I’ve been spending my days alone and I’m finding myself desperate for conversation. In fact, I took up a lengthy debate with a park statue on the pros and cons of pigeon hunting. I’m embarrassed to say, I lost the debate but decided to join some social groups. My first group is Toastmasters. Toastmaster’s is a group of arbitrary people who meet in arbitrary locations, to speak on arbitrary topics. I picked an arbitrary day and dropped in on them at town hall.
Oxford’s Town Hall is not something I would find in Atlanta. It was built in the 1800 and from the outside looks more like a villa than a hall. Entering the second floor room, the towering ceilings and rich mahogany walls demanded respect and the acoustics made me feel like I was on stage.
The meeting was started by Alexander. He moderated with a rich accent from Slovakia, asking questions and calling on people in the audience to give impromptu responses.
Alexander’s thick accent made his questions difficult to understand. “Starting autumn, tell changes happening in your life?” ‘Pick me! Pick me!” I thought. I have a whopper of a tale for you. But he picked Collin, a tall lanky math professor, who told a story about picking the best cobnut when he was a boy. I didn’t understand much of the story, since it required knowing if cobnuts are a type of fruit, nut, or children’s push toy.
Alexander then asked a second question. But this time his thick accent made no words recognizable. As I sat admiring the wood paneling, I heard a word I knew: “Lee”. My heart stopped. I stood, smiled and said, “May I ask you to repeat the question?” This time I listened carefully but his words were as muddled as a New York City subway announcement. I slowly walked to the podium, my heart in my throat. I had no idea how to respond.
I have never been one to think well on my feet, but I managed to talk for a few minutes about autumn in America. Returning to my seat and hoping for the best, I was surprised when I heard a thunderous applause. A familiar feeling of triumphant success poured over me, replacing the flop sweat from the walk up. I was sure I would win the ‘best answer of the night’ certificate. It was mine! I just knew it. Three more questions were asked and three more answers failed to meet the high bar I had set. The prize would be mine – just one more question to go.
Suddenly, the giant mahogany doors burst open. In swaggered a rather good-looking man in his mid 30’s, with all the confidence of a late night infomercial salesman. As he sat and bushed back his thick raven, hair carelessly with a wave of his hand, Alexander asked, “Tell story of waking drunk on beach? Devon, please answer”. Our new arrival ran to the podium like a well-trained Politician, shaking hands, kissing babies, and smiling at everyone on his way. Then he launched into an answer that captured the room from his first breath.
I’m not one to speak unkindly of people unless I am related to them by marriage; therefore, I’ll simply say, my new arch-nemesis, Devon, stole my award. But I’ll be back to battle him again. This isn’t over yet.
The dining room at St. Benet’s Hall. This is where we are staying this week. Not too crowded as you can see.
