It was our first day in Edinburgh, and we were fighting jet lag with a plodding hike up Princes Street. On our south side ran the classic cityscape that spans every local postcard: the medieval turrets of Old Town, rising to the castle that looks primordial, like an organic outcrop whittled from volcanic stone. On our north side swept the softer stones of New Town, all dandified Georgian crescents and terraces. In front of us, though, history met its downfall: Princes Street, the city's great divide, is lined with mall-ready chain stores. But even a street this defeated couldn't defy Scottish soul. Ignoring the fast-food outlets and souvenir mills, striding purposefully past all those psychedelic tartans imported from Hong Kong that no clan ever wore, there came someone unexpected. He was a craggy-faced man in his 50s with cheeks reddened by the bracing Highland air, or maybe just lots of Scotch whiskey. He walked with the brisk pace of a confirmed mountain hiker. And swirling around his sturdy Paul Bunyan legs was a forest-green kilt as manly as any sports cup and nothing like Britney drag. In a world subdued by Ronald McDonald, here, finally, was the real McCoy.

Or maybe the real MacKay, MacDougall, or Mackenzie. It didn't really matter. What mattered was the man's aura of sheer authenticity and self-conviction. It was a fitting first sight. That's because Edinburgh itself exudes the same spirit. The capital felt like the kind of town that knew how to hold firm to its own indelibly Scottish split personality. Call it half brawny and half elegant; half Braveheart and half Miss Jean Brodie; half diehard independent (a trait that has paid off in the recent formation of a Scottish parliament and the defeat of the United Kingdom's notorious Clause 28, which outlawed the "promotion" of homosexuality) and half dedicated to the most delicate etiquette.

The Scottish brogue may be the best key. A kind of seduction in itself, it starts at the back of the throat with a primal growl and then slowly moves to the front, building a musical lilt so the words roll out with a lyrical flourish. Like the city, it's half butch and half fem. My mate Tom McGhee and I found the butch half too baldly homoerotic to resist. It was those kilts again and the flash of strapping legs, the tireless mystery of what's hiding out under those manly wraparounds, that turns even the most beetle-browed Scotsman into beefcake, if only because it takes a real braveheart to strap on the skirt.

Where to see more of this cocky flair in action? We discovered the manly man's Edinburgh concentrated along the city's original rocky spine, the Royal Mile, which rises to Edinburgh Castle and descends to the Palace of Holyroodhouse. In between the two landmarks are the snaking alleys where body snatchers hid; and the tall, jagged tenements that date back to medieval times, when most of the natives clung to this bony perch, stuffed 10 to a room, pissing out the windows. The resulting slum--known as Auld Reekie--was true to the Old Town's frontier roots as a defensive center. Accordingly, the castle, watching over the town like a legacy, is no prissy Camelot. The fortress, which catches every Highland breeze, still feels like a raw, cobbled outpost despite its collection of rapper-worthy royal jewels.

So does the 16th-century Palace of Holyroodhouse, which does even better at evoking a history that's all bloodletting and strewn body parts--starting with Braveheart's own heart, which seems to have been tossed around like a month-old haggis from one tourist site to another. The ubiquitous organ's only real rival is Mary, Queen of Scots, who pops up at every historic landmark in Scotland that Braveheart's heart somehow missed. So it's no surprise that she casts her shadow over Holyroodhouse--a palace mostly famous as the killing field where Mary's Italian secretary, David Rizzio, was stabbed 56 times by jealous courtiers. According to our guide Robert, an underemployed actor who clearly faced a future of minor dinner theater, Rizzio was left looking like a "cored apple" after the classic case of overkill--but our tour wasn't complete until Robert reenacted most of the 56 puncture wounds. Perhaps the saddest landmark is an art-nouveau witches' fountain in the middle of the Royal Mile, which commemorates the 300 women--mostly widows, spinsters, and the suspiciously manless, some presumably lesbians--who were burned on the site.

For something more upbeat we headed to Edinburgh's Georgian New Town, which was built when the city's 18th-century dandies had had enough of slumming it. A style statement from the start, New Town's neoclassical terraces and townhouses--all swirling, whitewashed columns--are the graceful antidote to Old Town's rawboned burliness, and the area offers its own more elegant cultural attractions.

First we circled Charlotte Square, architect Robert Adam's opus, and then traipsed through a Georgian house where each refurbished 18th-century room came guarded by a genteel gray-haired docent clinging with a weightlifter's grip to her black purse. Later, we studied the faces in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery, where the painting of a Bonnie Prince Charlie justified his nickname. For women, the National Gallery of Scotland offers more interesting artistic pinups, including the recently purchased statue of the three graces by Canova and a showing of strong female artists. But the city's real emerging gem is a cycle of restored murals by Phoebe Anna Traquair, a leader of the Scottish Arts and Crafts movement who worked for eight years on the luminous murals in Mansfield Place Church.

If New Town's bounty reveals Edinburgh's softer-cultured past, it also points to its stylish present too: Fittingly, the neighborhood that started as a fashion statement remains the city's trendsetter. George Street comes lined with boutiques, and the newest landmarks of swinging Edinburgh are clustered here. That means style queens are going to feel a lot more comfortable in New Town's urbane outposts than the boozy, backslapping pubs of Old Town. We sampled the best of the neighborhood's latest claims to hipster status, starting with a night at the Glasshouse Hotel, a Wallpaper-worthy designer hotel where the guest rooms featured plasma TVs and retro mod decor. Back on nearby George Street there was a profusion of cutting-edge pan-Asian tapas-sushi bars dishing up little snacks drunk on truffle oil. But we preferred the Dome, a refurbished bank turned bistro featuring an epic domed ceiling and a menu that roams around the world but wisely returns home for dessert. The kitchen's real pride are its old-school British sweets, especially a sticky toffee pudding that makes creme brullee look like the soupy, deflated flan that it is.

If New Town is the style queen's natural haunt, its eastern edge--the area around Broughton Street and the top of Leith Walk, dubbed the "Pink Triangle"--is also, naturally, ground zero for even clueless gays. This is Edinburgh's combination Chelsea, Castro, Soho, and down-low. The area's relatively small size means you can sample just about every local homo landmark in a short day and long night, which we did, toward the end of our Edinburgh weekend while on a quick all-queer tour. Georgy Boy, the entertainment manager at CC Blooms, was our first host. The city's core gay club, Blooms is a double-decker hangout. The second floor is given over to a bar and revolving entertainment (cabaret, karaoke, drag), but the first floor was pure, unapologetic disco, from the disco ball to the frosted mirrors and the DJs who favored diva pop (read: Kylie Minogue, the Sugar Babes). What was more surprising, to our American eyes, was the mixed crowd.

"Ninety percent of gay clubs in Edinburgh are a mix of gay men and women," Georgy Boy says. "That's true of most of Broughton Street. We're next to a whole row of gay clubs, including Planet Out, which is one of the few lesbian-oriented bars, though boys are of course welcome." What to avoid? Georgy warns that certain parts of Leith (the port district) are questionable, especially the backstreets. At least one Leith venue is the area's newly hot club, however: The Complex hosts a variety of gay events, including the relaunched women's-only Velvet Night (the first Saturday of every month--the recent debut party featured girls juggling fire sticks and shadow dancers in hot pants).