Pedaling down Nicolson Street, I navigated past construction crews and stray flyers swirling in the breeze. With hardly any traffic or pedestrians, the city feels somewhat abandoned, with only the sound of my bike being rattled by the cobblestone. As I turned onto Melville Drive, the Meadows came into view, with a few people walking their dogs across the patchy, yellowed grass where a giant circus tent had once stood. The final hill to my flat loomed ahead, and I silently thanked the breeze for keeping me cool as I pushed upward. The shift in the weather, the unusual quiet, and the city’s lingering disarray weren’t just signs that summer was drawing to a close. For Edinburgh, this meant the end of the Fringe.
Every August, Edinburgh hosts the largest arts festival in the world. Thousands of shows and artists draw millions of attendees who flood the city in a whirlwind of entertainment, decorations, music, costumes, and excitement. The festival is so massive that the city begins preparing for it in June.
In the midst of writing my dissertation, I commuted to the library daily, passing hundreds of posters plastered on walls, poles, and any available surface. Entire sections of the city were gated off, with the mysterious sounds of drills and machinery working out of view. One morning, while typing away on the second floor of the library, I observed as giant inflatable cow udders slowly emerging above the trees in George Square, just outside the windows. I glanced around, curious to see if anyone else had noticed, but apparently, a gigantic upside-down purple cow being erected right outside our five-story building wasn’t enough to distract my fellow students from their high-pressure research. I silently scolded myself for not sharing their unwavering focus, then tried to ignore the cow udders as best I could and returned to editing my research proposal.
Then, one morning as suddenly as the cow udders had emerged into the skyline of my university that random day at the library, I stepped out of my flat to find the city had erupted with festival happenings and attendees seemingly overnight. Bars were erected along my usual walking paths, flyers for shows were thrust into my hands outside the grocery store, and street performers, throwing fire, drew crowds right outside the medical school building. The Fringe had commenced.
I view attendance of the Fringe as an essential rite of passage to living in Scotland. The daily rhythms of the locals are completely disrupted—whether happily or grudgingly—while millions of people party through the city-wide bonanza that is the Fringe. I was determined to stay focused on my dissertation, but to live in Edinburgh and not experience the Fringe felt like missing a key part of the city’s identity—like living in Germany and skipping Oktoberfest. So I worked to strike a balance between tackling the biggest assignment of my life and participating in this cultural hallmark.
The Concert
My first Fringe event took place in the intimate, low-lit basement of the Argyle Cellar Bar, where a small jazz quartet filled the room with the vibrant sounds of New Orleans. As their music flowed, I relaxed in a tiny chair near the back, savoring a cold cider and allowing myself to unwind after a long week in the library. For that one hour, I managed to push aside the nagging thoughts of my looming deadline, fully immersing myself in the unique voice of each instrument. When the band took their final bow, I joined in the applause, grateful for the brief escape, then began my journey back to reality, navigating the cobbled streets toward my flat, where my laptop and unfinished research proposal awaited me.
The Show
The following week, feeling ready to be dazzled, I booked tickets to a drag show—my first ever. Unsure what to expect, I texted Anna half an hour before the event, stressing over my outfit. What do you even wear to a drag show? I imagined a crowd in bold, bedazzled outfits, applauding as performers struck their final, confident poses on a neon-lit stage—and me, in the mix of it all, somehow standing out in something either too formal or too casual. I sought Anna’s advise, to which she simply replied, ‘Wear whatever makes you comfortable.’ So, I picked my faithful leggings and a sweater. As I left my building, I briefly considered going back in to swap into a casual dress but the time crunch kept me en-route to Grassmarket. I’d later come to realize that my outfit would be the least of my concerns.
Despite the flashy poster advertising the event and several sold-out nights, when we arrived, Anna and I were ushered into a small room at the Apex Hotel, where only four other attendees sat in a space meant for forty. One of whom was part of the sound and tech crew. As we overcame choice paralysis in selecting any two of the thirty six seats, we settled into our chairs that provided just enough distance from the others while still feeling somewhat hidden, our eyes constantly scanning the room and checking the time until the show began hoping for more audience members to join. Maybe everyone is just late. I silently hoped for at least ten more people to walk through the door, wishing they would fill the empty space and relieve us from the burden of having to generate the enthusiasm normally spread across a larger crowd. But the doors closed, and Anna and I exchanged a glance. Well, we’re committed now.
The show opened with a home video of a little girl singing Annie, and from there, the performer claimed her stage, welcomed everyone, and then initiated a stream of pop-rock hits—a mini dance party for six people. The performer had a stellar voice and a powerful message about believing in childhood dreams, and we, as an audience of six, upheld the unspoken agreement to participate and cheer her on. In the end, it was memorable and sweet, and I also realized just how little I know about British pop music.
Midway through August, I broke free from my dissertation, and now had ample time to plan a final finally of a Fringe experience the final weekend of the festival.
“You are welcome to stay with me for a weekend!”
I invited Baylee and Tom to travel down from Stonehaven to join me in experiencing the Fringe. For previously, the high prices of hotels in the city during the festival has deterred them from trying. But now, they have the most adorable guest bedroom with a fireplace and a tartan wall, waiting for them in the city center. In response to their acceptance, I single-handedly organized two days full of shows- and made sure to carve out a morning for a game of Settlers of Catan.
The Play
The itinerary had our first event scheduled to begin at 14:55, just 25 minutes after Baylee and Tom’s train was set to arrive at Waverley. We agreed to meet outside the event venue. Naturally, I was running late—again. You’d think I’d learn by now, but no. I suppose it’s because I always seem to make it just in time.
As I dashed down the street, I heard a ticket master somewhere up ahead making her way down the queue outside Augustine United Church, asking, “Do you have your tickets?” Sure enough, as I got closer, I spotted Baylee and Tom being the subjects of her interrogation. A few more strides, and I materialized in front of them, my ticket in hand, as if summoned. “We are together,” I said, showing the ticket master my ticket and exchanging a smile with Baylee and Tom in greeting.
We were soon ushered into the makeshift theater inside the church, where we spent two hours watching a fairly unlikeable main character grapple with an existential crisis. The show centered around Pippin, haphazardly searching for meaning and purpose in his life—which, admittedly, felt pretty relatable. Watching him stumble through his journey made me think about my own questions about what comes next after this graduate program. I’m just as directionless as Pippin in some ways. I filled the slower moments of the plot retreating into my mind and running through personal contemplations. What do I do after I graduate? Where do I go after graduation? What is next?
After the curtain closed we joined the audience in funneling out of the theatre then turned toward Bristo Square in search of dinner. Weaving through the chaos that had taken over what was once my college campus, I led them through a maze of pop-up food stands and performance venues, all centered around a giant inflatable upside-down cow.
“What are you guys in the mood for? Do you guys want beer or a cocktail or something else?” I asked as I began reading off the listed cocktails on the sandwich board beside the central bar of the square.
“What kind of cocktails do you recommend?” Tom asked. I began listing off the classics: margarita, old fashioned, piña colada, mojito…
“I want a Mojito.” Tom resolutely and suddenly stated with unwavering eye contact. I raised my eyebrows and Tom explained further. “I have never had a mojito before, and I want to try it.”
“You’ve never had a mojito before?” I interpreted this new responsibility to get the man his first mojito and dedicated every neuron in my brain to think of a place in the city that could properly introduce the Caribbean cocktail icon.
So, I took them to Bar Bados—a tiki bar that had been set up next to the University library as Edinburgh’s tropical escape for the month of August. Arriving at Bar Bados we had the whole place to ourselves, as it seemed no one else was in the mood for a mojito on this rainy afternoon. We sat beneath a straw canopy, warmed by heat lamps, and watched the world outside become drenched by the forecasted rainstorm for the next hour as we sipped Mojitos generously garnished with bundles of mint. I asked Tom for his thoughts and he gave his approval of the drink- mission accomplished.
When the rain had cleared and the mojitos were drained, we reentered the festival labyrinth continuing our search for dinner. A falafel stand traded us very messily composed Gyros for a few pounds, and we stood on the fake grass laid throughout the entirety of George Square trying to not make a mess as we raced the sky in consuming our dinner before it had the chance to drench it.
“Oh look a churro stand.” I pointed at a cart a few stands away.
“Oh, I’ve never had a churro.” Tom replied. I began to consider that the list of foods and drinks that Tom had consumed would be much much shorter than those that he hadn’t. In the spirit of “firsts” Tom then was introduced to his first churro.
The Stand-Up
Satisfied with the Spanish doughnut, I led my guests to our next event. Months earlier, I had stumbled across a TikTok of a comedian joking about the struggles of speaking French in Paris—a skit I related to so much that when I saw Ali Woods’ poster at the Fringe, I had a good feeling the show would be worth the ticket price. While we waited in the queue outside the venue, I shared my excitement for the event, only to discover that, surprise—it was Tom’s first-ever comedy show. It was a big day for Tom.
Ali Wood’s delivered the most worthwhile comedy show of my life, perfectly balancing the extremes of hilarity and heartbreak, leaving the audience sensing the limits of their own emotional capacity as they tried to hold both at the same time. With sides sore from laughter and hearts punctured by secondary heartbreak, we walked home that evening, verbally processing the show with one another.
The following morning, we had a leisurely start, sipping our tea and coffee while engaging in a game of Settlers of Catan, with Baylee calmly knitting as she played along—very demure. I eventually achieved an unexpected victory, concluding our match and setting us up for the next events of my crafted itinerary.
The Act
First up was ‘An Hour of Insane Magic’, where the hidden and powerful connections among audience members were explored. I watched with skepticism and, admittedly, awe as a mentalist performed the psychokinetic touch trick, bringing a mother and daughter from the audience on stage and placing them on opposite sides with their eyes closed. When he poked the mother’s arm, the daughter stated she felt the poke on the exact same arm. When he tickled the daughter’s nose with a feather the mother would report feeling tickled on her nose as well without opening her eyes. Do I have any connections like this? I wondered, tucking the trick away to try next time I see my mother.
The Speakeasy
The finally of this Fringe tour, was the ‘Speakeasy’ experience. Asking strangers for directions while wandering around summer hall, we came across a shed door of the ally way. After performing the instructed three distinct knocks, no one answered.
I pushed the shed door open to find a small empty room with a car. I still entered despite the few clues that this is where I was supposed to be. We heard someone knock three times after five minutes, and I answered the door- assuming the role of being a part of the event. two or three more groups joined us in the shed. Quietly standing in a circle. Until we were joined by our hostess- Coco Chanel. She steps into the shed in speakeasy flapper girl garb and asks her confused audience if we “had an appointment”. No one knew the answer. She didn’t care. She told us to chant and the old automobile in the shed began to move pulling open a trap door in the back. Immediately my memory came back to me, and I remembered Burns night in January of this year where I also attended an event in this room. Forgot about the car though.
We were seated into the cozy room with Etna playing on a record player in the background. We were served classic cocktails such as the side car. And you guessed it- our British friend Tom had never tried either.
The finale of this Fringe tour was the ‘Speakeasy’ experience. After asking strangers for directions and wandering around Summerhall, we finally came across a shed door tucked away in an alley. Following the instructions, we knocked three distinct times, but no one answered.
I decided to push the door open anyway and found a small, empty room with nothing but an old car inside. Despite the lack of signs indicating it was the correct venue, I entered, trusting we found the correct shed. After a few minutes, we heard someone knock three times. This time, I opened the door, assuming a self-appointed role in the event. Two or three more groups joined us in the shed, further confirming my confidence that we were in the right place. We stood quietly in a circle until our hostess, Coco Chanel, arrived—dressed in full speakeasy flapper garb. She stepped in and, with dramatic flair, asked if we ‘had an appointment.’ No one knew the answer, so she slowly dragged it out, spoon-feeding us the secret password: ‘We have an appointment with Dr. Gin.’ Satisfied, she instructed us to chant, and suddenly, the old automobile that I had noted when first entering the shed began to move, revealing a hidden trapdoor in the back. As it all unfolded, I suddenly remembered—this wasn’t my first time here. I’d attended an event in this room back in January for Burns Night. I had completely forgotten about the car though. Was that there last time?
Once inside the small room, which resembled a bunker, we settled into our table, surrounded by the sounds of Ruth Etting. A series of classic 1920s cocktails followed, each served with a fascinating historical tale explaining their origins, how they were named, or offering more tidbits about the Roaring Twenties. By the end of the night we raised our glasses celebrating the finally of our first Fringe Festival.
And that concludes my first Fringe experience. From intimate jazz performances to puzzling magic tricks, stand-up comedy to speakeasy cocktails, it was a blend of introspection, escapism, and novel experiences. Unlike some of my neighbors, I don’t think I’ll be fleeing to the Highlands during next year’s festival. I’ll be right here, ready to do it all over again.
Travel Pathology 
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