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.

Everyone's Eliot: Pre-Party

 I remember the first time I heard about a “weird mansion in Cornwall where artists and musicians and hippies throw big parties.” I had just broken the news to my friend that I would be moving to Plymouth, which is located near Cornwall in southwest England. “You have to get in touch my Grampa,” she said. “He used to go to some sort of artist commune, or maybe it was a government building, and there was a music series, except it was a really odd place….just ask him!”

So that’s what I did. Grampa Jack and I started what’s still a touching correspondence when I queried him about music in Cornish fairy-tale mansions. He deduced that I referred to the estate in the town of St. Germans. Sat on the River Tiddy, St. Germans was originally formed around a priory (monastery) adjacent to the Eliot Estate as owned by the Earl of St. Germans. The 12th century grounds and Eliot bloodline have hosted an eclectic mix of activity since then. A true esoteric, Grampa Jack somehow managed to befriend someone at Port Eliot and was thusly invited to attend a few events on the estate. It was his first story that piqued my curiosity:

“[I attended] the musical series that in the past was going on at St. Germans near Saltash.  Peregrine Eliot, the Earl of St. Germans in my younger days, was an entrepreneur of necessity.  When his spend-thrift father died and the death duties had been paid, only the estate house with its incredible pictures and the land were left.  Peregrine set out to somehow turn the house and land into something productive.  He discovered that the 18th c. ballroom had perfect acoustics and established a very successful chamber music series that helped him financially.  I have no idea whether it is still going on, but going to the house sometime when it is open is worth the trip just for the Constables in the state dining room.   Years ago a few friends and I got a tour of the house and it's treasures and were blown away.  It was the place in the West Country where the monarch stayed on progresses, so you can imagine what they had (solid gold plate and utensil service for 30 among other things).  The memory of seeing a Yellow Submarine button stuck into the velvet surround of a Rembrandt is still something that sometimes tickles me (Peregrine had three boys).  (And last year, I realized that while we were enjoying Port Eliot, the Countess was off having a baby by Julian Freud - of all people!)

After reading this email I immediately Googled “Port Eliot.” Apparently, whatever music series used to be held there had evolved into a literary festival acclaimed by modern families, book nerds, and hipsters. Today’s Port Eliot festival describes itself as:

“…an annual celebration of words, music, imagination, ideas, nature, food, fashion, flowers, laughter, exploration and fun…One of the UK's most original, magical, bohemian, bookish, colourful, musical and comic festivals returns to tempt you with a new adventure… “

By this point I was definitely curious. How was it that someone like Grampa Jack (a classy, wizened old man) had attended a chamber music series in the type of place where Yellow Submarine stickers dot original Rembrandts? The same place where today people pay £50 for a day-ticket to do everything from listen to authors discuss their work, practice yoga, sample foodie delights, and mosh to local punk music? I mean, the estate started as a monastery! Who really belonged at Port Eliot, anyway?

Wanting to know more, I questioned an all-knowing gentleman I’ve befriended in Plymouth. To my surprise, the loquacious history feign went mute. I knew he had visited Port Eliot in the past, so when he told me to “look for information on the internet,” I pressed harder. He replied,

“I prefer to remain publicly silent, please, upon the fate of Port Eliot etc. following all of the problems experienced by the family in recent times – e.g. narcotics, suicides, premature deaths, loss of the family fortune through complex inheritances, now loss of Port Eliot itself, etc…To me, Port Eliot is not special. Rather it is now a tale of woe…”

At a loss for anything more substantial, I took my friend’s advice and turned to Google. Outside the standard Wikipedia-quality history, I learned that Plymouth’s most fertile artist (literally and creatively) couchsurfed at Port Eliot for years. Robert Lenkiewicz fled to Port Eliot in 1981 after he faked his own death, where Peregrine Nicholas Eliot (10th Earl of St. Germans) was more than happy to harbour the artist in exchange for an original Lenkiewicz mural painted at the estate. Apparently, Lenkiewicz allowed himself 30 years to finish this mural. Considering that it was around this same time period that the outrageous Elephant Fayre was held, and disbanded, at Port Eliot, it’s no wonder Lenkiewicz rendered himself indisposed.

By now my journalist’s synapses were firing. This story was TOO GOOD. So many angles, with eye-witness accounts, and plenty of controversy. How many people did Port Eliot actually touch? I needed to explore more, and I needed to see it first-hand. I wrote to the Festival, pitching that they offer me a free press pass so I could give them what would surely be the best coverage imaginable. Their response? “Unfortunately all our press allocation has been used up.”

Oh, the horror! There was no way I could afford to buy myself a ticket. It seemed that my grand Port Eliot story was, like so many of its inhabitants, doomed…

A few months later my friend, fellow expat-local, and milliner Trish drove me home from one of Miss Ivy’s Vintage Festivals. Trish is the entrepreneur behind Just Seven, a hat design and vintage collection sold at in British fairs, markets, and online (check out Trish’s Expat-Local Interview HERE). “I am working the Port Eliot Festival,” she confided in me, her voice audibly nervous. “It’s really expensive and long and I don’t have help.” Like a cat on a ball of yarn, I pounced, offering to work Just Seven’s booth in exchange for a camping space. I was more than excited: Trish was another character in the story, another seemingly disparate player in Port Eliot’s reference library. Trish agreed. And so my story was born.

Follow along with Trish and I as we explore Port Eliot Festival this weekend, July 30 through August 2. I’m not exactly sure where Eliot will take me, or how many stories this bemusing adventure will actually result in, but I know it will be interesting. Apparently, Port Eliot has a little something for everyone. Will I, too, become a part of Port Eliot?

I Learned to Live Abroad in Treatment

 What seems like a very long time ago, I went to treatment because I was mad (my favorite British term for what Americans might call off yer’ rocker). After four years of working my way through a successful and expensive bachelor’s degree, my days were an exhaustive, obsessive, manic mix of waitressing, internships, and thesis statements. Secretly, I cowered in a tiny psychological corner, spending every free moment exercising and counting calories. Finally, with the love and support of friends, families, and a couple strangers, I entered mind-body-soul treatment at the Eating Recovery Center in Denver, CO.

Everything I need to know I learned in treatment. My experience there was a personally and globally enlightening opportunity. In treatment I found my “human being,” who I am when I am not consumed by “doing.” The skills I learned in treatment teach me how to live effectively in an international setting today. Here I explain the insights my foibles allowed me. But this post isn’t really about me. The post is, ultimately, about you. Edify yourself in your own life experiences.

In THIS recent article, Bren on the Road states that “people travel to find themselves.” You might consider my walk from my parent’s front door to the sliding-glass of the hospital’s as traveling to find myself. Bren says that travel provides the opportunity to explore oneself unfettered by minutiae. That's exactly what treatment is, too, so I feel like I got a jump-start on self discovery. Treatment was my babies’-first-bath kind of cool water plunge. I emerged with a cleaner, thicker, wiser skin. Today I travel to be myself, not to find myself. I put down roots, seek high ground, because that’s what’s good for me. And I know how to cope when I smell the sickly scent of dilemma. I’m the baby whose mom dipped her toes in the water first. I learned to plug my nose.

Every expat-local is different. We have our own histories and comprehensions, our own biases and awareness. We have habits and coping mechanisms. We use these tools to navigate our situations abroad. Reflecting on such psychological methodologies is a key expat-local skill; it helps us find what works in any locale. Use my treatment-induced compass to explore the lessons I live by. Use it as a road map to find your own compass.

I don’t care so much: This isn’t the term they used in treatment. They called it letting go. But to me not caring so much or maybe throwing one’s hands up and exclaiming, ‘Ah, what the hell!’ are more apt statements. When I was sick I lived an outcome-based existence where I cared extremely about everything. Everything was personal, profound, and prioritized. I lost my ability to see the forest for the trees. Treatment helped me clarify my values so that I could trust my own mindset. Now I draw effective maps for day-to-day living despite feeling scared, guilty, overjoyed, hopeful, and a million other emotions. I focus on what really matters (being a good person). Other useless mental chatter floats by like a leaf on a stream (or, at least I can see the chatter clogging my drain). Now that I know it’s silly to try to force the world to operate my way, I find that its people and processes naturally help me. This ability to let go of things that I simply don’t have the time, space, or ability to try to effect allows me to appreciate what the world gives, no matter where I live in it.

I can find bemusing adventures in unlikely places: During my first few months of treatment we were allowed outside a few times a day to socialize in pseudo-boredom on a rectangle of manicured patio. No, it wasn’t Shawshank. We were on a refeeding program where too much movement both represented obsessive-compulsive exercise, a misplaced anxiety-buster, and a detriment to weight gain. To entertain myself and other patients I developed scavenger hunts. Passerby attempted not to ogle when they witnessed a mismatched bunch of people squatting on the cool cementscapes, rifling through pebbles, investigating blank patches of grass, and turning their heads toward the heavens, scavenging for whatever theme I deemed scavengable that day. We found delight amongst decorative rocks and green metal tree fences. A family of ladybugs became our favorite finds, inspiring one of my in-patient friends to gift me a pair of ladybug socks. I stored our bounty in a scrapbook I named Book of Found Items. As I progressed through the stages of treatment my travel options expanded. Soon I was allowed to walk down the street, navigate our out-patient apartments, and attend yoga classes. Then I was an “extended outpatient,” living with my parents and exploring their immediate vicinity. Each stage opened a new world of the most hyper-local, never-before-seen, insider-access adventures, the size of a city block (or less).

I know I’m not THAT powerful: This is one of the most liberating lessons I learned. It is oxymoronically empowering. A regular trait of people who enter treatment for disorders and addictions is deep-seated guilt about not being good enough. I thought that even my small decisions really totally profoundly forever-ly affected people around me. When disordered people try to inhibit guilty emotions by using their addictions an endless cycle of guilt and coping develops. They’re actions harm their relationships, leading to more guilt, and so they act out again. What is the fundamental assumption here? The idea that we have a constant, consistent, and comprehensive impact over the mindscapes of others.

In fact, we’re not that powerful.

Yes, we are loved and give love. We have the ability to create dramatic relationships, helpful or harmful. But just as we control our own actions and reactions, so do others. We’re profoundly resilient animals, capable of learning and forgiving. 

I find this lesson particularly helpful when I feel guilty about leaving my friends and family for an international life and also when trying to manage mutual expectations during my return visits. My grandparents struggle a lot to accept that I’ve left. My parents, sisters and I loathe the waterworks that drip from our chins at departure gates. But as I fly to a full life, so they drive to theirs. I feel guilty that sometimes it’s just too chaotic to see every friend when I go home. But I remind myself that there are many ways to communicate, many ways to show love, and will be other opportunities. Our lives go on.

I care about keeping a healthy appearance: Visualize this lesson with me...You’re driving past the bus station during one cloudy sunset. A pallid backpacker with sunken, twitchy eyeballs careens through the parking lot. She flags you down, mumbling a request for directions. She looks hungry and wears too many clothes.

Now, imagine the same situation but with a rosy-cheeked, perky, strong backpacker. She smiles at you; her shoulders are visibly more relaxed. Which one are you more likely to help? I bet you even offer backpacker #2 a ride.

Since I didn’t move abroad until after I was years out of treatment and healthy, I glean this expat-local lesson from the reactions I received from Americans when I was sick in the States. During that time I was constantly told things like, “go eat a burger” and “you exercise too much.” I didn’t know why I was continuously denied jobs. One acquaintance told me that a potential employer called me “the anorexic girl” after my interview (I wasn’t hired). People seemed hesitant to approach me, diverting their eyes like a dog that shies away from its owner after getting into the trash. Seemingly, they didn’t trust my intent and worried about my reaction. Why did I let myself look that way? they seemed to ask.

As an expat-local, I give my host citizens plenty of reason to doubt me (see my series, “Drunk or Foreign” for proof). I refuse to add my physical appearance to their list.

I prioritize self-care: Even as I sit writing this article I feel guilty for not writing paid articles, promoting my book, managing my other writers, blah blah blah. “Be effective! Every minute counts! What’s the BOTTOM LINE!” my sick and American-dreaming neuroses scream. Then I remind myself that taking the time to write is one of my methods of self-care and that when I don’t pursue self-care I am much less effective. Treatment taught me that self-care comes in many forms. It’s obvious things like massages and movies. But it’s also decorating one’s space with silly posters, even if only living there for a short time. Or paying for a long, luxurious dinner while reading a fairy tale. And going to the mall with a new friend when you have no money to your name. The ability to recognize what does and does not feel good, then choosing to act in a way that promotes good feeling, is a method of self-preservation applicable across borders.

Friends come in all shapes and sizes: Treatment brings together a multiplicity of former hermits (isolated by their disease). Despite common stereotypes about eating disorder sufferers, we come from all socio-economic, geographic, and mental landscapes. We connected because we were genuine and willing. And, yes, because we didn’t have a choice. We respected one another’s individuality. We fell in love with each other’s quirks. Every person was a blank slate; I observed them like a child realizing the existence of his own hand. Just like I learned to recognize my human being from my human doing, I now strive to perceive a greater self in others. That, my friends, translates very well.

I could go on. This is the type of post writers love to hate, because it pours from a reservoir without a dam. I could continue examining all the ways that one powerful time in my life profoundly ties to this powerful time in my life. But the point of this post is to encourage you, reader, to reflect on your own expat-local journey, whether on the next block, in the next city, or the next country. What lessons from previous hurdles boost your jump today? What irritations can your healthy coping mechanisms help you overcome, recognize, or just not care about?

Please share your story by commenting below!

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Rebecca said:

Thank you so much for writing this beautiful post! I, too, spent a fair amount of time at ERC about a year ago. Reading your journey, your thoughts, your perspective is truly encouraging. Keep pressing on and living a beautiful life!

Cindy Wells said:

Emily this is a beautifully written article. I love the way you were right and I particularly love the content of this writing. I applaud your work and your courage in doing what you do. Being so far from home, the people that you, family and all things familiar takes a very special kind of courage. Identify with many things that you call me tonight and particularly the importance of self-care. I agree that this is not something that will happen without complete participation. I have a friend that I check in with several times a week for the sole purpose of how I am practicing self-care. We help hold one another accountable for this most important act. Thank you so much for sharing with me. Sending you a hug.

Cynthia said:

Emily, I am so glad that you are doing well. I pray that you keep on keeping on and live the life you so much deserve. I think it takes a very strong person to write about their journey with ED. It gives such insight and hope that there is a light at the end of the tunnel and that recovery is very possible and does happen. I pray often for every woman and yes, the males out there that struggle with this disease. As I have found out, that ED does not discriminate, he will take anyone that allows him to enter. I have not been in your situation Emily but I do have a daughter that struggled with ED. Her name is Sam. She is doing very well now, thank God, but not before her battle nearly took her life, not once but twice. She had a relapse and was taken down an even darker road. I am so thankful to say that she is embarking on her 1 year anniversary since leaving the ERC in Denver. The treatment team literally saved my daughter. They are the most awesome and caring people I know. They definitely know what they are doing in order to get our loved ones on the road to recovery. I also thank her friends that she met there, all the support that they have for one an other. I have noticed that she has found her voice and even though there are still days when she questions herself and struggles, she is also getting stronger and stronger every day, every meal. She is living a life that she knows that she deserves. She too prioritizes self-care. That is one of the most important things that she did learn to do. She is allowed to exercise now and does it for the enjoyment instead of the need or feeling that she has too. I see that beautiful sparkle in her eyes now instead of that distant look and when she smiles, she literally light up the room instead of that forced smile I saw back when she was battling that terrible disease. As a mother I have to say that ED not only takes away everything from the person battling, it also takes away everything from loved ones that have to see their loved ones struggle. Our hands are tied and we are trapped feeling like we are on the outside looking in and wondering what can we do. It was a hard road, something we never in a millions years thought we would all go through, but it has not only made her stronger, it has made us stronger too. It has also showed us that we cannot take life for granted and that we should cherish every day with our loved ones, for we never know what we will be facing or be thrown with day to day. Sure we still watch for signs and are scared because we never know what will happen tomorrow, but we as parents are allowing ourselves to get back to living our lives too. We always pray that she stays focused and stays on that road to recovery, we stay hopeful because of our journey and where it has led us. Stay strong Emily and God bless you and keep you strong!! Thank you for sharing your story, take care, Cynthia

Erin said:

Emily, this post is lovely, genuine, heartfelt, and for me, timely. I will be celebrating my fifth anniversary of discharge from the ERC in Denver this year. It's caused me to become very reflective on how such a relatively short time in my life has had such a profound impact on all the subsequent ups and downs in my life. Even after leaving the ERC years ago and living in "recovery", that single experience is still so vivid, so impactful, and still emotional. I struggle to put those sentiments into words. But you've just that in this blog post here, and it's touched me so very deeply and sincerely. Thank you. Keep writing and keep inspiring. Sending you big heart from your fellow traveler.

Everyone's Eliot: A Milliner's Tale

 For a moment, Patricia Pentecost and I sit silent among the sounds of a distant drum beat, slurpy spaghetti, and murmuring. It’s Sunday and the first time Patricia (Trish) and I have sat down together during the entirety of the Port Eliot Festival, where Trish’s Just Seven hats are nearly sold out. Yet as Trish shares her favorite food with me (a freshly-sourced clam spaghetti from Pastaworks), we don’t have the “tired-to-the-point-of-hating-people” fatigue that is sometimes a result of nonstop “sales.” In fact, as we watch the Just Seven tent from smooth, honey-color wooden chairs a potential customer meanders up. I can imagine the perfect hat for her sun-bleached hair and want badly to help her place it on her head. Trish looks at the woman, too, and I think she feels the same. Instead, we sit back to allow Trish’s niece to assist the customer, knowing that the right hat always finds the most adoring head. Kind of like the Sorting Hat in Harry Potter. This is Port Eliot, after all.

I have been helping Trish in her Just Seven booth at Port Eliot Festival since Thursday, although she arrived on Wednesday to start setting up and won’t leave until Monday, after the Festival closing tonight. In case you haven’t been following along, THIS PART of my “Everyone’s Eliot” series explains how I came to spend days under the Cornish sky and butterfly-crested tent. As someone who’s worked events from cycle shows to vintage fayres, I am surprised at how easy and enjoyable the Just Seven Port Eliot has been. I think a lot of it has to do with the milliner and her superb product.

Typically Dutch, Trish is mum about the more difficult parts of her personal history until we’ve spent a few days together (and are under the spell of garlicy clams). “I never knew my father when he wasn’t sick,” she said, telling me about years growing up as a lower middle-class horse-riding girl in Holland. “I always wanted a pony. What little girl doesn’t? We could never afford one so I borrowed horses. When I moved to the UK I finally bought my own. She was such a lovely horse and we did very well together, show-jumping as a hobby. Then, the horse suffered a traumatic injury. I had to put her down. My Dad saw it all, and he bought me my first pony when I was 30 years old!” A young girls’ giggles spill from her mouth. I am so curious about this warm-yet-stoic attitude, a persona reflected within the dramatic folds, giddy adornments, and impeccable rendering of Just Seven pieces.

Every hat is one-of-a-kind, imagined by Trish and formed in an intensive process that she has practiced to utmost perfection (the Dutch are famous for being intelligent tradesmen, after all). She hand makes all of her women’s hats, from apt and colourful waterproof British caps to whimsical, high-billed, feather-tipped creations fit for Queens and witches. “The more expensive and high-quality fabric the easier it is to stretch and mould,” she describes. “First, I put a chemical on the fabric. Then I steam the fabric as I lay it on the blocks and form it. This can take anywhere from ten minutes to an hour.” I imagine that the hats folding over themselves again and again, with no start and no finish, must take the longest. “Finally, I let the hat dry for 24 hours.” This knowledge of how much and what kind of chemical to use is of the reasons Trish’s hats are so smart: Despite the fact that they’re peaked and pointed, the hats can be smooshed without losing shape. As an immigrant, Trish knows what it’s like to travel often. I think it’s also the reason one woman gladly buys two of Trish’s most theatrical pieces, secure in the knowledge that she can get them home in her camping bags. Or, maybe it’s the price (a hat that would sell for £130 in London is £55 in Plymouth and southwest England, even at privileged events like Port Eliot). Or, maybe it’s because Trish humbly talks about ponies for an hour with the avid racer. It is Port Eliot, after all.

Leaning casually in our seats, an empty compostable bowl in front of us, Trish and I observe the wandering crowd. “I love people watching,” she says. “There’s always interesting people everywhere, right? Everyone is interesting in a way. There’s a guy there with a shopping trolley – that’s interesting in itself!” she lightly laughs. “It’s interesting how people go about their business. Look at that guy pushing his kid in a makeshift wagon. I mean, why not just use a pram?” She notes these things in her very Trish way, non-judgmentally and amused. It is an off-hand delight expressed in her company brand, Just Seven. “I don’t know why, but everything in my life always involves the number seven. If they hadn’t been induced my sons would have been born on the 7th of the month. When I was house-hunting, I refused viewings for a house in Plymouth [UK] despite my realtor’s insistence. But when I finally saw how perfect it was and noticed the number was seven I just knew it was right.” This house now serves as her perfect studio and family abode. As she continues, listing seven after seven, I muse on her cool professionalism. Where an American like me would apply such synchronicity to the extreme, naming my company Always Seven or Completely Seven or Like, Totally Seven, the Dutch-English Trish coyly chooses Just.

Watching one of her vintage bowler caps walk by underneath a sign displaying “Free Hugs,” I think she might be doing herself a disservice (the sign-bearer thought a classy hat like Trish’s might bode better with potential customers than the leopard-print, goggle-adorned helmet he showed up in). Trish’s hats aren’t “just” hats. She touches up even those that are not her own creations, like the vintage men’s caps, in a feat of millinery. She uses the same mold-steam-spray-set technique so that the hats shine nearly as brightly as their original incarnation. They’re the highest-quality vintage men’s caps at the festival and yet the lowest priced. Trish can afford to price them low because she’s so efficient at reworking them. No wonder they sell like frogs in a wizard’s market.

By now we’re totally relaxed, wiggling our pinkies to the drifting music. I discover one reason Trish chose to move from Holland to the UK: “British music is the best. Aren’t all the best musicians British? Right going back to Queen. Queen is my favourite.” I peer at Trish in her uncharacteristically flamboyant tulle skirt with butterflies (donned for Port Eliot’s eyes only) and touch my own Just Seven trilby, billed in white lace and a bejewelled feather, remarking, “I can’t see one of your hats at a Queen show…” At this Trish chuckles. “Well, there aren’t many Freddie Mercuries running around anymore!”

But there is Jimi Galvin, bassist of Mad Dog Mcrea, Trish’s second-favorite band after Queen and a local treasure. Just before one their Port Eliot set, Jimi moseyed into the Just Seven tent, unrecognized by Trish. As they conversed about Trish’s pieces, he commented how high-quality they were. Trish responded jovially, “They’re sure better than that one on your head!” Jimi chortled, “I’ve worn this hat on every gig for eight years!” Trish visibly struggled to contain her excitement when Jimi revealed his true identity. He left the tent with his old hat in his rucksack, walking directly to his Port Eliot stage in a shiny Just Seven. Later that evening Trish watched the show from the audience, glowing with pride.

Slowly, we pull ourselves from the chairs, disposing our rubbish in the bin (Trish might be British, but she’ll always have a Dutch care for cleanliness and order). In the Just Seven tent we find a father and son, returned a second time to try on an idiosyncratic blue felt wonderment. The hat is perfect for his job as a wedding poet. He spins the hat around, loving the fact that it has no front or back. “It’s like ten hats in one!” he remarks. The father eventually purchases his hat, a special present to himself at this fifth of his Port Eliot Festival attendances. Trish smiles serenely as he walks away. “The hats just sell themselves,” she titters. “He looks wonderful.”

Babes

 Dear reader, let’s play a game. I’m going to say a word. Now you think of a few related words that capture the essence of that word in your mind. Ready?

Beer.

BASEDtraveler.

Babes.

After the success of my series, “Real Ale University” and my burgeoning friendship with Plymothians of the shorter, jollier, chemistry-whizzier beer brewing scene, I’m slowly integrating in Plymouth’s CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale, a nationally recognized membership-based drinking club). The local chairman loves so much the ideas of connecting international citizens and women with the beer scene that he invited me to host a booth to sell my Plymouth Primer there. Cursed with infallible energy and idealism, spurned by the nature of my Pilgrim upbringing, I took his offer a step further. “Why don’t I do a ‘Beer for Babes’ booth!” I shouted [chug]. “That’s a great idea!” he replied [chug]. The plan was set. Simple as that. Cheque, please.

Yep, dear expat-locals, that was a foreshadow. Later, after the debacle I will next describe ensued, the CAMRA chairman did admit that he “chuckled a little” about the drama I brought upon myself. I haven’t laughed yet, but at least I can write about it.

After deciding my Beer Festival theme, I posted this message to what I thought was a local CAMRA group:

My company, BASEDtraveler, is hosting a booth at the Plymouth Beer Festival taking place at the Plymouth Pavilions on 10 and 11 July. We call it "Beer for Babes," a women's-only tasting table. We will have a selection of food and beer available for ladies to come try and discuss. I find that women are reluctant to try beer because it feels like a "man's-only" space. We're going to break down that barrier, one sip at a time!

I need knowledgeable women and men to help me run the booth. They will offer samples, invite women to take a seat, manage the supply of food, and work directly beside me (I am also selling my book at the event). If you're passionate about beer and want to help ladies become so, too, then please direct message or email me at emily@BASEDtraveler.com

Thanks!

Do you remember Hurricane Ivan? Within seconds, then minutes, then hours, members of CAMRA from across the nation rained knowledge upon me. Through a slew of comments and responses, they debated the level of sexism portrayed in my idea, how it might relate to other racism and stereotypes, the use of the term “babe,” the BASEDtraveler brand, and my personal respectability (zilch). When I thanked them for encouraging discussion around the topic, they “LOL’d” in my face. Here’s some of my favorite replies:

Hint, calling something "Beer for Babes" is one more reason women feel like beer is a men's only space. *cough* fuckwit.

Are you also hosting an auction where you can buy wives in exchange for camels? That's the kind of primitive shit you're promoting.

The name is definitely the main problem - closely followed by the condescending tone.

What was more confusing is that the diatribe was riddled with British colloquialisms. I knew I was being insulted, but couldn’t quite figure out how…

I’m sorry but this is ridiculous you’ve missed April first by a fair margin! (I know! The Beer Festival is scheduled for July…?!)

My first response, relatively early in the conversation, was to thank them for encouraging discussion. Surely this was just a few people who had too much time on their hands; the Spice Girls’ manager was going to chime in soon, no? Here’s the response I got for my initial expression of gratitude:

It's a bit sad when people are blatantly this opportunistic. Amazing that having people call you an idiot is now regarded as an encouraging discussion. Who wants to bet someone lost friends in high school for trying to sell them all Amway? (What’s Amway?!)

I don't even get who you are or why you want to be organisation a beer tasting considering your business is a life style business, very unusual - I'd be interested to know what beers you would be sampling maybe something like Batemans? :https://www.facebook.com/Basedtraveler?pnref=lhc (What’s Bateman’s?!)

Then respondents started sharing my status on other people’s pages, inciting more angst among their friends. When I returned to my phone a few hours later, I was baffled, and a little teary-eyed. It was two hours since my first post and I had been called multiple times to defend myself. I apologized for the delay in my response, explaining that I was meeting with members of Plymouth City Council. I then detailed that “babes” is in my American vernacular, much like “rad” and “awesome.” I and other BASEDtravelers have found communities in beer culture across borders; we love groups like Barley’s Angels and CAMRA. I linked back to my Real Ale University story as “where it all started” and apologized sincerely for my misstep. I was baffled and humbled and grateful for their insights. Obviously, the issue was in the word “babes.” Could they help me come up with a new name?

The eye of the storm revealed itself—for a moment:

As a female brewer, as well as drinker, happy to help in any way I can.

That's the one Emily - Thanks for taking the time out to let us understand more fully what you were offering. I think to be fair to yourself that explanation is great and gives us an understanding of what you were getting at - so in way of thanks for the explanation and understanding - I'd like to offer any help I can!

I am part of London Beer Ladies and again it's not discriminating against men, it's just encouraging to ladies…(12:49PM)

We have tried various themes along the "diversity" theme in Nottingham CAMRA, including sessions where one of the big bars is staffed by women only in an attempt to encourage female drinkers to engage & discuss where they may be a bit "reticent" with some of the more "typical" male bar staff. I'm all for trying to breakdown barriers (real or imaginary!), be more inclusive and most of all have some fun. 

Except I was still confused by some replies. Was that British sarcasm?: You go babe.

Then, as members of the group started the homeward journeys, curiously logging in to their cell phones on their daily commute, the wolf pack reared its ugly head again.

Base = amphetamine. Based = off your face on the aforementioned drug. So they are effectively saying "drugged up travellers."

I watched in horror. Here was my business, my baby, my character, and my cute idea, damned damned damned. Was I seriously so wrong? So out of tune with British culture? This beer festival thing was just a fun excuse to drink beer with chicks! Why can’t women be “babes?” Gosh…now I don’t even know what babes means!

What was one do when they don’t know the answer? Phone a friend. Well, a few friends, all Plymothian. They elucidated the situation:

1) The national CAMRA page is much less forgiving than the local page. It’s a testament to the laid-back and willing nature of Devon, Plymouth’s south western country. My housemate said, “It’s just unfortunate it went national. I think you wouldn’t have gotten the same reaction if it was local. They weren’t intending to be helpful. If it was someone from the area who could have actually helped you things might have been different.”

2) “Babes” is not a bad term although it wasn’t used as frequently in the UK as it is in the States. “It makes me think of Baywatch,” my friend said.

3) The idea is still a good one, but changing the name would probably make me and other Brits feel more comfortable.

When talking to my friends and colleagues about big decisions in personal and professional life, I often tell them to consider, “What’s the worst that can happen?” Well, folks, here you have it—this post is probably the worst thing that could have happened to my idea, my psyche, and (momentarily) my company. Attempting Gandhi-like poise I tried my best to turn the situation around. Whether or not that attempt was successful is up for debate. Two new friends who noticed the post reached out to me directly in personal messages, offering good ideas. On the other hand, I did manage to personally infuriate one of the most well-known brewesters (female beer brewer) in London in such a message. Summarily, I’ve decided to rename my table “BASEDtraveler’s Beer & Bites for Beginners.”

Somehow, I’m not too upset by this incident. Maybe it’s my expat-local resiliency. Maybe it’s my ignorance. Maybe I’m accustomed to making a fool of myself. And maybe it’s my love for a good story. I actually feel a little like Buzz, the toddler in the video below. Who knew that one little action could cause such a surprisingly delightful fallout?