How-To: Make a British Person Uncomfortable

 ​After living in a more traditional British town for over a year, I’ve succeeded in rendering many a Brit uncomfortable by my cultural gaffes. My first lesson was the basic recognition of when Brits are uncomfortable, rather than just uninterested. They are infallibly polite and confrontation adverse. I know I’ve made a Brit squirm when side-eye me for a millisecond before diverting their gaze, shrugging their shoulders, and mumbling, “If you fancy.” Edify yourself: Here are my top-5 ways to make a British person uncomfortable. 

1) Tell them you don’t know where you’re going but refuse directions.
England is a county admired for its explorers. It’s the breeding ground of polar exhibitors (Scott) and royal treasure-hunters (Raleigh). It is home to Ordnance Survey maps, a tool that could save lives in the jungle but is actually detailed for a highly-populated country half the size of California. Being lost is un-English! Brits are dumbfounded by your insistence on “Googling it” or “wandering.” In a country where knowing one’s way is a national pursuit, aimless outsiders are discomforting.
2) Leave your tea bag in your cuppa.
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While still perplexed by your refusal of milk and/or sugar, Brits are accustomed to the idea of drinking “black” tea (herbal or otherwise). What they absolutely cannot fathom is why someone would allow their tea to seep. Or worse, continuously reuse it, topping up the mug with hot water to seep the last dregs. In this country English tea is sold in boxes that look like Legos for giants. The correct method is to fish out a tea bag in less than three minutes by pushing it lightly against the edge of the mug, placing the bag on a small tray specifically for this purpose, and clanking the stirring spoon around cream-colored contents. Rinse and repeat.

3) Know nothing about the royal family.
The fact that someone acquainted with popular media or Western history is ignorant to the names, marital status, and impregnation updates of the British royal family is shocking. The monarchy is basically a national treasure. Disrobing a Brit of their royal fascination is like telling them Santa Clause doesn’t exist. They feel a little foolish, bothered, and out of their conversational comfort zone.

4) Ask them why they wash dishes using a tub in the sink.
I guesstimate that 99% of British people wash dishes by filling a plastic tub with soapy water, sloshing dishes around and then drying the dishes on a metallic platform and rack next to the sink. The tub is caked with gooey residue. Despite my extensive research (Facebook polling, article reading, local question-asking), no British person can offer myself or themselves a satisfactory explanation. The only substantial answer? “It’s what we’ve always done.” What makes this conversation uncomfortable is that even when you’ve both acknowledged illogical methodology, your conversational partner will continue to wash dishes this way. In the UK, tradition is the ultimate comfort.
5) Talk about going to therapy and suggest others do, too.
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The UK has high numbers of people registered as mentally unwell or special needs. The National Health Service (NHS) provides extensive support in the form of back-to-work training schemes, personal aides, and prescriptions. But they reserve paid counselling for the most desperate. Admitting faults and emotions is not easy in this hardy culture. Brits are likely to become insane thinking of sitting in a square room on a square chair talking squarely into the face of someone hired to probe. The English are a loyal and private culture. One speaks about personal things with family where no background story is necessary before moving on to more important topics (“What’s for tea?”) Discussing therapy casually, especially after someone admits hardship, is social suicide. The Brits react like bearded dragon lizards with puffed necks: Nervous laughter, fidgety movements, and fumbled subject changes abound. A whisper, “I can’t believe she thinks I need it!” may be heard. 

​As the Brits say, “Don’t be daft!” One day, when you’ve lived in this country for years, use colloquialisms, and are invited for tea at the home of your “second British mum,” you can broach these topics with locals. Until then, just avoid them all together. 

Dr. V's Hero

For an expat-local, dilemmas like broken vehicles present worrisome challenges. Most locals know of trustworthy garages, processes and protocols, even if they have never actually experienced an issue. Moreover, they usually know someone nearby who can help. When my scooter, Dr. V, broke down at the most inopportune moment, I felt my little expat-local confidence balloon collapse. In working through the problem I discovered two excellent tools. The associated organizations, Rapid Recovery and JC Motorcycles, offered some of the best customer service and value for money I’ve experienced in Plymouth. And because my internet is kaput due to gale-force winds, the following review is a written as a story, too.
It had been a long expat-local day spent working Miss Ivy’s “All Things Vintage & Lovely” event. The proprietor of these traveling vintage clothing and bric-a-brac show is a friend of mine. Working her events is equal parts joy and job. Over the course of 12 hours, I serve tea in the café, lift-and-shift for stallholders, pass out event flyers, and respond umpteen times to the question, “Where are you from?”

This was the first event when I enjoyed the luxury of transporting via Dr. V, my new Chinese-made scooter. To explain his look, if a Harley were to have sex with Vespa and their baby was Chinese, it would be Dr. V. I arrived to the event with fresh legs and RSVP’d to a party afterward, sure that I would have enough time to zip home, zip into whatever new vintage frock I picked up at the event, scarf down a cupcake from Miss Ivy mainstay Dot-Tea’s Cakes, and then meet friends on the Barbican. I finally knew how to save enough energy at a Miss Ivy show to keep my expat-local patience and enjoy a night out afterward. It all came down to Dr. V.

Around 5:45PM on a Saturday, I leave Plymouth Guildhall to mount Dr. V. Helmet? Check. Gloves? Check. Cake perched on backseat, wrapped with bike lock to keep in-place? Check. Keys go in, click, turn, clack, lights flash, right hand twists, whirr, cough, black. Are you there, Dr. V? It’s me, Emily. Nothing. I figured it was the gas. Dr. V has his own version of “Full and Empty.” When he’s low he refuses to move an inch. I totally appreciate this attitude; I get hangry, too (hungry-angry). Hence the green gas can I keep tied to Dr. V’s rack. Saying a prayer of gratitude, I galloped to Asda gas station, filled up my gas can, trotted back to the Dr., and filled ‘er up in less than 20 minutes. I’m so smart, I thought.
Helmet? Check. Gloves? Check. Cake? Check. Keys go in, click, turn, clack, lights do not flash, right hand stills twists, no whirr, no cough. Nothing.

I openly wailed. It felt like I was watching a movie where Los Angeles crumbles into the ocean. Woe is me! Why did I buy this stupid scooter? I bet I was swindled. Who do I call? I just want my Dad. I’ll never make it to the party! £15 ticket fee down the drain because I’m a stupid expat-local with a stupid scooter and a stupid plastic thing full of cake. I have no idea what to do. I bet Dr. V hates me because I’m American. I bet this parking spot has a curse on it and Plymothians already know that. I bet an angry English goblin stole the battery while I was at Miss Ivy’s Event. I hate England! I hate scooters! I’m never leaving Denver again!
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Later in the evening, bus ticket in the bin and several cakes consumed, I Googled terms like “scooter help in Plymouth.” Because the toll-free number for Rapid Recovery is advertised on every page (+07597 730239) I initially ignored it. Desperate for information and realizing it was the only line open at 7PM on a Saturday night, I rang. The young man who answered the phone empathetically, asking me a few questions and trouble-shooting. He quickly determined he couldn’t solve the problem and provided me a list of next options, only one of which was using his recovery service. He advised me to wait until the next day when I could tow it directly to a garage. After we hung up, he sent me a text message with his recommendation. “We only charge £25 for Recovery,” he said. I actually cried on the phone. “You have made me feel so much better!” 

The next day I trooped to the city center with a scooter-aware friend. We concluded that Dr. V needed a new battery. A kind-hearted fellow helped us to jump-start. As the battery was completely dead, I couldn’t let off the gas nor start without a jump. The helpful Plymothian followed me down the street in his car in case I lost power again. Finally, I got Dr. V home.
After calling several garages in Plymouth and receiving the response, “We don’t do Chinese,” I searched Dr. V’s records. I found an invoice from JC Motorcycles at Warleigh Avenue. I grumbled, Where-Leigh is more like it. Google reviews showed 5-star ratings. A cheery bloke answered my call (+01752 551867), “Oh yah, sounds like the battery, bring him in! I might remember him.” I’ll bring Dr. V AND my wedding ring because we’re getting married, I elated.

A red, a black, a twist, and a clack later, Dr. V and I are off, diving into the neighborhood near St. Levan’s Gate, one of Devonport Dockyard’s entryways. Finally, Dr. V and I putter to the open door of JC Motorcycles. The workshop is nuzzled picturesquely into the walls of the iconic rail bridge spanning Devonport. Two tall tattooed men work inside the roof peaked by beams that I guess were stolen from ships. When I jump off Dr. V with a joyous hoot and fist-pump John, the owner, casually greets me. Taking one look at Dr. V, he smiles. “Oh yah, it’s no problem at all. Just leave it here on the street and I’ll replace the battery. I’ll fix that starter, too.” As I chat with another customer in the sunshine, John replaces the battery and uses a screwdriver to adjust some knob with ease, like a teenage boy fixing his bicycle. The other customer offers me cake, explaining, “I bring cake to the boys every time I come.” John gladly lets me use the loo to refill my water bottle. The bathroom is in the loft, where I notice a wicker Harley Davidson bike hanging above their heads. It’s a sweet addition to the posters and typically disorganized garage atmosphere. John tells me that four employees work here. His customer tells me this is the best bike repair shop in Plymouth.

Within 20 minutes Dr. V is ready to go. When he purrs back to life, I feel like the battery of my heart was also replaced. I try to explain to John how grateful I am for his service, gushing, “This is an expat’s worst nightmare!” John chuckles. His co-worker peeks at me in concerned wonderment from behind the hub of a bike. John runs up my invoice for a mere £30 with a 12-month guarantee. I croon like a cock in the country.

A Traveler's TED: The Talk

The brown walls pulsate.

Why, why do the words refuse to come to me?

I’m doomed. In less than an hour I will be on-stage, delivering my TEDx speech, telling tales of when myself others went insane and learned how to live again. How am I going to tell a tale if I can’t remember the words? Actually, it isn’t the words I am concerned about. Lord knows I can talk. No, it is the structure, the organization, and the details. The most important parts. The parts my brain is disinclined to recall.

I sigh and give up, engaging with other speakers and staff waiting off-stage for the show to start. Spirits are high; laughter abounds. TEDx staff members are highly organized as they assist speakers like myself and Caspar Walsh. He is first to speak that day and last to arrive. I didn’t hear his mumbled apology but suspect that he might have been procrastinating. His speech, like mine, is emotional and revealing. I had used procrastination as a coping mechanism earlier that day, too.
That morning my Aunt knocked on the door of the Totnes Air BnB she booked for us. “Almost ready?” she asked, peeking around the door. Like a teenager caught smoking cigarettes in her bedroom, I stumbled to the door, wild-eyed. “Yah, okay, just a minute and I’m coming!” I pushed the door closed and tried to sound calm. I was wearing one sock, no make-up, and one-third of my third attempted outfit. My speech was in one hand and a dry toothbrush in the other.

Eventually my Aunt roused me from my anxious spiral. We arrived to a crisp Autumn morning at Dartington Estate, a cool hour and half early. TEDx staff showed me the “green room” backstage where they had sweetly supplied croissants and bananas. My heart appreciated the gesture much more than my stomach. I re-joined my Aunt in the Café, where she chatted with a suited, smooth-haired business-type. I tried to engage, then talked too much and acted coarse, eventually retreating to a corner with Hugo Tagholm of Surfers Against Sewage. He spoke my language (“Toomuchish”) that morning: excitement, apprehension, and gratitude.

And again, as I practice my speech off-stage, it is Hugo who pulls me from my racing-brain reverie. While I pace with speech in-hand, he relaxes like he’s seated on a beach chair. Kath Maguire is similarly poised, seated with feet flat, hands pressed to knees, spine straight, and a small smile, exactly as I imagine Buddha might act before his TED talk. “I’m doing okay,” she says. “I’m not at that point where I can’t sit or stand.” I laugh, inspired. Throwing down my typed speech, I turn again to the wall. I feel Danielle, the speaking coach, watching me.

I deliver the speech perfectly, mouthing the words and moving through the choreography like Charlie Chaplin in a silent.
Then, Caspar stumbles off-stage, a deer caught in headlights, smiling widely. Then hands attach a mic to my pocket. Then last wisps of hair are swept from my face by someone’s gentle fingers. Then black curtains on my fingers. Far away, a chuckle from the audience resounds. Then a gentle, flat hand pushes me forward. Then I am on-stage.

Position. Smile. Pause.

Speak, smile, speak! I have two brains: the one that lives in the NOW and the one that thinks about what my first brain is doing. During the first paragraph of my TEDx speech, my second brain whirs. Stop it! I command. Before going on-stage, I swore to myself that I would speak in the moment. My second brain would only distract me. I have to stop strategizing if I was to be successful. I have to trust that I can speak from my heart, not my head. I don't need to think my way through it. My second brain begins to consume me. I feel my heart skip a beat. Don’t lose it!

One sentence into my second paragraph I finally look at the audience. Unlike many performances, the audience in the Dartington Barn Cinema was close enough to see, shining faces between red chairs. I can see their prone, straight backs, apt and engaged. Right then, I experience the most empowering thought:

They’re on my side!

I recognize in the audience a willingness to listen, to learn, and to love. Together, we made sacrifices to attend TEDx Totnes. We showed up, displaying a reciprocal appreciation and desire to share. They are happy with whatever I say just as I am happy they are listening.

I want to perform for them! I hear the theme song form “Chicago”: Start the car, I know the whoopee spot… I want to give this audience my 110%. I want to delight them. I want to honor them by telling the tale. We came to see.
Who ever knew a tiny red circle could be so big? Or that speaking could be so fun? Or that somehow it is possible to hear every individual giggle in a crowd of 100?

I didn’t get the memo to stay on my circle to receive applause. Even if I did, I don’t think I could have stayed. I finish (“Never stop scavenging for delight”), click my heels, and flee like a bat out of Hell. I flee with tears streaming down my face, battling black curtains in search of an opening. From out of Narnia Danielle’s hands pull me through and then she is hugging me, holding me tight, as I sob into her shoulder. I’m smiling.

And all that jazz.

The Plymouth Planner: Foundle (Or, If One Finds Themselves in Oundle)

 

Overview: Every once in a while, the Brave Plymothian finds themselves in a county far away from Devon. This Plymouth Planner details one’s itinerary on such a day, taking you on a tour of the quirky town of Oundle, Northamptonshire. 

Expected Cost: Around £13. This planner does not include transit costs, because it is a little odd for a Plymothian to Foundle (find themselves in Oundle). Therefore, on this Plan one can expect to pay £2 for postcards at the museum, £7 or so for lunch at the café, £.80 for sending their postcard(s), and around £4 for a local brew. 
Solo Savvy?: This is an excellent adventure for the solo traveller. The museum guides are two jolly old men. Even if they made a move, you would have plenty of time to react. 

Expected Duration: Two hours, depending on your question volume and the guides’ naptimes. 

Requirements: Other than the actual nature of Foundle (finding oneself in Oundle), this Planner requires very little. As usual, rain jacket recommended. 

The Plan: It’s suggested to begin one’s Toundle (Tour of Oundle) by walking in to the city from the outskirts. It is recommended to cross in via Oundle Wharf. Pause for a moment at the bridge. Across the river and hidden from view is the massive Roman archaeological dig that you will learn about later on your museum tour. 

Walk into town via Station Road, past cute doorways that make Hobbits feel tall. You will meander to a group of imposing stone buildings on your right. If you Foundle on a weekday during the school term, you may see students in their long pin-striped culottes. This is the very modern school uniform for 1,100 students who attend Oundle School, of which only 250 are local. According to your (eventual) museum guides, Oundle School owns 45% of the land in Oundle. The school consistently places in top ranks for testing standards and is, according to one former biology teacher, “One of the best schools in the UK.” After passing Oundle School, round a corner into the main city centre. Market Place, the thoroughfare, is divided by a building erected in the center of the streets (the tree in the middle of the river). On the right are charity shops and banks; on the left are traditional sweet shops, grocers, and other store fronts. Pick your side and continue past. You will return to this location later. 

The museum is located in the old courthouse at the end of Market Place. When you reach the fork in the road, cross the street and enter the museum on your left. Don’t worry if there is a sign on the door that says it’s closed; it’s probably open and a lady named Terry simply forgot to take down the sign. 

The museum entrance is the first door on your left. If you’re lucky, two gentlemen named Keith and Ioan will be there. They are the museum guides. If it’s been a slow day, Ioan will probably exclaim, “We have a visitor? Wonderful!” The Brave Plymothian must ask for a personal tour led by Keith and colored by Ioan. The front room of the museum is the former courtroom. Keith will use the scaled version of the previous layout to explain how the room has changed. Before that he will explain that Oundle was first a trading hub for Romans, who had a massive Christian burial ground nearby (the famed archaeological dig you saw across the river). Ioan will pepper Keith’s explanations with descriptions of what the town was like 63 years ago. That’s when he moved there for a one-year Biology teaching gig at Oundle School that extended to his retirement. Be sure to ask Ioan his perspective on teaching Biology as the human genome was being discovered (“marvellous”). At some point, you may end up sprawled on the ground with Keith, examining the map of Oundle painted below your feet. You will be impressed by the technical details added to the museum, like interactive videos. Apparently, some members of the Museum Board are willing IT contributors. 

But wait: there’s more! After touring the front room, Keith will bring you to the superb, fantastic, confounding, “Cabinets of Curiosities.” This is where local Oundle-ites donate their special collections for public viewing. Other than the prerequisite Elvis paraphernalia, there exists a collection of egg cups, teddy bears, impressive Victorian clothing, custom machinery, and more. Keith may look forlornly at the collections; you see, the owner of everything Elvis lives near Keith and keeps the good stuff at his house. Apparently, you can’t even trust the courthouse security these days… 

When you can’t possibly handle any more stimulation, sign your name in the guestbook and buy a postcard or two at the desk. A £1 donation is sufficient. Wish the boys farewell and head back toward Beans Coffee Stop on New Street. You probably noticed the cheery exterior and big windows when you walked past earlier; it’s now on your left. Order a tuna salad (the greens and homemade dressing are excellent). Pull up a seat in the window and pen your postcards as you watch townspeople stroll by. When you’ve finished your meal and rested your tired noggin, exit Beans to the left. Next to the café is a little shop; at the back of the shop is the Post Office (you will see the red sign hanging above the shop entrance). 

This is one of the best post offices in all of England. You will be called “sir” and “darling” from the moment you walk in. There will probably be two tellers who may argue for the honour to serve you. You will wonder how UK customer service was ever considered lacking. You will wish you had a million heavy, awkward, expensive packages to send, and may be tempted to purchase something ridiculous just to spend more time at the incredible institution. 

Now that your long day of touring and errand-running is complete, it’s time for a brew. You’re going to the Ship Inn, a local pub where many a Coundle (Couple from Oundle) have met their soulmate. Exit the post office, go back toward the museum, and it’s through the well-labelled alleyway on your left. Order a beer from the local brwery, Nene Valley. If it’s sunny, pull up a seat outside in the courtyard; if it’s rainy, you will find plenty of friends at the dark bar. Pull out the “History of our Landscape” brochure picked up at the museum. It was written by Ioan himself. Read it just to make sure you didn’t miss any important details on today’s tour. See if you can taste the history of Oundle in the hops (or is that just the flavour or Roman bones from the local river…?) 

That’s the end of this edition of the Plymouth Planner, Foundle! Stay tuned for more plans.

A Traveler's TED: That Guy and Shutting Up

 ​To house its red squirrels Totnes Rare Breeds keeps a multi-story playpen, basically a gerbil cage on a grander scale. The maniacal squirrels love this thing, defying gravity as they scale the cage walls and corridors. I watched all this calmly on 10 October, thinking how funny it was that two days earlier, on 8 October, I looked like a red squirrel as I packed my bag for a TEDx-induced weekend in Totnes (UK).

To bust the pre-speech nerves, Olivia Palmer and the TEDx team invited speakers like me and a few guests to attend dinner at Riverford Field Kitchen. It is where organic trend-setter, Riverford Farm, cooks and serves its food straight from the fields. Normally £27.50, the Riverford Field Kitchen 3-course dinner is a must-dine among Devon’s organic elite. Never one to miss an opportunity, I asked the Riverford team if my Auntie, any other interested TED-sters, and I could take one of their normally priced £6 farm tours. Riverford agreed, offering a complimentary gander, the only requirement that I find five others to join.

Frenetic tweets, failed Facebook messages, and a couple cancellations later I arrived to Riverford on 8 October with three people: myself, my Auntie, and Kath Maguire, a speaker from Exeter who also saw TEDx as an opportunity to explore the “Narnia” that is Totnes. Luckily, our guide Penny loved the small group. As Head Gardener, life-long friend to the owner (Guy Watson & Family), Totnes-true-blood, and a jaunty, muddy, wide-grinning guide, Penny provided the perfect anecdote for my nerves.

Preparing for TEDx that day had been difficult. My heart beat erratically from the moment I woke. Multi-tasking is a nice way of describing my lack of attention, trying to answer as many emails as possible before leaving my laptop on my desk. It was like I was being called to TEDx battle and needed to say goodbye to my loved ones, pack, and run a few preparatory drills. During my workout I visualized my aerobics kicks bashing an image of myself standing like a fish-out-of-water on stage. Afterward, feeling more confident, I finally sat in my kitchen and read my speech line-by-line, trying to memorize its verbal flourishes.
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I strategized that if I could just get that structure right, being sure to include every important part in a coherent way, then I my heart would choose the words. But I am a journalist. I loved my speechs’ written syntax. I didn’t want performance to come second-fiddle to content. I thought that if I just read my speech again and again I might memorize it. Halfway through, hands shaking, I gave up.

A few hours later I bimbled around Riverford in a beat-up four-wheel farm vehicle, listening to Penny’s priceless recounts of schools dances with Guy and the science of salad. Engrossed by the setting sun, I felt the burden of the day’s anxiety draining to the mud below. By dinnertime my belly felt relaxed and ready.
Shame, though, that my belly had not prepared for the bellies and brains of other TEDx dinner guests. Penny had told us all about Guy, mentioning his ravishing new wife and executive team of Watson brothers and sisters. But her silly anecdotes mentioned nothing about what he actually looked like. As I chatted with Benjamin Mee (owner of Dartmoor Zoo) over a glass of wine, two people entered our circle with ease. Ben smiled and shook hands, no introduction necessary, then sidled off. Of course I had not looked at the dinner guest list, nor had I memorized the names of other TEDx-ers. So when the two introduced themselves as “Guy and Rachel,” I smiled googly-eyed. “Wonderful! Are you speakers?” I asked. Guy laughed.
“I’m Guy Watson.” I nodded…“I own Riverford.”

PING! “Oh, you’re THAT GUY?!” I ogled. The woman with him was Rachel, his sister. Guy’s wife spun around behind him, grabbing a bottle of wine from the wall, unscrewing and pouring three glasses with ease. She handed them to the Watsons with the grace and coif of Audrey Hepburn. I felt short.

Rachel compassionately chatted with me for a while. I retreated to a space I knew much better, making conversation behind the till with Riverford staff. We marvelled at the guests, scientists and Bards and intellects. We were asked to sit in front of our nametags, mine at the very end of the table.
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It was during dinner that my brain fell deep into the well of TEDx ideas-sharing, splashing there like a blissed-out hippo in the Nile. In our tiny corner of the world, Eric Harvey (a poet later described as a “national treasure”), Eric Moeller (a friend of mine and TEDx Teamster), Ben Moore, and Andrew (of the film crew) talked about topics ranging from self-publishing to tiger taming, mass media to mothers. We passed brimming, succulent plates and skipped to the chef’s open kitchen to choose dessert. I describe the ambience as “autumn”: Orange hues, winter roasts, reflective conversation, and a slight buzz in the knowledge that change is to come.
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I saw a shooting star while winding my way to the carpark on a twinkling path farm path. I wished for change within myself: The poise to talk less and listen more. I had many hopes for TEDx, yet I never considered it might be the impetus I needed to finally figure out how to shut up. It was ironic, really, that at my own speaking event I was gaining awareness as to how important it was for me to shut up. If I spent my time off the TEDx stage talking then I would miss mind-boggling conversations. Yes, I may be different from the audience in that I was asked to speak. But like the audience, I was there in pursuit of the true TEDx calling. To listen.

A Traveler's TED: The Choke and All of Us

 I noticed the sound of Jim, Dartington Cinema Manager, lifting his ladder up the wall. He fiddled with the speaker mounted there. I felt the plush red carpet beneath my feet. I opened my eyes wider, pretending like there was no light shining into them. I thought how nice this room looked, with row upon row of red chairs, soft wood and a consistent, other-worldly stillness. It was all peaceful.

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This was not the most opportune moment to feel quietly at peace, though. I was mid-choke during my TEDx rehearsal speech. Just like the audience, I watched myself in reverie. How long could I stand here for, not moving, not making a sound? You could practically see the little secretary buzzing through the office in my head, yanking down her skirt and ignoring her wiggling ankles in their clickity high heels as she pulls documents out of file cabinets, tosses portfolios over her shoulder, shouting, “I’ll find it! I’m coming!” She did find my line, that brave little cranium administrative assistant. Like a scooter with a kick-start my pulse hit the skin on my wrists I inhaled suddenly and proudly shouted, “This was not Shawshank Redemption!”

Afterward, speaking Coach Danielle Krage insisted that I handled the choke well. Well, I had handled both chokes well… “The first time, you just froze completely,” she laughed. “The second time you look at us, smiled, and picked up much faster. If it happens on the day, just smile and laugh.” The idea that I might choke in the middle of a live TEDx speech made me wish for the ability to camouflage. Pop! I would replicate red carpet and the audience would think I was a magician, not a travel writer. The idea that I could find delight in choking did make me feel much better. I know how to make a fool of myself. I proffer that it may be one of my best skills!

After my speech concluded I sat with Olivia in the red chairs, sipping a smooth latte compliments of Jim and the Cinema Café team. We watched speakers like tall, dignified Caspar Walsh and bubbly, grinning Proud 2 Be twins Jon and Matt Price. My to-do list pouted like an angry toddler in the back of my mind. Every time someone else fascinating walked into the room, every time another speaker entered our red TED circle, I was mesmerized again. Watching the other speakers display nervousness and delight helped my own mental faculties, as well. I was exposed to and giggling with people who were like heroes to me; I had been following “the mushroom guys” on Twitter for ages!
I thought about Olivia and her husband, Stuart, the primary event organizers. THIS article explains how important the organizers’ role is. They set the tone by choosing speakers; market and select a willing audience; handle mountains of paperwork, application to post-production; and follow TED rules. I order Olivia a latte, sure she must need one despite her cool attitude. While I know nothing about the woman’s life outside TEDx, she knows everything about mine, even offering me advice on my building my personal brand and taking my critical analysis of TEDx Totnes to heart. I’m so lucky to be part of this, I sigh.

Walking away from the Barn, a light, sweet rain teasing the top of my shoulders, I recall the most poignant moment of my day. It was when I was standing off-stage, waiting for Olivia to introduce me. Even at rehearsals I felt the rush of performance, something that I hadn’t felt since High School theater. It’s like all energy goes from the toes to the top of the head, is zapped by the heavens, and the rushes back down through the body, where it ricochets from the depth of the world and circles again. For me, that moment is all positivism, all animal instincts. I’m going to rock this! I was born to perform! Tell the story with delight! And even though my body and mind buzz, my smile widens unintentionally, I have a moment where I think, “This is the difference between doing what you love and just working.”

TED has shown me how engrossing it is to say ‘yes’ to what delights you and working hard to achieve it. Love first, logistics later. It is pumping blood, cool strategy, early mornings, and random bursts of creativity. The truly delightful undertakings are never about oneself, but rather actions as a solution to the needs of others. People who speak at TED are people who find ways to be artistic in their promotion of a greater need, people who radiate grounded insistence in their cause. They are able to foresee the influence a speech might have. Connecting to each other is one of the most powerful ways we collectively generate the power to connect to our audience, strangers, and speak our truths. This is also why we have developed products in the first place, why we’ve started silly companies and why half of us are poor. We seek challenges that use our skills. We find delight.

A Traveler's TED: The Damn Speech and Crying

 ​My phone rings; it’s my friend, Ian. “I just saw you walking down Embankment Road,” he says. “Were you talking to yourself?” I laugh. Not quite….

I was practicing my TedX speech. Tomorrow is the official rehearsal day, when myself and the other speakers will run our speeches “as normal.” I feel ill-prepared for a big event, and as a natural Girl Scout (“Always Prepared!”) this is disconcerting. I have practiced the speech a handful of times, once alone and more in front of friends. I find it incredibly difficult to practice in my room and to edit the Word Doc, choreograph, and memorize. The words ricochet off walls like heavy boomerangs, hitting me in the gut. Hence my walking-and-talking tactic. I curse myself for being a loud-mouthed foreigner in a small city. Of course someone I knew drove by!

For some reason, it is only today that I recognize the creeping gravity of the whole TedX thing. Yesterday I received a message from Olivia Palmer, poised TedX organizer, asking how I planned to drive interest about my speech now and in the post-event delay. We have to wait around three weeks for videos to post, I learned. “Um, I hadn’t really thought about it…” I answered. Because until this point, my speaking at TedX has felt like a sort of delightful happenstance, a lucky break.
I found out about TedX on the Leading Women UK newsletter, an organization whose membership I cannot actually afford but still subscribe to the newsletters. I get the impression that most Ted speakers are asked to speak and often coached. After establishing an initial line-up, the TedX Totnes organizers decided they had space for a couple more female speakers. They put out a call for auditions. It was around the same time that one of my posts went viral (relative to the miniscule size of my start-up company). It’s called “I Learned to Live Abroad in Treatment” and discusses how loony-bin lessons equipped me for international living. After sharing it with them, the treatment center shared my post in their newsletter. Today, it has five long comments. I have received many more personal emails and messages. The feedback convinced me that my story was a powerful one. Other people would benefit from my sharing it, whether they were in recovery or trying to build up the courage to move abroad.

So I used the post as inspiration, wrote up a jaunty little speech, sent my pitch to the TedX team and was asked for a live, five-minute Skype interview. I took it from a dark, hot corner while traveling. I was bright red and sweating. They saw me as “glowing and energetic.” I got the gig! When I shared the news on Facebook, I received hundreds of “Likes” and “Messages.” The support was amazing but also made me feel self-conscious. I love to share Facebook statuses that I think other people will laugh at or benefit from. Saying that I was going to speak at TedX felt like bragging. So support felt a like a wool blanket, warm but heavy. Gee golly, I gulped.

About a month later the TedX team asked us to practice our speeches in front of Olivia and another coordinator for coaching and feedback. I relished in an excuse to scoot Dr. V through the English countryside, arrived energetic, and delivered a speech that was too long but well received. It was here that I actually became aware of the other speakers. Yah, I had seen their pictures and read some of their bios on the website. But the whole thing was such an unexpected, delightful coincidence that I did not spend much time thinking about. I had a company to run!

After meeting four other speakers and listening to two speeches, another thought dawned on me: I am the TedX Totnes fluffer. (If you don’t know what a “fluffer” is, I am not going to be the bad kid on the playground that tells you. Google it and be warned!). Among the line-up is the owner of Dartmoor Zoo, who has a whole movie dedicated to him. The actor who plays him? Matt Damon. Who would play me in a movie of my life? I muse. Phoebe from Friends, obviously. Another speaker is a neruo-bio-physical-genius-sexy-international-intellectual-person who is offering totally radical views of sciencey-stuff. And I am the girl without a Power Point, the girl talking about her backpack, joking about dipping Oreos in milk, and giggling my way through the most important speech of most peoples’ lives. I am like the guy who comes out between live television show tapings to throw balloons at the crowd and shout, “Yah! You guys ready! Let’s cheer!” while people flex and release their pained butt muscles.

Tedx Totnes tickets sold out in an hour. I learned that they were on sale two hours an hour after that. So, I would have no one in the audience that I knew to give me a hug when it was over. Furthermore, anyone who could make it was not someone who knew me when I was in treatment. They did not know me at my worst; they could not really conceptualize what the speech means to me. They were not my Dad. In my speech I actually talk about my Dad, and it is at that part that I keep choking up. Or the part about my friend, Adrienne, who is no longer living. This realization made me feel worried about the speech, not because it was BIG but because I wasn’t sure if I could do it without crying. If only someone I knew was there, ready for me to exit sobbing, I might not feel the need to sob at all.

Then, magically, Olivia notified me that three tickets were available. I immediately posted a Facebook status. GUESS WHAT? My fabulous Auntie in London gobbled up a ticket, then requested the time off work, then booked an Air BnB fit for two Queens, then notified me she was coming. I cried when she told me. THEN, a mother-daughter pair from one of my English “adopted families” booked the remaining tickets. They asked if I needed a ride. I just couldn’t believe the love I received. On the flip side, I felt that familiar wriggling feeling in my belly. This must seem really important, I thought.
Still, somehow, STILL, it is only today that I feel proper worried, as a Brit would say. Walking-practicing my speech this morning, I still left out key parts. I’ve re-worked the whole thing in my head but have yet to edit it on paper. I’m delaying. I have a website to build and another one to edit and an article to post and social media to manage and a yoga class to teach. I’ll edit it and practice again in the morning, before reporting to Totnes. That’s a good plan, right?

Sure. But it’s not about the plan. It’s about what’s right, right? This is what’s right:

Here and now, as ever before, I remind myself WHY this matters. I read my own damn speech, listen to its story, hear the lessons in my heart. This speech matters for all the people who suffer from eating disorders, the misunderstanding that is within them and toward them. This speech matters because going crazy is more than okay, it is a gift. Because the world provides all kinds of gifts that we have to be brave enough to accept, to step up to and say yes to. Because my Dad supported me and now I can thank him. Because there are so many people in the world presented by challenges they want but are afraid to take. People who need to hear that they will succeed, because they are all they need to be.
​
Oh, great. I’m crying again.

Everyone's Eliot: Introduction

 On an island shaped like the leg of a faun there exists a clandestine society called Port Eliot. It’s near rich-green coastal waters and kisses a river called Tiddy that laps at the moon in high-tide and exposes dark, dank, writhing streams of muddy abyss during low-tide. Port Eliot meanders through green countryside of shorn grass and stone houses seated next to quiet brown lakes speckled with lily pads and fallen quail feathers. Winding roads past winding trees and windy cliffs lead to Port Eliot, although these vistas are impossible to see over dense hedges like flexed hands against passing cars. Only horses seem capable of skipping natural obstacles to explore without worry in these enchanting lands. Horses and fauns, of course. And giants, and fairies.

While Port Eliot’s society exists always in the hearts of its inhabitants, only once yearly does it reveal itself to the wider island, swathed in leather and silk. The annual Festival is a fiesta of thoughts, words, and movement, a constantly growing and undulating entity that feeds and feeds upon itself in glittery, light blue fluidity. From all corners of the island, and some corners of islands further afield, flock festival-goers. They arrive on feet and engines. They load cars, trains, and planes with resources for days of frivolity and sharing—food, books, cameras, tall rubber boots in case of necessary bog-jumping. Traders cart wares, items for sale or display, hired to provide resources absent in Port Eliot’s natural greenery. Entertainers arrive carting boxes in baffling geometric shapes. Children pounce immediately upon entry, predator and prey to the grass and the sun, forming fast friendships while tumbling across hay bales which, by the end of the festival, meld seamlessly with trampled grass. Together the people of Port Eliot Festival enjoy its myriad of enchantments. They dance and sing, flaunt and flow, buy and sell, intermingling in endless loops across the rich Eliot Estate.

There is a certain ambience during the Port Eliot Festival. A full moon knows this, commanding clouds in the sky to part, pulling the Tiddy into its yellow embrace. The clouds cheekily sneak in, filling the Tiddy and its valleys with smooth silver mist, delighting giggling ghosts. The greater island quietly murmurs; passer-by near the Festival grounds may not hear its music but they can sense a certain electricity, maybe from Jupiter or Middle Earth. There are no signs providing directions on main roads in to the festival. Coordinates are provided by the stars.

And this is how one first realizes that Port Eliot is an expression of a very human propensity to associate among like individuals. Port Eliot is, like so many contemporary societies, governed by a royal family. This royal family kindly invites visitors to partake in its annual festival, thusly forming an extreme microcosm of a socio-economic stratification that already exists on the island. Despite the risk of allowing the proletariat such close proximity to assets contained in the secret cellars of the estate house, the Eliot’s willingly host potentially peering eyes because they, like so many contemporary elite, value arts and culture. And yet the infamous royalty watch from afar, governing via chosen elite. Largely unaware of this underlying discretion, attendees loosely segment themselves as people do: Traders, artists, and visitors. It is a stratification bolstered by the branding of brightly-colored fabric wristbands that slowly tighten throughout the course of the weekend under distracted tugs. On the last day the wristbands threaten to cut off circulation in the very arms so proudly displayed for their adornment only days before.

Among those lucky enough to attend Port Eliot Festival, a question is unsaid: Who belongs here? Port Eliot is ruled by its royalty but during the course of the festival they retreat, hidden from view, preferring to watch curiously and warily the interactions of attendees. The festival cannot belong to its visitors, who are privy to planned provisions. It can’t belong the elite, who depend on visitor’s populace. It cannot belong to the traders, many of whom commute in and lead double-lives while there, never wholly one with the crowd and yet serve as a cornerstone. Port Eliot does not belong to the artists, who haunt the woods and blend with visitors when not displaying their craft to adoring crowds. It does not belong to the staff like the security guards, valiant soldiers watching happenings adorned by walkie-talkie swords. And somehow, within all of this, it does not belong to a handful of outsiders like me, forgotten fairies that hopped the right leaf to land on this rose petal. We inhale Port Eliot until we turn blue in the face, refusing to exhale lest our luck escape us. Port Eliot: Everyone’s Eliot, and yet no one’s Eliot…

Everyone's Eliot: A Comedic Crime

Smiling casually at a group of men in top hat and vests, I step over threads of electrical cables as if I was walking into my own bathtub. The sign on the fence commands “Artists Only.” Stretching my maroon leather jacket sleeve over my green “trader” wristband, I try to look “artisty-y.” Whatever that means.

As with all aspects of Port Eliot Festival, being behind-the-scenes proves as magical and fascinating to me as being a member of the audience. As I scurry past the open main stage door I hear peels of laughter from black T-shirt crew members and see a Technicolor afro hug a tiny white man. Yellow and red circus tent lines punctuate the black stage floor.

From between makeshift tents, commercial vans, and common cars I find a sinewy, grossly tanned man seated on a fold-out chair in the middle of the path. He’s wearing no shirt and sunning his leathery skin like a rattler in Arizona. The troll under the bridge? I muse wearily. Like a billy goat, I bay, “You have a nice spot in this sunshine!” “Yes, best in the house!” spreads a slick smile below jet-black shades. “Um, yah, lucky you! [nervous giggle]. So…do you know where Alex Edelman is?” His smile curls a bit more, the Grinch that stole my comedic Christmas. “What wants to know?” “I’m just an American, and he’s American, so….me.” Silence. The snake waits. Slowly, he lifts his hand toward a tent to his left, barely straightening his finger. “Sure. He’s in there.”

I mumble thank-you, turn on my heel, and burst through squeaky plastic doors, nearly ploughing into a blond girl and the less-tall-than-I-expected comedian, Alex Edelman. They are mid-conversation: She leans toward him, chastising in a low voice. I hear the words, “you should have…” before the conversation cuts due to my rude interference. I stumble, stutter, breathless. I try to introduce myself.

“Hi! Alex. MynameisEmilyIjustsawyouperformIownacompanythathelpsAmericansintheUKand [sucking breath] I’vealwaysthoughtaboutdoingstandupcomedyand [sharpexhale] youwereGREAT!” I reach out to shake his hand. His limp forearm jiggles. The blond, who I presume is the girlfriend Alex joked about lovingly onstage rolls her eyes and disappears (took his virginity when he was 26, lucky bloke). Alex runs his hands through his hair, looking shell-shocked. He stares at me. I smile like a pre-teen circa a 2001 N’Sync concert. What am I doing here?! we both wonder.

[I later learned I wasn't correct in my assumption about this mysterious blond. It was, in fact, Sara Pascoe and she wasn't, in fact, chastising! Check out Alex's comments below]. 

I decided to sneak backstage at Port Eliot after randomly witnessing Alex’s performance, a very American stand-up comedy show. Before moving to the UK I always considered doing stand-up but never had the balls. Practicing in front of friends was always a failure, but maybe it’s because I only practiced in front of friends who were, basically, failures. I wondered if my token Americanism might sound better from UK mics. So when I heard the audience chuckling in Alex’s set, which was completely unaltered to a British audience, using words like “bathroom” and culturally presumptive stories about Texas, I thought I might have a chance. Plus, he was an American in the UK—maybe he was interested in my Plymouth Primer? My reviewers claimed it funny…

And, to be fair, the Carling in my belly created a fire in my soul. I felt daring. Now, my boldness feels foolish.

I prod Alex, desperately searching for some semblance of interest. “I was surprised to hear so many American terms in your set?”

“Yah…” he trails off, lost in thought, eventually coming back to me (I haven’t breathed). “I don’t change anything for international shows. I’m actually practicing a new set right now…” In a shocking burst of energy he steps to a table littered by discarded coffee cups and a kettle. A folded white paper sits next to puddles of spilled water. He stares at the print-out which I determine to be his script notes, forgetting me completely. He thinks I’m a freak! I decide. Must legitimize!

“I wrote this book,” I practically scream, pulling a newly signed copy from my bag like Harry Potter brandishes his wand. “It’s really funny! I mean, that’s what people say.” Alex stares at the book like it’s written in Chinese. “It’s for Americans in the UK,” I whisper.

“I live in New York,” he says.

“Oh…well…it’s still funny.”

He grabs the book from my outstretched hand. “Cool, thanks, I’ll try to take a look at it. Yah, I’ll read it, okay. Thanks a lot.” His back turns, setting the book set on table and diverting his eyes to the script.

My brain explodes. Mayday! Mayday! I did NOT just GIFT my book to HIM! Oh. My. God. That book is worth £15! It’s a signed copy! He doesn’t even LIVE in the UK! He isn’t even talking to me! He won’t even read it! Who is this guy, what am I thinking, I’m practically bleeding money here. What do I do, I can’t just TAKE IT BACK?! This is NOT funny.

So I say, “Great! Okay, so, cool. Yah, here’s my card, you have my details, take a look and get in touch! You were great, thanks again, good luck. I like your T-shirt! Okay, see ya’ later!”

I don’t think Alex looks at me as he mumbles goodbye. I flee like a refugee. My heart pounds, straining my leather jacket. I cannot believe that I just gave my book to Alex Edelman. I won’t even give my book to my grandmother! Here I am, someone who came out of their mother’s womb saying “I want” and “No,” and yet I am incapable of setting a boundary with this hilarious yet relatively undiscovered comedian. Render me dumbfounded. I walk away in a daze, find a concert to disappear into, and tell no one. Until I write this story, of course.

One time, at Port Eliot Festival 2015, I enticed a comedian to unwittingly steal my book. He became a comedic criminal. It was a crime of comedy, a coup de comédie... A really ridiculous incident. Port Eliot 2015, people: The saga continues.