There’s an absolutely incredible book called, The City We Became, by NK Jemison, wherein (among other things… many other things) she assigns personas to cities. New York has a persona, but so do the five boroughs of New York. São Paulo, Hong Kong, and London, too (although something unspeakable happened to London). This got me thinking: what are the personas of my favorite cities?

Seattle is a tinkerer introvert. He’s always working on something in his remote cabin in the North Cascades, building little robots or retrofitting boats with mismatched engines that definitely should not work, but give him just a little more time and he knows he’ll get it right. When he’s not building, he kicks back with a beer or a cup of coffee and noodles on his acoustic guitar in a hand built adarondak chair on the porch.

Rome is a harried professor. He’s a gorgeous older man of unidentifiable age. His suit is expensive but slightly worn, with the stereotypical elbow patches of a teacher who cares about his appearance but not so much that he won’t hastily patch holes in his clothes… with the finest leather for course. You’ll find him standing at the counter of a coffee shop, grumbling at the paper and knocking back his espresso. He really does not have a whole lot of time for your questions, but he’ll quickly answer a few before heading off for his lecture. Unless you happen to catch him sipping Negroni at a table on a breezy piazza, his classes finished for the day. Then he may just teach you a thing or two.

And Florence is a drag queen.

She was amazing in her time. When she wasn’t breaking new ground with her performances, she was just outshining original numbers to the point where no one remembers who did them first. Other queens did Renaissance, but when we think of Renaissance, who do we think of? (Besides Beyoncé.) It was always Florence. And she knows it, and wears it sometimes as a badge of honor and sometimes as something she wants to put away for just a little bit.

These days, she’s older. She still wears the makeup of her youth, but now it’s cracking and you can see the deep wrinkles flaking that thick powder she insists on caking all over her skin. People come from all around to gawk at her, hoping for a glimpse of who she used to be. The glamor, the incredible performances, the costumes, the one-of-a-kind (or at least better-than-most) Florence. They pass through, stare at her as she tries to live up to their expectations. They want her to dance for them. Almost inevitably, the Florence she is now is not like the Florence that these folks are expecting. They’re not expecting the obvious makeup that doesn’t quite suit her older face anymore, or the frayed and sometimes threadbare costumes, or the somewhat tired routine. Their impatience is rarely rewarded and they usually leave disappointed. They don’t understand her.

But I do.

Sometimes Florence can be the most hilarious, gossipy, amazing company you can imagine. A person can sit for hours and listen to her stories, if she’s in the mood.

Florence can also be grumpy, tired, and irritable. Some nights she falls asleep with her wig and makeup still on, a lit cigarette still in her hand (that thankfully has not burned the whole place down). Those morning-after Florence moods are no fun. You can recognize the signs almost immediately. Best to give her some space while she pulls herself together.

But when she pulls herself together and she’s ready to gossip again, to perform again, to show off her incredible old costumes that look as good as the day she had them made for her, you will never forget her stories. She’ll tell you all about former friends and lovers and enemies, about her incredible performances and how she performed them, and about her designers, who was her favorite, who wasn’t as skilled as they thought they were, which fit the best, which are best left on the hanger. And which are carefully folded in a box at the top of her closet, only to be worn on very, very special occasions.

Give Florence some time. When you take the time to know her and understand her moods and accept who she is, right now, at this moment, without expecting the show she’s been putting on for too long to remember, she’ll open up to you. She’ll gossip and share her hilarious and tragic and lurid stories. She’ll lean in like a co-conspirator. Then she’ll welcome you back again and again, and she’ll allow herself to become your friend.

*(Florence is my second hometown, and I wrote this on my last solo trip there while I drank a beer at the Fiddler’s Elbow. IYKYK)*

Florence is a Drag Queen