good girls go to heaven, bad girls go to London

and I used to be such a good girl.

In London, completely exhausted and fending off a cold with my remaining energy. 48 Hour French Girlfriend, who I think I will start referring to as Garcon Manque (French for tomboy) met me here for the weekend, and well, we didn't get a lot of sleep. She left early this morning, at 3 am; and I'm in a very wierd mood. I've never done anything like this before; it's an enjoyably surreal chapter from someone else's life that's been randomly inserted into mine. We went to the Candy Bar and I had too much fun and got sick in front of Hyde Park on the way back. Making a spectacle of ourselves all over London. Whenever I'm on the street with a woman I'm "with" there's always a reaction from others (even in Paris), subtle and not-so-subtle commentary (I wonder what it would be like to hold someone's hand on the street, even kiss her, and have no one notice?). But Garcon Manque is so butch she easily passes for a boy; a few weeks ago she was in Istanbul with friends, and when she tried to put on a headscarf to visit a mosque, they told her "Oh no, no sir, that's only for ladies!" When I'm out with her we don't get commentary so much as double-takes and open staring, I guess because at first glance they think we're straight (I got such a look of amazement from a man at the bus stop this morning, as I said goodbye). We think it's hilarious, for the most part, and it only encourages her. But once, we were on an escalator on the Underground, her arms wrapped around me, and a woman passed us and gave us a huge grin. So yay for visibility!
Still, I'm glad to be on my own again. I'm not sure what exactly is the nature of our relationship or what to make of it, and that's tiring. I'm just worn out in general, I guess; epuisee. The thought of Berlin now is feeling more like an obligation than a thrill. I'm forgetting what it's like to stay in a place for more than 3 days.
Like Scotland. Wish I had stayed longer. Never managed to find me a freckle faced girl who'll read me Burns (the writer's museum, by the way, was kind of a dud). I was quickly falling in love with Edinburgh. The castle was impressive enough, and I just like the feel of the city, its particular energy. I met up with a friend of my brother's, a Scot who sounds very much like Billy Boyd, he took me out to a French restaurant (ha) and introduced me to single malt whisky and Baileys. I had a room all to myself in the hostel, I decided after Dublin that there's really no point in checking out the dyke scene once you've been to London and Paris, so I spent my evenings wallowing in the bathtub, reading The Lavendar Annual, a collective magazine published in the 80s by New Zealand radical lesbian feminists, which I picked up in Dublin (I know, I know). It's a great snapshot of the Second Wave, and not all that different from indie dyke media today. Where are all these uptight political P.C. Second Wave dykes I keep hearing about?
Rosslyn Chapel was amazing as well, I had no trouble finding it because everybody and their brother was going to see it that day. We poured off the local bus and walked towards it almost in procession, like pilgrims. And ironically we were all there not out of religious piety but curiousity about its links to blasphemous conspiracy theories. Rather incongruously set in a picturesque village, not the likeliest place for the Holy Grail and ley lines. But even if you've never read The Da Vinci Code etc, it's worth a look for the carvings alone. The Green Men are fantastic, not to mention the carvings of sweet corn and cactus in a church that was built almost a century before Columbus discovered the Americas. The basement room is kind of creepy though.
More sleep now, and Shakespeare tomorrow. Cross your fingers, I'm going to try and score tickets for a performance at the Globe.