When the opportunity arose to spend 12 days in girl-mode away from home staying with a good close friend and attending a series of Pride events, it felt kind of scary yet kind of exciting. Boy-mode was up for it – for being banished for a while.
Part 2 – Days 7-12
Day 7 – Bus and Boat
Today we have lined up a boat tour of a big harbour, and a bus tour. For the first time ever I’ll be wearing a separate skirt & top; I’ve not had the confidence to do this before, so at home have a set of unworn skirts and no tops that really fit. My friend has bought me a white top as a present.
Added almost‑knee‑high high‑heeled boots to this and then we head off on the harbour tour, stopping off only for breakfast and an opportunity for me to spill food down my new white top. Never one to pass up such exciting opportunities (at least in girl‑mode), I proceed to do exactly that. Once on the boat, the top must be adjusted to be tucked inside the skirt to hide to worst of the disaster. Really enjoy the tour; the harbour is much more extensive (and weirdly shaped) than I would have imagined. Quite a wealth‑divide on show: the “have nots” vs the “have yachts”.
The bus tour is great, but the open-top bus presents its own interesting challenges. When they announce that you need to sit down, they really mean it – some of the stuff we pass underneath is low enough to decapitate anyone standing. It’s a “hop on, hop off” tour, but we’re just taking the loop in one go for the experience since we have visited many of the locations on the way. It’s nice to sit back and enjoy the view. The embassy of the USA is fascinating – some distance outside of the capital city because there is no room for any real measure of stand-off distance in the city itself. Bristling with security, but not as impressive as the humungous Glass Diplocube that forms their embassy in London now (and has impressive views over London from the higher floors).
In the evening, a nice restaurant and a healthy salad. The only real demand that girl‑mode makes upon boy‑mode is that weight should be lost to widen the range of girl‑clothes which can be worn. Setting an example is important. Only slightly ruined by visiting a specialist desert shop after – miniature pancakes with chocolate sauce. But desert calories don’t really count, do they?
Day 8 – Strangely Religiously-Themed
We’re off to find a nice church to explore & admire. This is a very Catholic country, with an amazingly high density of churches per square km. Yet every one I see seems to be locked shut. Not out to shock today – well, not excessively – so a suitably long, below‑the‑knee‑length dress, plus flat shoes, long red hair, and discreet makeup.
We take a car ferry to a nearby island. Hardly anyone bats an eyelid on the boat. We find an amazing and ancient church which is actually open.
Helpfully it has diagrams explaining what is, and is not, acceptable clothing-wise in the church. Nothing about wearing clothes of the opposite gender, so rule-wise we’re all good. Inside it is beautiful and a little creepy. For a small donation, one can visit the roof, which turns out to be an extensive labyrinth surrounding the base of the enormous dome topping the building.
An open spiral staircase leads up to the clock mechanism, and onwards to the actual bells in the bell tower. “Quite loud” is the best description I can give, but with amazing views all round. Descending the spiral stairs is more scary, with views right down to the ground which is an awfully long way away. After my previous stairs experience from some time ago, I’m very cautious on stairs these days – especially unfamiliar or unsusal ones, thus I’m lagging far behind my friend as I descend, and she captures a photo as the updraft gives me a sort of Marilyn Munroe moment there on the stairs.
We watch sunset & moonrise on a rocky beach after eating at a restaurant nearby.
In the evening, we find ourselves in a small town having some sort of festival. Fireworks, singing, a brass band, and a procession of a strangely religious nature, yet which appears to involve considerable consumption of alcohol. All very mysterious. We’re a bit under‑dressed for this; all the locals seem to have dressed up as one might to go to the theatre in London. But I don’t mind being stared at a bit – kind of par for the course for me in girl‑mode.
It amuses me that a lot of the young ladies are struggling to walk in heels, far more than I ever do.
Pro Tip: for setted or cobbled surfaces, don’t try to wear stilettoes – that’s a recipe for humiliation, broken shoes or bones, or a combination of these.
However, my favourite moment of the day comes as I am filming the procession wend its merry way through the narrow streets and past me. There I am, a “bloke in a dress” getting surprised and disapproving looks from….. blokes in dresses! I feel like asking them “What’s the difference?!” Interestingly, the “choir boys in dresses” following them look neither surprised nor disapproving, maybe still retaining some capacity for independent thought, maybe realising that there IS actually no difference (except I’m having fun).
Day 9 – Evening Exploration
We venture to some far(ish) flung places. I’ll be wearing my brightest short dress for the Pride Parade tomorrow with flat shoes, so tonight I opt for my shortest dress and highest heels. Girl-mode is far more outgoing, gregarious, and showy than boy-mode ever has been. Looks good, will shock the locals in some locations. Perfect. Get to push the limits of my phone camera and do some night photography.
Day 10 – Procession & then Party Until You Drop – Or Drop Until You Party
Today’s dress is lurid pink and much longer than yesterdays – by a whole 1¾mm. Paired with long red hair and, for the procession, flat jazzy rainbow shoes. Amazing just how many people turn out, including the country’s Prime Minister – good politics, plenty of voters to win over by demonstrating inclusivity.
Very noisy, great fun. I get waved at by some simply stunning drag queens. Someone guesses my age at 27, which amazes me, and they struggle to believe me when I tell them the reality. Normally people guess around 34, and they’re still guessing considerably too young. I think the makeup & hair combination takes away most of the available clues & cues making it difficult to assess.
The after-procession party is much later in the evening so we retire home to make minor changes.
Makeup has survived remarkably intact and needs little attention.
I opt to keep the same dress, but add my favourite purple fishnets and favourite high heeled ankle boots.
The party is in a much more conservative location, so I’m not surprised when I get a group of girls laughing at me in the street – but honestly, I could have written a whole essay on their poor fashion tastes, colour matching, and clothes matching had I been minded to. But actually it doesn’t really bother me that much; “haters gonna hate”, those without any concept of elegance or style will never see their shortcoming, and those without basic manners will act accordingly regardless. So I don’t care, I love it.
We enter the venue and disaster strikes. I’m walking carefully down a short flight of poorly lit steps holding the handrail firmly. But it is not me but instead my friend who doesn’t see the last step and falls heavily on her ankle. After a while (and some ibuprofen) she says she is feeling ok and we go into the venue and dance ourselves silly until about 3am when my feet give up.
Day 11 – Déjà vu. ¡Again!
Morning comes, and my friend is in agony. There is considerable swelling and bruising. We head to the hospital A&E department. She’s upset that it will “spoil” my last day in girl‑mode, but really this isn’t the case. It has been fascinating and educational dealing in girl‑mode with the exciting night life and the Pride Events, but also with the mundane more down‑to‑earth matters; shopping, petrol filling stations, restaurants (a first for Sophie), public transport, and, now, A&E.
All part of life’s rich tapestry. Triage and an X‑Ray later, a small fracture of the cuboid is revealed, and shortly after that a lovely chap turns up to craft a suitable plaster cast. Crutches are issued, and it’s a bit like being given chopsticks for the first time and having to use them to eat soup – it’s all rather more complicated that one would imagine, especially with other pre‑existing medical complications on top.
We spend the day hunting down supplies of painkillers, eating at an Italian restaurant staffed by some lovely Turkish gentlemen, and in the evening visit a small fishing village. However, mobility/pain issues cut this short.
Day 12 – Boy‑mode
After such a period, today is more about mental adjustment than anything else really.
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe… Thousands of people together celebrating their differences and individuality, on fire on the dancefloors… I watched glitter in the strobe lights in the dark near the Tannhäuser Mirror‑ball. All those moments will be (temporarily) lost in time, like tears in rain… Time to return to boy‑mode.
Sophie
Bladerunner
With some considerable effort, my fingers are now without acrylic nails for the first time in almost two weeks.
It feels downright peculiar.
And it is with some reluctance that the boy‑clothes discarded on Day 1 and lying crumpled in a corner are retrieved and worn once more.
Trousers definitely feel weird and unnatural. I don’t seem to remember how they work, and their somewhat well‑worn material succumbs to my new‑found clumsiness and I manage to rip them in the process of putting them on. Whoever is behind me will be getting a view of my underwear because they’re the only boy‑clothes I have with me.
Also, being ready to step outside without any additional preparation feels decidedly strange – and, I guess, liberating in its own way. As is packing away my shaving equipment – I don’t need to shave today. Or indeed again at all until Sophie re‑emerges.
It is with delicious irony that I realise that boy‑mode doesn’t have to shave at all, but that girl‑mode must, and more than once a day too.
Finally I’m packed & fully in boy‑mode.
Not a hint of girl‑mode remains.
Well… not much of a hint!
Shame about the somewhat ripped trousers, but c’est la vie, or c’est ma vie, anyway.
The airport is much of a muchness. I’ve had to put all my make-up and as much of the electronics as I can in the hold luggage, and it scrapes in 100g under the weight limit. Security is slightly less hideous, smaller airport. At passport control I even get a nanosecond smile. I feel slightly uncomfortable; my legs are overheating in trousers. After the flight, I’m addressed by my boy‑name at UK passport control which feels decidedly weird. It takes the rest of the day to adjust.
But the adjustment is not complete – trousers continue to feel weird and my legs always feel too hot now.
Sophie Baskerville 