Stypen Elite SP 13109

Today’s post will spare you from more adventures of two Japanese ladies on holiday at the beach. In fact, there hasn’t been much to speak of on that topic today; swimming, eating, lounging about and that’s pretty much it.

My sister (the near-professional cook) was going through a box of miscellaneous stuff last week and came upon a fountain pen still in its box, crumpled though it was. The appearance of the box made her think it was an old pen, and knowing little about fountain pens, she gave it to me saying it was very old.

To my knowledge, there is no such thing as a ‘very old’ Stypen, which is what I found inside the crumpled box. The pen is not old at all, and is a Stypen Elite SP 13109 in a carbon blue finish, with aluminum top and cap, and chrome pocket clip. It has a steel iridium-tipped medium nib and measures 4.5 inches closed, 5 inches posted. The outstanding feature on this inexpensive fountain pen is the retractable nib. One brief I read described the Elite as resembling the Waterman safety pens of years back. Too small for a converter, it takes a standard short international cartridge.

I filled a short cartridge with Montblanc Royal Blue ink, but then couldn’t get so much as a squiggle of ink on paper. I tried getting it started by dipping the nib into the bottle, but as soon as that drop of ink was exhausted, the pen was again dry, despite the full standard short cartridge. So, I removed the cartridge and put the nib into a bath of distilled water in my Citizen ultrasonic cleaner, running it through several three minute cycles. That did the trick.

The Stypen Elite is definitely an entry level fountain pen, but really not a bad pen in any sense. The steel nib lays down a wet line, and does everything a solid, basic fountain pen should. The 5 inch length is a little short for my hand, but then my hand is kind of large. I once traveled for several weeks with a larger Paris Colors Stypen, and during my time on the road wrote daily for two or three hours with never a miss, or a griping nib. It was a good and trusted workhorse pen, one that I still have, though use now only as a dip pen for looking at ink colors on paper.

Interesting to me that Stypen is the French arm of Bic pens. You would have to hold a gun to my head to get me to pick up a Bic ballpoint. Despite that, I do believe the Stypen Elite is an excellent fountain pen for those who don’t want to spend a lot of money on a high quality pen.

Musing With My Stypen

In a box of worn out or junked pens on my desk is a cracked and well-used old Stypen I bought while traveling in Greece. It wasn’t an expensive item by any means, but something chosen with no other thought in mind than replacing a lost pen. I bought it in a smoke filled stationery store in Athens, and at the time had never heard of Stypen, but it turned out to be a workhorse of a pen which served me well for years. The snippet below is from the first words I wrote with that Stypen, some observations in a spot just across the street from the smoky stationers on Oktovrion-Patission Road.

8:30 p.m.…The cool part of the day has descended and I find a seat out under the trees in the museum garden, where the twittering of birds against the roar and screech of traffic on the road, offers up a pleasant cocktail of city sounds. I am surrounded by locals also relaxing at day’s end. I see a generous mix of people around me, families with children, young lovers, and in fact a few lovers not so young. Just across from me sit two grandmothers sipping and nodding over glasses of Coca Cola with slices of lemon. From what I can see, the popular drink is fresh orange juice and it looks inviting in the tall glasses rimmed with froth. I look at a menu, turning over page after page of lists detailing food and drinks. Coffees and teas, hot or cold, the ever present Nes Frappe, cocktails, wine, beer, fruit and vegetable juices… Waiters in white jackets relay orders to the kitchen via electronic pads.

From behind a tree appears an old fellow with a Polaroid camera, offering couples a chance to immortalize a moment on film. Looking over my shoulder at one particular couple, I caution them with my eyes. Sometimes a photograph is evidence enough to sink ships or break up happy families. I suspect these two are boss and secretary, he a bit older, enjoying the hush-hush joys of an illicit date. Morose one moment and dewy-eyed the next, they are deep in conversation punctuated with private gestures. Her lips move as if to say, “Have you told her?”

Back to my own affairs I begin to think about plans for the following day. I sit lost in my map and guidebook when I suddenly hear a voice in thickly accented English, “Foot massage, sir?” Remembering a few days prior in Istanbul, my heart leaps in anticipation. I raise my eyes to see from whom this offer has come and am surprised by an ancient crone all festooned in dirty black rags, reaching out with long blackened fingers and swollen knuckles. I pretend I speak none of the world’s known languages.

Cicadas in the trees overhead and gnats circling my bare knees hint that it is time to go. A little light remains in the evening sky and I give it and my table up to a waiting pair of lovers.