burning on the big screen. Shot in the late ’80s, this documentary dives into the flamboyant and dramatic world of the ball subculture in gay New York — a sort of precursor to RuPaul’s Drag Race, if you will.  The characters were memorable, hilarious, human, coming mostly from economically disadvantaged backgrounds. A commentary on class divide as much as sexual marginalization in that era. Seeing it in a packed theater engendered a participatory atmosphere. People laughed, clapped, and cheered in response to the personages’ catty witticisms or acrobatic flourishes while voguing.

I left with a feeling of fraternity, but also gratitude for living in New York of the present.  Though this country still has a long way to go, the civil rights movement in the gay community has made significant headway in two and a half decades. It was bitingly cold that evening when we left the theater, and so we made a beeline for the subway to go drink whiskey in Manhattan.

On Sunday my friend A. roped a few of us into going over to Jersey City on the PATH so we could drive together to Riamede Farm. Autumnal indulgence ensued: apple picking alongside young families, apple cider donuts, honey toasted sunflower seeds, the like, all amidst the unexpectedly bucolic landscapes of New Jersey. On the way back we must have passed three picture perfect barns, each of them deep red with white trim, and a petting zoo’s worth of animals by the road: deer, sheep, horses, cows, turkeys… We capped off the night with spicy Indian fare near Journal Square. I emerged in Manhattan for only a hot second to transfer from the PATH to the L train. A few minutes later I was walking past McCarren Park, gazing at the glimmering skyline to my left. Tired after a long day, I had hopped the island on my journey home.