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SUNDAY, 20 AUGUST, 2000, EDINBURGH |
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Okay, well I’m simply the luckiest boy in the world. That’s really all there is to it. From one fantastic host (yo, Roop!) in London to another in Scotland (my love!) Arrived in Edinburgh yesterday evening after listening to those awful American twats debate loudly on the train: “I think it’s pronounced ‘Edin-burg’, I think.” “No, it’s ‘Edin-boar-oh’ Marge.” “Burg.” “Or is it ‘Burger’? Like hamburger. Yah, that’s it.” They finally settled on ‘Edin-Burg’ which is of course wrong. Oh well. Enough energy spent on such undeserving subjects. On we move, wot? 
Badjuju traipsed down in the rain to the train station to lead me back to her glorious flat backed up against the goddamned Edinburgh Castle, if you can believe it, along winding little streetlettes, zillions of crooked stone steps leading under tunnels, through back alleys, mews, closes, cobbled avenues and ubiquitous beauty.It seems that whenever (read: two times) BadJuju and I get together, there are fireworks. And I’m not even speaking figuratively or using that cliché’d metaphor for orgasm. Literal fireworks. She came to the states for 4th of July holiday in Philadelphia. I’m in Scotland for the Edinburgh Festival. I confess it. I have been many places around America and Europe mostly, and most of them have been lovely, but I have never seen anything so beautiful as this city. Around every turn my breath is quite taken away with towering, twisting, ancient gorgeousness. Badjuju seems pleased at my reaction, proud to show off her fair city, and justifiably so. I only hope that this place is not spoiling me — because any other city is going to pale by comparison.  I was paraded about town meeting the crème de la crème of Edinburgh’s underground society. This is why, my little chicklets, I quite insist upon finding people to stay with when I go a-touristing about the globe, as opposed to staying blindly at some hotel and stumbling blindly about a strange city. Not only does it put things in context to hear little anecdotes about this or that building or street corner, but the introduction to society’s best, if one’s host is of the well-connected type, is key. 
Last night, for example, a house-do at Badjuju’s friend’s flat — charming kiddies, the lot of ‘em — then off to a gothy industrial club until the proverbial wee hours. I admit I felt “chosen” and priveleged to be on the arm of the most gorgeous and (ahem, if you’ll pardon me) “prominent” woman there, and to be introduced about by her. I’m really just a shameless little groupie.Who’s the luckiest boy? Slept till well past 1pm today to meet a friend for brunch as we all nursed our injuries from the previous evening’s nightclub activities. Sharon limped about, having ruined her ankle by executing some hot dance move, no doubt. Cha-cha-cha! I sat there toying with French onion soup, feeling the accumulated ache in my broken feet from all the walking I’ve done this week and feeling like someone had taken a marrow scoop to my soul for the alcohol poisoning. Silent mantra: “I will not throw up. I will not throw up.” Meal restored some vague human feeling back in my rotting corpse, and we trundled off down little rivers and walkways and more winding steps up to bridges, down to hidden gardens, castly, turretty buildings all about and people blithely walking little dogs every block which of course made Juju coo fetchingly. Came across a couple of her friends on our walk and we joined forces, buying little chocolately biscuits and storming another friend’s flat unnanounced where we spent several hours drinking tea, chatting, playing cards and word games and such. 
A view from said flat’s window on the left. The photos never really convey the grandeur of the real thing of course.Tired and still somewhat hungover, we hoofed it back to Jooj’s flat and ordered pizza, drank mediocre wine and looked at pictures. It makes me sick to come across as such a simpering sycophant, but I must tip my tophat to my lovely hostess for making me a pepperminty hot footbath and delivering it into the living room. Feels like things are on the mend down there, thank you very much. So much time yet. So much time and so much to do. Tons of shit going on during the month-long Festival. So many choices to be made. Should we go to see the Peggy Lee sing-a-like show, or the Penile Puppetry show where two boys make origami from their willies? I am adamant about finding some good absinthe while I’m here and smuggling it back into the states. All I’ve seen so far is Hill’s in London for £47 (or, “Swills” which tastes precisely like Scope mouthwash), and two lovely brands in Harrod’s but also looming in the upper £30’s. But then that’s London. As Señor Garcia put it in an email to me: “Lots of lovely looking people and bad dancing and pricey beer, which sums London right up, I reckon.” Oops. Look at the hour. Time for sleepies and god-knows-what glories tomorrow. Sigh. Contentment. Peace and adventure. I can’t hope life will always be this beautiful, so I will simply be grateful that it is for this moment. And I love my Imaginary Internet Friends who make it all possible. 
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