The Feminist Fiance

Every once in a while during wedding planning the little feminist within me, OK let's be honest, the very large feminist, cringes and/or laughs at certain expected customs loaded with unfortunate symbolism (needless to say I shan't throw a bouquet---the fact that that statement rhymes makes it even more awesome.) Don't get me wrong, I love tradition and heritage and for that I am a very unique feminist (I'm also a liberal, feminist Catholic, figure that one out.) Yesterday while searching around for vintage wedding ephemera for design elements on bits and pieces of wedding-related things, I came across these old rating charts for husbands and wives. Such a discovery leans more towards the laughing than the cringing reaction and we had fun "rating" each other's potential worthiness as a spouse.

Kevin scored a 13, and if you click on the husband rating form to enlarge, you'll see such a low score results in failure. This is most likely due to the fact that he doesn't read aloud to me, or give me any allowance, and because he reads the paper at the table (but again, not aloud to me, shame on him.)

Sadly, I only received a 7, utter failure. This is due to many factors including wearing red nail polish (harlot!!), failing to darn socks regularly, and not dressing for breakfast (or making breakfast?) I would like to point out here that my score would have been a -3 if not for my church attendance, which brought in a staggering 10 points! (Way to go Catholicism!) It's also worth pointing out that the husband's rating form does not mention religion at all, or the ability to play a music instrument (also of vital importance to be a good wife.)

Rate yourself, rate each other, trust me it's a good time. Of course reflect on how far we've come, but don't forget to ponder how far there is yet to go. Visit http://feministing.com/ to see just how much more there is to fight for (wow, more corny rhyming!)

The Wheels on the Bus…

I shall begin the story of our latest trip with its end, specifically the journey home between Edinburgh and Sheffield after two weeks traipsing through beautiful Scotland. An accidental April’s Fools joke, we arrived exactly 24 hours late for our Megabus departure from the Edinburgh bus terminal, which was surprisingly small and unfortunate, due to the poor ticket-reading skills of yours truly. In my defense it was the only blatant travel mistake made after organizing 14 days of trains, buses, failed hitch hikes (OK, so I didn’t really organize that one,) ferry rides, hostels, hotels, bed and breakfasts, and squatting on land presumably owned by a lumber company. With the admittance of my full guilt I can now continue to the haphazard method stumbled upon for getting us home.

After the bus terminal employee explained to me that our tickets were for the day before, in an unnecessarily gloating tone, we sat in bitter disbelief. While I continued to have a mini-freak out, Kevin calmly approached the ticket counter where he was informed that not only was the next bus to Sheffield not until the next day, but that there were in fact no busses going south anywhere near Yorkshire. A quick call to the train station delivered similarly depressing news as the cheapest train tickets ran about 200 pounds. As we sat and I glared at the unhelpful attendant, who, in that same tone, refused to hold our ill-fated Megabus five minutes to allow us to run to the nearest cash point for the on-the-stop demanded further payment, “LEEDS” in large letters reflected on the smudged terminal window. It was a sign, literal not figurative, on a bus pulling into the terminal. I ran to the closest helpful employee pleading our case in desperate hopes to get us on that bus. That bus, as it turned out, was a planned tour.

The terminal employee and I approached the large, bearded bus driver with caution. Planned tours do not offer seats to non-tour passengers. The Santa-like bus driver said no at least a dozen times. However after some skillful negotiation (and/or the batting of some lashes over tear-welled eyes) he relented. Kevin and I waited in anticipation as the driver, Ben, the terminal employee, and the tour guide (a middle aged woman sporting a pursed upper lip and, I sensed, a distaste for the current situation,) held a meeting of minds deciding our fate. The terminal employee broke from the group and walked passed me with a look and nod inviting me to follow. Far away from the bus he informed me, in whispered tones and with twitchy, cautious eyes like a bad TV spy, that we could indeed catch a ride with this planned tour, who’s name I shall not give away to, um, protect our rescuers. However, this was a Scottish tour. We had to remain silent les we be found out as, well, obviously not Scottish. Also this was a singles-only tour. We could sit together, but we shouldn't like it.

We could do this, I thought as Ben loaded our ragged packs and my walking stick under the bus. We’re young, we’re fun, we could totally be mute singles on a planned tour to Yorkshire. As we boarded the bus we saw widows, widowers, spinsters, and playboys…all over 65. That’s right, this was not the young, twenty-something singles tour, or even the middle aged divorcee “Stella Got Her Groove Back” kind of tour, but a hey-could-you-pass-the-Bengay kind of singles tour. They seemed as shocked to see us as we were to see them and we scrambled to sit and melt quietly into the seats, invisible. I’m pretty sure “blending in” was no longer an option.

In order to keep from giving away our Americaness and “keep a low profile” as nervously, and far too often, instructed by our smugglers, we employed an age-old method practiced throughout the Animal Kingdom when threatened. We played dead. Each tea stop brought the curious grandparents from their slumber towards our position behind enemy lines. Each time we feigned sleep. It seems the only way to keep a bus full of potentially inquisitive elderly folk at bay is to literally play dead. Once or twice they did tempt us to abandon our strategy with offers of “sweeties” but to no avail.

Our rescuers, the tour guide and the bus driver, were noticeably on edge the entire six hour trip. Yes, we were on this bus for six hours without talking to others or each other. Each time she passed our hideout the tour guide winked, making the already interested “ladies who bus” even more curious as to our identity. Ben had previously asked us for some money, which turned out was a bribe we were more than willing to pay. The tour guide asked us to slide the cash in a brochure and slip it to her, as if she were living out some long-dead espionage fantasy. If anything we were happy to provide the tour guide and Ben some much deserved drinks in the hotel bar after they spent their Easter weekend on a 65+ singles caravan tour.

As we finally rolled through Leeds I was relieved that we’d would get to break radio silence and relax after an entire day evading conversation and even eye contact with a caravan full of gossiping biddies. But first we had to sit through a lengthy speech by the official hotel welcome wagon as the ladies “ooooh”ed and “ahhhh”ed when informed of their welcome drink and dinner times. (The men taking part of this singles tour kept mainly to themselves at the front of the bus, obviously not what the vixens in the back had in mind for a hot weekend away.)

As we left the bus and retrieved our packs, the entire group of hovering elderly watched us depart as if it were a scene from The Sound of Music (So Long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye, goodbye…goodbye…goodbye!). Running free through the streets of Leeds, speaking to each other for the first time since we re-boarded the bus after lunch at a garden center in northern England, we found the train station and jumped on the next train bound to Sheffield. Over the next hour of travel I almost missed the surprisingly crude talk of “scoring” men at the hotel bar, the constant passing around of unappetizing hard candy, singing along to music from the 1940s, discussions of grandchildren who have not yet reached their full potential (don’t worry woman-sitting-in-front-of-me-with-oxygen-tank, I’m sure he’s just going through a phase,) more frequent bathroom breaks than I’ve experienced in my life (although I’m almost certain that the majority of these were more for tea and cigarettes than to use the facilities,) and the waves of ooooooo’s and ahhhhhh’s as Ben announced factoids such as “To our left as we drive around Newcastle you’ll see the MetroCentre, the largest mall in Europe.”

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!