The Night No American Could Make Up

So, Saturday night an American, a Londoner, an Irishman and a lady from Spain walk into a bar…

Sounds like the lead up to a bad bar joke. But it was essentially my night.

The Fringe Festival has been the dominant festival for the time I’ve been in Edinburgh. Performers and artists are everywhere, and where they aren’t there are folks handing out bills for shows elsewhere. Most of the Royal Mile has been closed, if not for the Fringe, then for the Military Tattoo at Edinburgh Castle. What a time.

The “best mate” of the gentleman I am renting my room roped me and John into going to Animotion. I had no idea what it was about, but it was supposed to be so good the guy was going to see it again. Heck, why not experience part of the Fringe on my meager student budget? I was in.

John and I met his friends, an Irishman and his girlfriend, who was a lady from the north of Spain, at Sandy Bells, one of the finest folk bars in Edinburgh for pre-show Guinness. I couldn’t believe my ears as we all conversed, holding Guinnesses on the street corner in the center of Old Town Edinburgh. Amazing.

We made our way around the corner to the show after we finished our beers. The wrought iron gates stopped at a large, ancient stone portico where they were taking tickets. As my American eyes took in the gate, the old stone abbey beyond took the cake. The lights suddenly went off and the super moon’s bright light lit the front. Crazy. Until we came around the side of the old church and the Edinburgh Castle filled the skyline. I couldn’t make this up if I’d tried.

After the show, we made it back to Sandy Bell’s and after getting another round of drinks, I pushed our way back to small group of tables closest to the motley crew of musicians having a jam session. Folks from all over Edinburgh and the world played fiddles, there was a handful of fifes, a traditional drum, a standing base, a banjo and guitar. A gentleman from the U.S. had brought a cello-like instrument to play. A small Scottish man had brought a mandolin. By 1 a.m., after much convincing by me for the Scotsman to play the mandolin, there was a homely set of traditional songs being played. If it weren’t for the accents I’d’ve sworn I was in North Carolina.

All was suddenly well.