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!

EVET!

Wedding traditions in Turkey, much like anywhere else, vary from region to region and family to family. Traditionally, the wedding celebration involves a series of phases incorporating religious or superstitious practices. While in Turkey we witnessed a number of these traditions as guests not only at a beautiful wedding but also wedding-related events. One interesting tradition, for example, involves a friend or relative in an exemplary marriage gifting the bride and groom with their wedding-day undergarments. (In this particular case the relative chosen was the mother of the groom. Awkward.)

In the days leading up to the wedding, ceremonies take place at which the bride’s hands are decorated with henna. I witnessed two such ceremonies, an intimate, family celebration taking place on New Years Eve (as the wedding occurred on January 2nd) and another, more elaborate celebration the next day within a Turkish bath. New Years Even became a combined countdown to the new year and a henna ceremony. After a delicious dinner hosted by the parents of the bride, the women disappeared to the  kitchen, emerging with candles and singing a folk song. I immediately thought it was someone’s birthday until I noticed how unappetizing the candle-adorned cake appeared. Luckily it was no cake, but a mound of henna. Camera flashes lit the room as the women adorned the bride with a red-capped veil with gold jewels. At midnight, freshly henna-ed, we rang in the new year by smashing pomegranates on the back deck. Prosperity in the new year comes to the one who’s pomegranate splits open and spills its contents. I can only assume this is as pomegranates are an expensive waste of a delicious fruit.

The next morning the men and women split up to enjoy separate Turkish bath experiences. Visiting a Turkish bath the day before a wedding is considered an older fashion and not always practiced today. I personally love Turkish baths and find them full of character and history, not to mention the confusing purification of it all. We were welcomed by the crazy ramblings of a cantankerous old man, angry that the bath was closed to men on this morning due to our presence. Within the bath itself I gained a new respect for my extreme-situation small talk abilities after becoming far too familiar with many naked women, while I too was also naked and being handled roughly by large (also naked) women who scrubbed away a week’s worth of travel from my skin. Even Emily Post would be proud.

During our soak and scrub, family members emerged from a side room with another tray of henna, this one more elaborately decorated. As they sang folk songs they draped the bride’s head once more with a red veil and decorated her hands with henna, placing gold coins in her palms and securing the entire decoration with a small red pillow tied to a ribbon which was thus tied around her wrist. The women’s strong voices and tambourine playing echoed joyfully within the steamy and relaxing stone enclave.

Here’s one you might not hear everyday. After the celebration at the bath, we met up with the men at the engaged couple’s new apartment into which they will move after returning from their honeymoon. While touring around I was called away to the master bedroom, into which all the women had gathered, singing songs while grandmothers and mothers made the marital bed. Afterward, the nephew of the groom, who was about one a half years old, was captured and gently tossed in the middle of the bed. Surrounded by a gaggle of singing and laughing women, each reaching towards him and giving a slight nudge in order to roll him around the bed, I could not image what this kid was thinking. Probably, what did I do wrong. This “baby rolling,” as we dubbed it, is a traditional good luck charm for the future fertility of the happy couple. Similar superstitious traditions involving snatching up a child to smear around the bed, preferably a male child, take place in Greece.

The actual wedding ceremony, which took place the next day, is a secular event and generally held within the reception hall. The 500+ guests gathered at a cocktail reception at the large and lovely Conrad Hotel while the bride and groom ate dinner separately. This for them is the calm before the storm, and really their only chance to eat as after the ceremony they must circulate the room individually greeting their hundreds of guests. Because they enter the reception hall together, there is no need to keep the two separate before the ceremony.

After each had taken their seats, dramatic music played and someone on a microphone said a lot of stuff in Turkish. Although we were close to the stage we sat at a funny angle, but luckily there were big stadium-like screens on either side along with a camera on a boom which swept the room as if to hunt you down.

The giant doors swept open, revealing the bride and groom, who took to the stage amongst cheering and the aforementioned most-dramatic-music-ever. At this point much more Turkish was spoken. In basic terms the official asked everyone to state their names, asked the bride if she wanted to marry the groom, to which she overjoyously responded “EVET!” The groom ecstatically retorted the same. The bride, groom, and witnesses then signed the legal document (which we all could see thanks to the super zooming capabilities of the camera.) That was that, they were married.

As the courses were served, the bride and groom greeted guests (trailed closely by their own personal paparazzi) and celebrated their first dance. Typically guests adorn the bride with gold necklaces and bracelets during this time, which she wears for the remainder of the evening. With formalities out of the way, guests, old and young alike, took to the dance floor where they stayed for many, many, many hours. Shots of sugary alcohol were abundantly served and at one point the bride and groom  danced upon American dollar bills which had been thrown about like confetti. Later a wedding cake emerged, wheeled out of the kitchen, which was taller than the bride and groom combined, (and actually made mostly of cardboard covered in icing except for one small section of real cake for the bride and groom to cut.) We left the hotel, sleepily dragging ourselves to the taxi queue, well into the early morning hours, with Turkish dance beats still ringing in our ears and a hell of a good time to remember.

A Visit to a Hamam to Open the New Decade

While 2010 might or might not technically be a ‘new’ decade depending on how one decides to count, Ashley and I both had the luxury of starting the year Twenty Ten off right – with day trips to hamams, or Turkish baths. Ebru’s wedding didn’t comply with all of the Turkish traditions, but the family did stick with tradition with the bath. Ashley will regal with you the doubtlessly better-researched background about the female delegation, but here’s a little insight in the world of a male hamam adventure through the eyes of a certain simple ol’ boy from Georgia.

Much too early on New Year’s Day, Ashley and I made our way through the very loud and very bright Istanbul metro system to arrive at the the bride’s home. Like most times during the weekend, it was a fascinating vignette to watch a busy and cluttered household go about the business of planning an opulent Turkish wedding. Eventually, the male hamam away-team was assembled. This included the groom, Hur, his father, his uncle, the bride’s brother Atalay, his American friend Anthony, and myself. The six of us piled into a small (well, for Europe, quite nice-sized actually) car and began driving north, away from Istanbul. In time, we hit the Bosporus and continued north towards the Black Sea. Eventually, we came to a tiny fishing village, the Turkish name of which I cannot recall. It stands for the yellow spot, roughly, however. Here, we tracked down the traditional and quiet hamam, currently closed for prayer times, and waited.

We worked our way over to a cafe on the docks and ordered Turkish tea and watched the village go by. The call to prayer was marked by the funeral of what appeared to be two young children, caskets draped with football jerseys. I pondered the geomorphology of the landslide on the Asian side (see above photo) for a time. To my surprise, men from Hur’s extended family continued to show up in ones and twos for the next few hours. Once we worked out who spoke English, I made friends with one of Hur’s uncles and chatted about politics, archaeology and international business for a time.

Finally, we headed towards the hamam. The first thing that I noticed was the presence of drying fish hanging from the tree that grows through the bathhouse:

Très cool.

In the past, Turkish baths were many things, and likely conformed to various notions and ideas one from the States might have of them. Today, they’re simply a wonderfully relaxing and cleansing afternoon. And the day before a wedding, a little ritual cleansing is always good. The tellak (or staff) was very friendly and joking. I suspect they were enjoying the sight of pale skinny white men from America in their place, but whatever. Upon entering, you notice the three floors of leaning and claustrophobic balconies above you, ringed with small changing rooms with glazed windows. The simple stove on the floor in the middle of the room radiates with warmth and a fragrant smell that permeates the heavy and suana-like air. The pipe from the stove winds its way up towards the sky, bisecting the sharp winter light from the first (technically second) floor window. Following everyone’s lead, we take our shoes off and place them under a bench while the tellak hands us slippers and a key to a changing room. Headed upstairs, we swing into stalls and don our picnic-table-cloth-bathtowels.

This hamam was older and functionalistic, without some of the embellishments of fancier baths of old. That said, to duck into the oppressively moist air and suddenly begin sweating in the solid marble cave that was the central room was very fulfilling. The only light came from two small holes in the vaulted marble ceiling, with basins and sitting areas arranged in four rooms around a central open marble slab that was occupied at the time by a particularly hairy and rotund Turkish bear with something towel-like attached to it. We settled near basins, Anthony and I sticking close and representing the non-Turkish contingent. We were each given a plastic bowl used to wash ourselves from the hot water we drew from the basin and waited. We chatted; we laughed; we exchanged pleasantries by way of facial expressions with Turks. Two gruff and stout Turkish men worked their way around, giving everyone a thorough scrubbing.

Eventually, it was my turn to have the stout Turk over me, bending my limbs various ways as he proceeded to remove what I’m convinced was a full 23 years of dirt and grim from pores of my skin that I did not know existed. Back and limbs clean, he proceeded to give my back three solid and reverberating thwacks. Thus I was declared done.

An hour or so later, we were all out in the lobby again, watching Hur have his neck cracked by another of the tellak. After this was completed, Hur continued to get the groom’s treatment while the rest of us laughed and jokingly forced each other to get our necks cracked as well. It was sudden, swift, and decidedly refreshing. Just as I never knew how dirty I really was, I also had a new appreciation for my neck feeling limber and loose.

Driving back towards Istanbul through national forestland, I revealed in the trip to the hamam as a truly unique experience that I was lucky to have had. I felt more refreshed than I could remember being in a long time – I definitely think that living too near to a hamam would simply result in my weekly attendance!