TAKEAWAY: This is part 18 of my occasional series 40 Years/40 Lessons, which I call a “sort of career memoir” capturing highlights and reminiscing about what has been a spectacular journey for me, doing what I love most. Today’s segment: all about listening to those wonderful stories around you.
Illustration by Ana Lense Larrauri/The Miami Herald
Everybody has a story to tell.
Not everyone has a willing ear to listen to that story.
I am thinking about stories today, not just because the tentative title for my digital book is Storytelling in the Times of the iPad, or because I continue to have a constant dialog about how we tell stories with my Poynter colleague, the great storyteller Dr. Roy Peter Clark.
My thinking about the story that we all have inside, waiting to be told, has something to do with the taxi driver I use in Amsterdam when I work there. His name is Harald. He lives with his cat. He is also a wine connoisseur who carries his wine book resting on the passenger seat next to him. He is smart, civilized and drives a taxi because “I got tired of the rat race and got out.“
Why did he get out?
Well, I am working on that story with Harald, and, with many visits still left to Amsterdam, we will get to it.
It is odd that when we exchange stories, he listens to my voice while driving in the busy traffic of Amsterdam, and all I see is a pair of intense blue eyes in the rearview mirror.
Harald trusts his cat, but not many others. He has told me that he has a son who is a college student, and that his wife left him.
“Giselle was more important,” he said.
“Oh, another woman?,” I asked.
“No, not really, Giselle the ballet, she was a ballerina and was more interested in her career.”
Harald is the everyday man in the way he tells stories. And, with me, he has encountered a listener.
That is what it is all about.
I have learned that the most interesting stories are serendipitous ones that come from the Haralds of the world, and I seize the opportunities to get them. It is either listen to a fresh story, or sit in the back seat and daydream or check my iPhone for emails or messages, the constant flow of our story, which sometimes shuts the doors—-and the ears—-to their stories.
Whether it is Amsterdam or Tucuman, the stories have always drifted my way, for which I am thankful. In fact, I recall that, as a child, my mother would always tell me that other children were always telling me their stories. Even today, my good friend
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" title="Ron Reason">Ron Reason listens to my stories—-some of which I admit are quite unbelievable—- and always asks: Are you sure you are not embellishing here?
I always answer the same: Who, me embellishing? No way. These stories are better than some of the ones that make it into books or the cinema.
Only last night, for example, while at dinner with my adult children, a question arose as to why my son Brian,the banker, had told someone a certain story:
“I guess that I got the journalist side from Dad and could not help telling that story.”
That’s my boy.
Stories are everywhere
While in Amsterdam last week, and while recounting my conversations with Harald, the taxi driver with a cat named Hugo, one of our art directors, Christian Fortanet, who has worked with me for 20 years,, commented:
“It is only in the world of Mario that these stories are told. He has the ability to make anyone talk and open themselves to him. The stories I have heard from Mario over the years.“
Indeed, Christian, and NONE related to journalism, or our craft, thank God for that. We get enough of those stories the moment we step into the newsroom. Not that some of those are not among the best, too.
I believe that we enrich our ability to be creative, to sustain ourselves and to stay longer in whatever business we are in, simply if we are open to people and stories that have nothing to do with what we do. Because, stories from people like Harald have everything to do with life, something we all have in common.
Give me the stories from the periphery of life, and I am happy.
But back to Stories, the theme of this segment.
You may say that it is best to NOT get too talkative with drivers, hotel maids, deli attendants and others who are there to offer a service and NOT to socialize with us.
I disagree. My life is richer because I have heard interesting people from all walks of life telling me fascinating stories. Furthermore, I never felt that someone would have less of a story because of his/her present occupation. Nobody knows what story is behind the guy carrying your suitcases, or the woman making your cafe latte.
Some that come to mind over the past 40 years:
The candy woman of the Aconcagua
I was redesigning the newspaper Los Andes, published in Mendoza, that part of Argentina that produces those wonderful wines.The quaint hotel , El Aconcagua right by the side of the Andes mountains had a small stand where a picturesque woman sold candies, caramels, and stories. She went by the name of Suqui and she had a big, welcoming smile, as sweet as all the candies she was selling. Everyday after breakfast I would come downstairs and talked to Suqui, and, of course, she noticed that my Spanish carried the flavor of Cuba, so she volunteered:
“Oh, Cuba, I have never been, but I was the first to dance the mambo here in Mendoza when I was young,“ Suqui told me,very proud of that feat. “I had big hopes in those days, to become a professional dancer, to go on to Buenos Aires, and do the mambo and the tango. But life got on the way, and here I am.“
Although Suqui’s mambo moves never got her too far from Mendoza, she still was a real mambo queen behind the counter of the candy stand: her face made up as if ready for an opening night mambothon at the Rialto(even at 9 a.m.), the tight blouse, (with two buttons open) , short skirt, and very high heels. I called her “Suqui: la caramelera del Aconcagua” (Suquit: the candy woman of the Aconcagua). She loved the attention, and even hinted that perhaps she could show me her mambo moves. This was before Dancing with the Stars,, and I did not have my dancing shoes on. Next time, Suqui.
The Los Andes redesign project ended, and so did my conversations with the mambo queen of the Aconcagua. Our story was cut short in the middle of chapter 3, or was it 4? I wonder if la Suqui still does the mambo 20 years later. Or is she still behind the glass counter filled with sweets? Whatever happened to Suqui, I hope she still has those dreams of the mambo nights close to her heart.
Part of going through life happily is never letting go of your dreams, even when it appears they let go of you.
There is always a sweet mambo waiting for you, if you are patient.
Storytelling times two
Perhaps one of the most memorable stories came from 7-year-old twin boys—Alberto and Alejandro—-who would appear, begging for money, outside the Sheraton Hotel in Lima, Peru, almost 30 years ago. My work took me there to work with El Comercio. Daily, as I waited for the driver to pick me up, these two quite cute identical boys would approach me. Alejandro was the talker, Alberto was the clinger. They had worked out the dynamics of their storytelling well. I don’t forget their big brown eyes—so many stories behind them.
In a nutshell: they were beggars at the age of 7 (or maybe 8, small for their age for sure). They were funny, and the one who told stories quite articulate. He seemed to have a special affection for my watch and he would pull my hand down to his level so he could see the hands of the watch move. Time apparently held a fascination for Alejandro.
After two visits there, I was seriously interested in adopting them and bringing them home to the US, although common sense and good reasoning prevailed: Maria and I already had four children of our own, so this was not such a good idea. I did get to talk to the boys’ mother, quite young and with three other children in tow. The sadness of it all comes back to me as I write these lines. Wonder what type of stories happened to those twins who would be about 37 years old today. It would be more interesting to ponder what their story would be if I had adopted them. Well, I might now have 20 grandkids, instead of only 11.
Seriously, what happens to children who are beggars? Can one spend a lifetime begging? This is one story where I would love to rush the pages to the latest chapter, but maybe not.
Alejandro loved the hands of time moving on my watch. Wonder how they moved for him.
When Gudnilla met Greta
I will never know if Gudnilla really met Greta Garbo——that siren of the screen who said NO to the paparazzi even before there was a name for them——but her story is a good one anyway.
I visit Sweden often, and it is one of my favorite countries. Especially, Stockholm is constantly on my list of the top five cities where I would move in a second, if I had the opportunity: picturesque, great for running, wonderful people and food, and all those views of the sea!
It was during my visits to the Swedish capital that I managed to engage in conversation with Gudnilla. Picture her tall and willowy, graying hair with traces of the honey blonde that was, pearls and a constant smile—-the type that signals that inimitable Scandinavian hospitality.
How I met Gudnilla must come before how Gudnilla allegedly met Greta Garbo.
It was pure coincidence, and it happened in the lobby bar of the Diplomat Hotel, my usual second home in Stockholm, across from the sea, and within walking distance of everything in the city. I was there to do work with Dagens Nyheter. She was there waiting for a friend, for a happy hour type of encounter.
The waiter ushered me to a table next to her. It was around 6 pm, but in typical Scandinavian winter weather, it was already dark outside. I asked the waiter for a glass of champagne.
Gudnilla heard me and asked the waiter to change her order.
“That sounds like a good idea,“ she told the waiter in Swedish (but she later told me that when she heard champagne coming out of my lips, she decided to ditch the cosmopolitan).
So our conversation began with tales of champagnes,: the good ones (Moet & Chandon, Veuve Clicquot), the bestt (Grand Dame Veuve Clicquot, Dom Perignon), the cavas and prossecos, and how a glass of bubblies a day keeps all evil and stress away. Amen. Gudnilla agreed.
She laughed. We engaged in a conversation about Sweden, the US (she had relatives in Minnesota. Doesn’t every Swede?), and the elevator of The Diplomat, which is still an original, like a cage, with double doors that extend and one must make sure are locked in place before the ancient, but beautiful, elevator moves.
That is when she said;
“I have been coming here for many years and one time, when my parents brought me here when I was a little girl, Greta Garbo was here, in fact, getting into the elevator.“
“Was she wearing her trademark dark glasses to avoid recognition?“ I asked with curiosity.
We both laughed. Gudnilla says she does not recall much about the diva. I sensed that this is the type of stories that one lives as a child, but remembers more because of the number of times the adults around us tell it.
Gudnilla did remember Greta as an elegant, tall woman in the elevator, and her mother getting excited about the presence of a movie star right there.
I still visit The Diplomat often in Stockholm, and every time I get into that elevator I feel the presence of Greta, ignoring me, saying something like “I vant to be alone” under her breath.
Here lies Ava Gardner
Here is a story involving another legend of the silver screen, that most beautiful of actresses who ever appeared in film, and one with a tumultous romantic life to add: Ava Gardner..
I was in Raleigh to work with The News-Observer but would faithfully go down to the hotel fitness club to run on the treadmill there early in the morning. One day, when my treadmill did not seem to move at all, I sought the help of the guy working out next to me. Enter Grady.
He was a helpful and sympathetic guy, with a great Southern accent and deep family roots in North Carolina. Grady got my treadmill to start moving, but so did our conversation. Each morning after that, Grady and I would share stories. Two guys with quite distinct and marked backgrounds (and accents), but with lots in common, such as a love of family, and great interest in the movies.
Furthermore, Grady’s best stories were about members of his family who knew the family of Ava Gardner, the girl from Smithfield, North Carolina, who had made it big in Hollywood. “Everyone says she was real sweet, and never lost her love for the South, or our food, and every time she came down here, people really enjoyed seeing her,“ Grady told me.
As the project with the News Observer advanced, so did my conversations with Grady, who decided it was time for me to take a car ride with him to visit the grave of Ava Gardner, in Smithfield, at a small cemetery next to the vast tobacco fields. I could not help but think of the irony of it all: Ava Gardner was a heavy smoker and died of emphysema.
Grady and I took a ride in his red pick up, zig zagging around narrow and dusty country roads. Suddenly, we were standing in front of the grave of Ava Gardner. This spot was far from the world in which she became a queen, this sensual woman who had love affairs with the likes of Howard Hughes, Mickey Rooney, Artie Shaw and the bullfighter Luis Miguel Dominguin.
But the story that Grady remembered, and recounted as we stood by the grave of Ava Gardner one early summer evening was about Ava and Frank Sinatra:
“She was the true love of Frank Sinatra’s life, and rumors around here always mention “sightings” of Frank Sinatra stepping out of a black limo, wearing sunglasses, coming to visit Ava’s grave and to bring her flowers.“
True story? Who knows? As we drove out of the small, almost hidden cemetery that evening, I found it difficult to imagine that Frank Sinatra was ever here, but it is a good story, and people in Smithfield apparently love to tell it.
So does Grady.
I did stay in touch with Grady for years after that visit to the cemetery. But, like so many of the stories I recount here, this story, too, was cut short in the middle of a chapter. I have put Grady in that “whatever happened to” category in which so many of the great storytellers I have found along the way happen to reside.
One image stays in my mind about that visit to Ava’s grave: There was not a single flower there for her. Adored by millions, but obviously resting in peace, in a remote spot where it all started for her, in a simple grave just marked with her name Ava Lavinia Gardner, and the dates of birth and death.
I always regret that I did not take a red rose to leave there for her.
Maybe next time, Ava.
The art of listening
Of course, when I tell these stories to the people I know, I am always reminded that there must be something I do to engage even the most reserved Nordic types into conversation.
Nothing special, I say.
I listen. I am curious, and I am never afraid to engage someone in conversation. I find out that not only do most people have a tale to tell, but they will tell it if they sense that someone around them is going to listen.
I must admit that today, with iPhones and iPads at the ready, whether we are waiting for someone at a bar, a dentist’s office or eating alone at a restaurant, the eye contact, the awareness of those around us, decreases. I am guilty of this too.
However, when I realize that a gadget is going to keep me away from doing reconnoissance and getting the stories around me, I put the gadgets away, and inspect my surroundings.
Let’s not forget that everyone has a story, and we should not get too deeply into our own story to the point where we miss the interesting ones from others.
It takes a good and curious listener to make a great storyteller.
1.Mirrors.
http://www.garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_1—a_look_in_the_mirror
2.Refugee.
http://www.garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_2—refugee
3.Teacher.
http://www.garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_3—teacher/
4.Mentors.
http://www.garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_4—mentors/
5.Consultant.
http://garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_5—consultant/
6.Eagle.
http://garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_6eagke
7.Abroad.
http://garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_7._abroad
8. Books
http://garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_8_books
9. Luck
http://garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40years_40_lessons_9_luck
10. Positive.
http://garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_10positive
11. Culture
http://garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_11_culture
12.Adapting.
http://garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_12_adapting1
13.Dreams.
http://www.garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_13_dreams
14. The Pitch.
http://www.garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_14_the_pitch
15.. Ethics.
http://garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_15_ethics/
16. Time.
http://garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_16_time
17.Pause.
http://garciamedia.com/blog/articles/40_years_40_lessons_17_pause/
