This is the Memory Palace. I'm Nate DeMayo.

The White Horse Inn on Telegraph in Oakland, opened in 1933, or thereabouts.

No one's been able to nail down the date.

Historians have tried, as have some of its various owners, it seems, over the years.

But if you're not an academic,

or if you don't have a personal financial stake in solidifying its claim

as the oldest gay bar in the United States,

to operate continuously in one location,

it doesn't really matter when the white horse first opened its doors.

Just that it was soon enough.

For a man to walk in on just the right night in 1936, or 46, or 54, and see the most beautiful

man he'd ever seen in his life, and just be done for her.

Soon enough for another man who'd heard of this place heard of places like it whispered about

or mocked by the fellas in the assembly line or in the office or in his usual joint across town

heard the cracks about pansies and perverts and queers and feared what they might mean, feared why the words seemed to cut right

through, sit strange in his belly, and tight in his throat. But who fought through that fear

to make his way there, to the white horse? Who may have circled the block all butterflies

before working up the courage to park? Who may have walked right the block all butterflies before working up the courage to park.

Who may have walked right past it, rather than be seen walking in by some stranger.

Or maybe he pulled his collar up and tipped his fedora low and pushed through the door as fast as he could.

And who may have learned that night in that bar, where men talked to men by the fireplace

in the back, where women flirted with women in the light of the jukebox, men held hands by the pool

...