June 28^th, 2016

STRANGE SHORE: Edinburgh, Scotland.

SUNDRY LAND: United Kingdom

WANDERING WAY: Game of Thrones at “The Tron”

Before I set out on my European escapade, my friend Amanda expressed a concern: “How are you going to watch the Game of Thrones finale in Edinburgh?” My face paled as I realized my tragic scheduling snafu, and I gnashed my teeth and tore my hair. How indeed?

For Americans abroad this week, the nasty realization that any HBO NOW account is null-and-void outside the States has led to mass use of VPNs (Virtual Private Networks) and DNS Proxies to unblock that HBO goodness. Being a stickler for profits however, HBO has made efforts to crack down on its most desperate subscribers, and streaming illegal torrents isn’t for the fainthearted (like me). So what was I to do?

All was not lost! The Scots love Game of Thrones. As evidence, witness this “Bank of Scotland” advertisement featuring the dear, departed Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, who heroically died whilst standing up to his mutinous men at Craster’s Keep in Season 3:

How nice to imagine the Lord Commander sheltering under his umbrella on holiday – I believe that the last time we encountered him on the series, his mutilated skull was being used as a drinking cup.

These “Bank of Scotland” banners are hanging everywhere in Edinburgh, and I had high hopes for a country that has supplied so many of the series’ performers: James Cosmo (above as Jeor Mormont), Rory McCann (Sandor Clegane, The Hound), Richard Madden (Robb Stark), Rose Leslie (Ygritte), and Iain Glen (Jorah Mormont). I salute the Scots for their service to Westeros!

And yes, Edinburgh didn’t fail me. A few days before the finale, a pub – The Tron – promised to screen the series finale one day late. Whew!

But sometimes a marvelous plan (like watching Game of Thrones in a jovial Scottish pub) turns out to be a little more fraught in practice. This very same Monday evening, the European Championship match between England and Iceland was blaring in every pub, living room, and public square in Edinburgh – cheers and then groans flooded the streets as the city watched England lose in a “shocking” and “humiliating” 1-to-2 defeat to Iceland, a country whose population “is roughly the size of Croydon” and whose team was ranked “133^rd in the world…only four years ago” (according to the Guardian). As in the case of the unlucky Jeor Mormont, the entire populace of the United Kingdom is calling for the team manager’s head.

It must be said, England’s really not having a good week. I fully expect zombies to invade by Sunday.

The average resident of the UK (who seems to care mightily for “football”) may have been going through dark night of the soul, but think of me! Early in the soccer match when I asked The Tron’s bartender if they’d still be showing Game of Thrones, she just looked at me with a dazed expression and returned to watching the ignominious thrashing onscreen.

A cold sweat descended. Would the pub cancel the Game of Thrones screening for a stupid sporting event? How could their priorities be so out of whack? But I’d arrived early, and so I kept my peace, resolving to take a quiet stroll until 9pm. They just had to show Game of Thrones at 9pm – they had to! Needless to say, I was starting to worry.

As I walked over cobblestone streets in twilight, listening to the moans, boos, hisses, and shrieks of horror flood every alleyway as England lost, I wondered if I was alone in this world. How could all these knuckleheads care so much about some guys kicking a ball and care so little about the ultimate fate of Daenerys’s dragons?

By five minutes to 9pm, the match had ended, and I returned to The Tron. They were showing replays – replays! – and a bunch of haggard old men were looking into their pint glasses. With my last scrap of hope, I returned to the bar to ask with a tremulous voice, “Are you still showing Game of Thrones tonight?” Totally downcast, the bartender managed to raise her head long enough to say, “It’s downstairs.”

I sprinted down the stairs with only two minutes left, and I found yet another room full of men contemplating the end of days as sports announcers intoned dark pronouncements about defeat. I was in a Jungian nightmare with level after level of bereft sport fanatics, but where was Game of Thrones? I held back my tears long enough to ask the second bartender, “Game of Thrones!?!” My voice rose to a shrill high.

“In the basement,” he answered.

I took two steps at a time, flying into a basement where I was greeted with a wondrous sight: a screen effulgent with the melodic strains of the Game of Thrones opening music and a collection of nerds, my brethren abroad, keening with anticipation. Then the most beautiful thing happened; everyone shushed me to keep quiet as the opening credit drew to a close. Just as I would have done if someone dared to stomp downstairs as Game of Thrones was about to start! These were my people! After listening to the silly bellows of sports fans all night, I’d found an enclave of quiet. I settled down happily to watch Cersei Lannister blow up the Sept of Baelor. It was awesome.