Forty percent of queer travelers hide who they are when they travel, according to Booking.com’s latest research. The travel booking website’s data also reveals that alter egos, code-switching, and appearance modification allow LGBTQ+ travelers to protect themselves on holiday. But one city in France (clue — it’s not Paris) doesn’t require smoke and mirrors for an authentically good time.
As a gender-expansive traveler and travel writer who is currently writing a book about the joys and challenges of LGBTQ+ travel, I’m skeptical that hiding benefits us. I’ve masked myself during vacations for years, dressing more gender-typical than usual and avoiding public displays of affection with my partner in an attempt to pass as friends.
This behavior started in 2016 when I traveled to North Carolina while the state’s short-lived bathroom bill, HB2, made it potentially dangerous for me to use the restroom while presenting in my typical androgynous style. On that trip and several that followed, I didn’t feel empowered. I felt constrained by the need to conform to binary gender norms that didn’t fit me and hypervigilant over how I was perceived in public spaces.
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Unsurprisingly, it’s hard to have a good time when you’re an anxious bundle of nerves.
When this latest LGBTQ+ travel trend report was released, I’d been planning a 10th-anniversary vacation to France with my wife. Lyon, roughly midway between Paris and Marseille and known for its culinary scene, seemed a convenient starting point for our trip through the south of France. In Lyon, we could acclimate to the time change, eat well, and settle into French culture, or so I hoped.
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Researching Lyon online, I found the city’s tourist office website, which provided a helpful English overview of where to eat and what to do. I stumbled upon its LGBTQ page, which promoted Lyon as even more LGBTQ+-friendly than Paris.
When I discovered Lyon’s potential, my goal shifted. Could I be myself there without defaulting to hiding?
‘Santé’ in safety
Packing for Lyon, I gathered boxy button-downs and fitted tanks, quick-dry hiking pants, and neutral shorts. My main concern was staying comfortable in the 90-degree weather, not how I’d be perceived.
We splurged on an LGBTQ+-friendly IHG hotel and noted in our reservation that it was a special occasion. Choosing “Anniversary” from the dropdown menu felt like crossing a bridge. Declaring ourselves a couple in advance would spare us the dreaded question queer couples are all-too-frequently asked, “Would you like one bed or two?”
The common question forces us to assess our safety in both the destination and the hotel, making a split-second decision about whether it’s safe to come out to the desk clerk so we can share a bed with our partner or whether it’s best to fall back on pretending.
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No champagne or chocolates awaited us in our hotel room, but we were too tired to care: two keys, one bed, and polite, efficient service were enough for us.
Often during trips, I seek out queer spaces like an LGBTQ+-owned coffee shop for the comfort of being in community. In Lyon, I pushed myself to be myself in mainstream spaces.
My partner and I had booked a wine tasting conducted by an expat sommelier. We were the only guests, along with a heterosexual couple on their honeymoon. When asked why I’d booked the wine tasting, I felt the familiar urge to withhold in front of strangers.
“It’s our tenth anniversary,” I said. “We wanted to do something special.”
“Wow, what a great way to celebrate.” Our sommelier host was excited. The newlyweds congratulated us and asked what else we had planned for our trip. The moment passed. As happens often when I choose to disclose my identity, I was accepted and affirmed.
Releasing the greeting behind a pink praline brioche
It’s customary in French to greet a store clerk by saying “Bonjour!” when you enter. The greeting is returned with a gendered honorific; “Bonjour, Madame” or “Bonjour, Monsieur.” Over three days in Lyon, I realized how frequently my gender blurred lines.
In a bakery, trying the city’s famed pink praline brioche, we’d hear a “Bonjour Monsieur, Madame.” In a local artisan store, we were greeted with “Bonjour, Mesdames.” Occasionally, the greeter would correct themselves, reassigning my gender upon closer inspection.
If I’d been trying to hide, I might’ve been unnerved by their assessment. Committing to openness, I found it fascinating that my gender could change from one store to another, regardless of what I wore. Even in a tank top with visible bra straps, people perceived me as male.
While many gender-expansive people feel dysphoria when they are perceived as a gender they don’t identify with; I have never felt like gendered labels or pronouns fit my inner experience of myself. French etiquette reaffirmed my nonconformity and gave me back the personal power I had previously given up in stressing about how I was perceived.
Those three days in Lyon changed my experience of travel for the better. The less I worried about how I was perceived by being openly myself regardless of where I went, the safer and less stressed I felt. The more energy I had to take in my surroundings and observe signs of queer acceptance throughout France’s third-largest city: same-sex couples, queer graffiti, and wheatpaste posters for the pro-LGBTQ+ Nouveau Front Populaire, the leftist political party that had pulled off a surprise majority win in France’s recent election.
My stay in Lyon was short but powerful. The city gave me the soft landing I wanted and the opportunity to embrace a new level of openness I hadn’t known I’d needed until I experienced it.
Lindsey Danis is a queer, gender-expansive travel writer who is writing a book about queer travel that centers queer female and nonbinary perspectives. Lindsey unpacks LGBTQ+ travel trends and shares inspiration at QueerAdventurers.com.
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