A Night of Spoken Word; or Ode to Jonny Donut

Last week Kevin and I journeyed passed the confines of our self-created local Sheffield bubble in which we have been living and playing since September and crossed Ecclesall Road, passed London Road, and onto Abbeydale Road, far from Crookes and familiar surroundings. The purpose of this exploratory dip into new territory was to visit a much recommended cafe, In the Rude Shipyard Beneath my Window (Rude Shipyard for short). As well as being a small house-turned-cafe, the Rude Shipyard is also a book shop and generally chill place to have a cup of tea and some homemade Guinness cake (hail the chocolaty goodness). Described by its owners as “a living room where money changes hands,” a trip to this two-storied cafe is indeed reminiscent of visiting the home of an old friend, at least the home you imagine your old friends having. The decor is eclectic, rows of bookshelves line the walls and antique furniture is weary and welcoming.

This particular evening the cafe was hosting “The Wrote & The Writ” which featured local writers, poets, and musicians. I arrived far too early, as is my new custom, ordered a cup of tea which was delivered in one of the cafe’s mismatched mugs (scoring huge points and further creating a sense of hominess), and nestled myself into a corner with a book trying to figure out why I was given an empty eggcup (eventually discovering it was a repository for my used teabag). The only customer in the cafe at a point too late for teatime and too early for that night’s festivities, I attempted to be as invisible as possible as staff went about their business and eventually faces familiar to them arrived. As Kevin arrived the small building filled up quickly and even quicker the group of us who crowded into the upstairs room became a mini community, experiencing each separate performance together.

The first reader was Jep reading from Turn the Lights Out, a travel novel based on the author’s own experiences and also his love of cannabis. Next came Andrew Costa, a singer/songwriter whose songs do not follow the typical formula. The very small venue provided the best surrounding for his intimate guitar performance. Rachel Ingrams arrived and read from her novel Blood Tender. Her writing style was very poetic in nature, emotive and rhythmic. An evocative reader, after the one chapter I wanted to know more about her characters and their stories. Matt Black, a poet and also an activist who, during the course of his performance, urged the audience to vote (a call for active citizenship accompanied by cupcakes and an original poem mocking reasons people choose not to vote), was the most amusing of the evening. His spoken word was set to live guitar and told the story of Jonny Donut, a character inspired by an ice cream van parked in Cleethropes, an old seaside resort not far from Sheffield. Poor Jonny Donut was having some sort of existential crisis which was responsible for his hearing voices (predominantly the voice of a god of pistachio) and creating ice cream “lolly” molds of Dolly Parton among others. The only thing I regret about this performance is I did not record it in its entirety and I have been searching since for any such recording.

After chatting with the proprietor and leaving the Rude Shipyard we did what all twenty-somethings do when their Friday nights end and they emerge onto the streets in the early morning hours, we found a restaurant opened passed midnight and enjoyed a late (or early?) dinner of Turkish meze, deep in discussion of that evening’s enlightening entertainment.

Scotland in Images: Churches

We visited some beautiful churches while in Scotland with St. Andrews' in Fort William being my favorite. We'll be sure to discuss each church in further detail in upcoming blogs.

Scotland in Images: Castles

Although I'm sure we'll soon get around to providing all with many delicious blog posts related to our lengthy trip in Scotland, I thought I'd first try out yet another editing software while also sharing some of our photos from the trip. Please enjoy this series of images from our time in Scotland.

Remember me, my love?

When the call came in a couple months ago that my sister and her husband would be traveling to Amsterdam for work we were given a choice, a choice which was no choice at all: Sheffield or Amsterdam; should they come to us or we to them? Naturally Amsterdam must win in any epic battle against Sheffield, or to be fair, in my biased mind, most cities as Amsterdam is one of my favorite in this ever shrinking world. The moment the easy  decision was made my eyes widened with excitement. We would ride bikes, wear wooden shoes, eat Dutch snacks (oh Cheese Soufflé how I’ve missed thee), see canals, and churches, and canals, and churches, and paint ourselves into the beauty that is that bohemian city.

But first we had to overcome the procrastination which runs deep within me (everything booked one week before departure) and war once again with our old enemy, the Manchester Airport. Naturally our flight was delayed, however being held up in a different terminal brought forth a different outlook on this old situation, an outlook involving the calming experience of a half-empty airport bar and wine, lots of wine, practically donated to me by an overly generous bartender, until the announcement opening our gate was almost a sad affair. After a 45 minute flight we said goodbye to Schiphol as quickly as we said hello and were train bound to the Venice of the North.

Due to our much delayed flight we arrived in this most spectacular of cities very late and thus our first night, and stay in a lovely locally owned hotel in the Vodelpark area, was quite un-noteworthy. Breakfast, however, was anything but. Breakfast was glorious. Brown breads, cold meats, cheese, tea, and juice. Perfection. Afterwards we reunited with my sister and her husband and I set off to introduce Kevin and my brother-in-law Jeremy to the wonders of Amsterdam.

Our roving through the city was more haphazard than anything; remembering a worthwhile street or shop as we came upon it and pouncing in that direction with excitement. The nine streets was our first task, namely to search out a well known vintage store and all its yet undiscovered contents. The nine streets, or “De 9 Straatjes,” is a beautiful shopping area located in the heart of the canal district (but to be honest what is not a canal district in Amsterdam?) This area boasts designer shops, fancy cafes, and wonderful hidden gems all located between the Singel and Prinsengracht canals. Before the retail excitement could begin I appeased the boys by  leading them to a Dutch snack shop, renown for its culinary goodies trapped in vending machine-like contraptions. I fell in love with Dutch snacks while on St. Eustatius but to fully appreciate these delicacies you really have to put coins into a slot and be rewarded with a steaming hot, deep fried prize.

We ventured on through the city with no immediate plans, the best way to experience Amsterdam. Thankful for the sunshine amidst the piercingly cold breeze, we admired canal houses and  their resilience after centuries. We also admired Dutch beer, also historic, and found ourselves on a perpetual pub crawl of sorts. Kudos to the warm pubs and purveyors of good beer, also the home to many a  friendly cat. After Ally joined us we searched out the oldest and most famous part of Amsterdam, the red light district. Walking the allies and crowded canal-lined streets I could not help but think, am I the only person who visits this place, aglow in a flood of hazy red lights, because of its architecture, history, and the aesthetic beauty that comes with being the oldest part of a beloved city? Most likely, as we pushed pasted stereotypical frat boys gawking at the barely dressed women behind the glass.

Our first day ended with a tram ride chock full of excitement as a fellow passenger passed out not once, not twice, but three times and Jeremy switched to nurse mode, assisting the man’s friends who, for whatever reason, were holding the poor man’s legs up in the air. The tram stopped not once but twice and we were all kicked out as an ambulance was called. Despite our concern for the young man we had previously waited what seemed hours for that tram in the cold Dutch air and were not too pleased to be sent back out in the freezing night once more.

After starting our next day at the Van Gough Museum, a must for Amsterdam visitors, we ventured into the adjoining park for some playful fun, climbing on an IAMSTERDAM structure which can be found throughout the city. A trip to the flower market was  in store, along which we discovered a print shop worth our time and eventually our money. Previously planned plans faded away as we continued to enjoy our destinationless walks eventually leading us to Rembrandt Square and some chilly sunbathing while snacking on yet another Cheese Soufflé (not an actual Soufflé but a fried dough with a cheesy center.) Of all the “Dutch Snacks” Kevin preferred the kroket, deep fried meat ragout, while the frikandel (my favorite while on Statia)  came in at a close second. We all agreed that bitterbal, the most popular for many locals, was gross in concept (minced meat with beef broth and butter) and taste (the consistency of pate with the texture and flavor of creamy vomit.)

After more aimless wandering serendipity stepped in and we happened upon De Bekeerde Suster, a brewery and restaurant near the University. Not only was the wait staff friendly and the beer brewed in-house, but they had cheese platters and more cheese platters. It felt like an old friend, a local place to us non-locals. After making it our home base, Ally met us and we ordered another round of cheese and large glasses of Blonde Ros and Wite Ros (although to mine and Ally’s dismay the stylish glasses were not for sale.)

The night was rounded out by playing on yet another large IAMSTERDAM, getting the wrong directions from a crazy man in the street, waiting in the wrong place for the wrong train, attempting to have Ally jump into my arms while a statue of Rembrandt looked on, which resulted in her sprawled out on the ground (the reasoning behind this endeavor is still lost to me) and eventually having drinks in a hotel bar  themed after Vermont (I believe we sat somewhere near Montpelier.)

After saying early morning goodbyes to Ally and Jeremy (and the devil itself, the little red suitcase of horrors), Kevin and I struck out on our own for a half day of further exploration. Although short, this bit of time allowed us to discover our now favorite piece of this favorite city, a collection of serene buildings and quiet canals (complete with picturesque bridges) between the University of Amsterdam and the Rembrandt House Museum. Hello little slice of heaven. We played some chess, ate some soup, and explored St. Nicolaaskerk.

Leaving Amsterdam is always a sad affair, made more sad if, with a false sense of confidence, you bought the wrong train ticket and accidently sat in the first class car, thus were fined twice while an elderly Dutch couple looked on. Amsterdam is a fickle love.

“Istanbul: The Final Days.” …Or something…

Programming Note: Now that it’s April, we thought it might be time to, you know, finish the epic saga of our Christmas holiday pilgrimages to Germany, Switzerland, and Turkey. Thus, below I will regal you with all the lovely insightful detail of our post-Turkish wedding adventures in Istanbul that only three months of time and space can bring. Since returning to simple Sheffield in January, we’ve both had birthdays, traveled to Amsterdam and all over Scotland, and my parents have come to visit in Sheffield. We do want to catch up with our writings, and this our promise to just cease doing exciting or noteworthy things until we do! Remember, we never promised this blog would be timely or entertaining!

When we last left our trepid adventurers, they were making their way back to Taksim Square after an opulent Turkish wedding….

The following day, we had a leisurely morning and a late start out the door down to the Ortaköy region of Istanbul, on the European banks of the Bosphorus, with the goal of taking in a relaxing lunch in the shadows of the Ortaköy Mosque before catching a boat tour of the Bosphorus between the First and Second Bridges that link the European and Asian sides of the city.

But, more importantly, allow me now to reveal the true nature of Ashley’s calling in Istanbul: Cat Whisperer. Already a city of strays, everywhere we went turned to scenes such as these:

Warning: Images contain many cats and may not be for the faint-of-heart.

As one can see, otherwise normal situations quickly got out-of-hand as cats spread the news of the arrival of the Cat Whisperer herself. Happily, we can report no known incidents of mass feline uprisings.

The following day, we ventured to Topkapı Palace, home of the Ottoman sultans from the fifteenth to nineteenth centuries. Vastly removed from European-style palaces, Topkapı was a unique experience that did a good job interpreting the lives and material culture of the Ottoman rulers the uninitiated. A unique and self-conscious blend of various cultural traditions, the Ottoman designs are beautifully stylized and gracefully executed to a level that was truly thought-provoking. In addition, just look at the tile-work:

Within the Palace, we stumbled across numerous fantastic artifacts, including the Piri Reis map. This map, presented to Selim I in Cairo in 1517, is the oldest known map that includes portions of eastern North, Central, and South America. At this point, I had a little geographer’s/archaeologist’s nerd-out. This then continued in the Chambers of the Sacred Relics where, accompanied by the continual chanting of the Koran over a loud-speaker, we came face-to-face with various relics of the prophet Muhammad. Despite the dubious provenance of some of the relics, it was humbling to study the chest that contained his shroud, as well as his swords, one of his teeth (in a both), and a supposed mould of his footprint, among other things.

In our last few days in Istanbul we found ourselves wandering the city, exploring various mosques and areas such as the spice market, which was itself a very cool and interesting corner of the city that allows one to experience the true nature of open-air markets in the tradition that one just doesn’t find in North America or Western Europe often enough. Large quantities of almost every imaginable good for sale, complete with people who are more than willing to bargain and barter with you. Maybe even more so if you look passably Western. Further above the spices themselves, the old and narrow streets are home to vendors of house wares, toys, and even tourist trinkets in bulk quantity. And just down the hill, towards the Golden Horn, fishermen stand stoically on bridges for hours and hours, pulling in numbers of fish while languidly watching for passing boats and reeling in their lines just in time.

We spent our last full day in Istanbul in the Istanbul Archaeological Museums; a treat we had both been waiting a few weeks for. Three separate museums in an historical compound house some extremely large and varied collections from Turkey, Anatolia, and surrounding areas including Cyprus. Having just completed various papers on the subsistence strategy of a large Neolithic site in central Anatolia a few weeks before, I was excited to make my way inside and study the actual artifacts. In addition to numerous artifacts that most readers will likely not find to be exceedingly intriguing, I personally enjoyed the collections on prehistoric Anatolia as well as the supposed chucks of the Ishtar Gate from Babylon on display, while Ashley enjoyed the ceramic museum (read: nothing but fantastic tile work).

Despite their fantastic collections, I was saddened by some of the Museum’s dubious open-storage techniques. Namely, fields of open trays of pottery sherds that formed a ceiling for an exhibit, and was then just too easily accessible from other portions of the museum. It made me sad. Also, with a museum this size, you’d think they would have a better location to stage what appears to be recently excavated and accessioned artifacts then a corner under the stairs in one of the main corridors. Further sadness.

And on the evening of January 5th, I proposed to Ashley in Taksim Square. After preparing for weeks, speaking to both her parents and mine, and carrying the ring around with me every day for two weeks through Germany, Switzerland, and Turkey, the stars finally aligned for a perfectly fitting evening for me to ask her to spend the rest of her life with me. I suppose the suspense is months past, but thankfully, she agreed. I’m not one for sappy stories, but suffice to say that it was a very special and emotional event for the both of us! We can’t wait to move back home and see our close family and friends in Lake Placid!