This Easter break, while strolling through the winding streets of Edinburgh’s old city, M was telling me about the bookstores he visited the previous evening on his own. With the soft Scottish sun on my face and the tall old Gothic buildings looming over my head, my mind was too occupied to listen to him. Every step in the city felt like heaven, if heaven is a death long vacation in an enchanting European town with abundance of shops that sell shortbreads and tartans.
The distinct sound of a bagpiper filled the air, and my eyes wandered as we walked. A woman in kilt sat in front of the St Giles Cathedral weaving some threads, or perhaps wool. Her brown mohawk hair stood as erect as the Cathedrals spires. “Will charge for photography”, a board read in front of her. A man made big water bubbles through a net, and two kids chased after them. The bubbles float around reflecting a faint rainbow before they disappeared on the ground. A magician enjoyed the cheers and attention of his audiences while he juggled big oranges.
A little later, I realised M still hasn’t finished his story when I heard the word ‘Typewronger’. “What on earth is a typewronger”?, I asked.
“The bookshop I visited yesterday while you were sleeping in the room”, he said.
I don’t usually take a nap while I am on holidays. There’s always so much to see and experience. But lately I discovered the beauty of slow travel. To give up the notion that I can see each and every thing in a city. To surrender to the impossibility of it. So, I have started to explore a place at a relaxed pace. Walking around aimlessly, nurturing my thoughts in an unfamiliar environment, observing people and their quirks, making rough sketches of interesting things that I notice, stopping to smell the coffee and random flowers on the streets. To allow myself to sync my breathe with that of the city’s. To take a nap when my body ask for it.
So while I rested my tired aching muscles and sore feet, M took the opportunity to visit a few bookstores in peace. One of them was ‘Typewronger’ and it was located just under 0.2miles from where we were staying.
“They have a letter written by Tom Hanks framed on the wall. And the shop is full of typewriters”, he informed.
“Tom Hanks?”, I asked raising my eyebrows.
“Yeah, he visited or something”.
Next morning after a sumptuous breakfast, when M decided to stop at the McNaughton’s bookstore (because it closes early and he couldn’t visit it previously) for a quick browse, I was not delighted. I was looking forward to spending some time with nature. But then he told me that the shop sits shoulder to shoulder with the Typewronger where they have the letter from Tom Hanks. So, I surrendered and followed him knowing perfectly well that there’s no such thing as a ‘quick browse’.
I clicked these photos, while climbing down the stairs from the main street to get to the shop. Unfortunately, the picture didn’t capture the name of the shop.
As I entered, I noticed someone through my peripheral vision, sitting behind the counter on my right. Usually, I say hello and have a little chat, but not that day. I just wanted to look around on my own and steer clear of anything that involved human interaction. It was a decent sized store – not too cramped up but not big either. At the back of the store, there’s a board with post-its on it. A closer inspection told me that those were reviews left by customers and visitors. One of them read something on the lines of: “6’1 tall, and real stuff with 13.5% ABV”. I knew exactly what it meant because that’s my preferred amount in wine.
I didn’t notice the typewriters at first, because they are placed quite strategically on the shelves and not just huddled together in a thoughtless way. They were not drawing too much attention, but at the same time were subtlely present for those who seek them out. Most of them had a ‘Do not type on me’ notice.
My gaze fell on an orange one with stark white keys. I had seen it before. It was the same model that I came across the other day at the Typewriter Revolution Exhibition which was going on in the National Museum of Scotland. I remember it well because of its colour which naturally stood out amidst the boring browns and blacks. It looked sleek and fancy. It was designed by an Italian designer. I was instantly captivated with its beauty and character.
See? I am not lying. I did go to the exhibition. I took these pictures there. But this is not the Olivetti. This one is a Corona and that’s why I took these pictures. And if you look closely you can read about the Olivetti one which was just beside it.
I rushed to the front of the store and this time noticed the 6’1 owner who apparently was measured by alcohol by volume. He was wearing a yellow t-shirt and pair of blue jeans. His light brown hair was brushed back into a medium high pony tail. I don’t remember much of his face, perhaps he was wearing a mask? I am not sure. I asked him if the orange Typewriter at the back is an Olivetti one, and he proceeded to tell me how it’s not. He asked where I have seen an Olivetti and I told him at the exhibition. He seemed pleased. He told me that he is kind of the man behind the exhibition.
At that moment I was immensely grateful that I was able to make some conversation with this complete stranger who seemed extremely knowledgeable about typewriters for some reason.
M came in from the other shop and asked if I read the letter. I had not till then, but that didn’t stop me to ask Mr. 13.5% ABV why he has a letter from Tom Hanks. He told me that only a few people know that Tom Hanks is a Typewriter collector, which I fortunately did too. Thanks to his book cover! So, when he wrote to Tom Hanks telling his story and requesting support for the Typewriter Revolution Exhibition in Edinburgh, Hanks wrote back saying – “You are my hero!”. I thought he was making it up. So I went and checked the letter. But he was not lying.
He had ran off to Paris when he was 15 and worked there at the famous ‘Shakespeare and Co’. It was the 1990s and they had a lot of old non functional typewriters lying around in the shop. They piqued his interest and he started to sneak them home after work, one by one to repair them. His obsession got to a point where people started coming in at Shakespeare and Co’ to ask him to repair their typewriters. Because apparently he was the only typewriter repair-ist in Paris at that time. I don’t know how much of this is true, but it sounded genuine.
To earn some extra income, he started a side gig as a repair-ist and called himself the ‘Typewronger’. After this stunt of few years, he came back to his Scottish roots and decided to open a bookshop and continue his love affair with typewriters. He has continued to buy old machines, repair them and sell them off again. No doubt Tom Hanks was impressed with his story!
I always dreamt of owning a typewriter someday. It’s one of those loafty dreams that you do think about doing someday in the future, but not sure when. I admire typewriters not so much for the machine itself but because of their association with the writing process. Because of their contribution in producing literature that I grew up reading.
I asked him the price of the orange which, to me, was a look alike of the Olivetti one. I was surprised to know that it was not as expensive as I had imagined. I don’t know if it’s was the spell of the holidays, ambience of a bookstore, feel of Paris, or theatrical storytelling, which convinced and lured me to buy it. Before I know it, 13.5% AVB picked it up from the shelves and was shoving a paper into it to show us how it works.
I had little idea that I was manifesting an orange typewriter when I was at the exhibition staring at the Olivetti one. How things work out just out of the blue!
I think it’s the perfect souvenir from a truly magical city. A holiday, a bookshop visit, and a story I will cherish for a long long time.
khimpidutta 