while the Lords were debating the Homosexual bill, on which they recommended reform) and to Hyde Park corner, in company with a Spanish friend, where we heard Dr. Donald Soper, one of the first prominent British clergymen to speak out sensibly on homosexuality, speaking now against the bomb, and getting mercilessly heckled.

We missed the British Museum (where I'd sworn to spend half my time in London) and other fine collections. I went with Russ to Foyles, world's largest bookstore-but it was on strike, so I didn't buy anything. All my spending money was gone anyhow. Harold, Peter and I took a train from Munich for the depressing tour of the death camp at Dachau. It seemed incongruous to smell so much fresh lumber-much that had been razed was being rebuilt-and it seemed ironic that the townsmen who ignored the camp's awful stench were now waxing prosperous from its tourist appeal. But here, the tourists displayed little desire to fraternize with the townsmen.

While the other continental cities all surpassed my expectations, especially Copenhagen, the painfully brief stay in Paris was for me the highpoint. But not everyone likes the same things, and the average American tourist these days doesn't much like Paris. Nor do most of the Frenchmen seem to like Americans or anyone else these days. Maybe that's too broad. In the smaller cities, everyone seems to concentrate on making tourists feel at home. In Paris, London and also the United States, people couldn't care less what tourists think of them. So if you add to that some difficulty with the language, you can run into a lot of unpleasantness.

The highpoint of Paris was the Louvre, which is unsurpassed! In two attempts, we saw but a fraction of it, but what a fraction! The first day, Howard and I spent a couple hours in the endless collection of classic statues,

Greek terra cottas and vases, with hundreds of astonishing satyrs so rarely shown in art books, and hundreds of amazingly lifelike amazingly lifelike Roman portrait busts (including several butch treatments of both Antinous and Elagabal). In the Sumerian section, I was copying French inscriptions under the dozen lifesize statues of Ensi Gudea (early law-giver) and steles from Lagash when the guards (apparently training to be orang-utans at the zoo) suddenly formed a grunting and gesticulating phalanx and unceremoniously shoved everyone out of the ancient orient halls into a section from which there appeared to be no exit. After several miles of furnished rooms by Louis Quatorze and the lot, we finally got back through Mesopotamia to the painting section, where the gigantic murals of the Classicists and early Romantics proved much more striking than the reproductions I knew.

In London, the theatre was the biggest and least expensive attraction, and Russ and Dick piled matinees on top of evening performances for the four days there, including the John Osborne play, A Patriot for Me, denied a public license by the Lord Chamberlain for its several strong homosexual scenes, but playing to full house all the same. In Paris, Russ and Ben and I had gone to a small club to see several big-name femmics, including Cochinelle. At least we thought that was what they were. We were up close, and in the masculine department, they were all has-beens. Slender, softly shapely, with uniform clipped-noses, small but definitely female breasts, and a postage stamp covering whatever was left inter femurae. In Copenhagen, the entire group attended an excellent performance (with the highest seats in existence) of the Danish Royal Ballet doing Swan Lake, with Eric Brun. Very, very fine.

The first year, the group was more tightly organized, but opted for a looser schedule next time. So we had

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