Welcome Without Savoir Faire

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Hello Reader,

Got savoir faire?

(A French word for like, you know, being elegant and stuff)

Prologue

Preface

Sutton House part One

Sutton House part Two

Epilogue

Prologue

I heard a strange story on the web, third hand, after it had been on facebook. 

It seems a mother had a son, a boy whom rude guys on facebook would call a “loser.” I don’t know what age. She took him to a fancy “sports cars only” dealership to have them sit inside a car, on leather seats, to absorb a vision of winning… hey, It might change her boy’s life. But when they walked in and she asked to sit inside a sports car the salesman replied, “We don’t do that here.” Mother and son left feeling so bad… I’ll get back to them.

Preface

So there I was, alone in central London, at mid-day, walking past the South Korean embassy, when I noticed a tiny sign about an art display. I entered the embassy—only to find there was a fancy party or something with plates of good food. Surely not for fellow ambassadors: no tuxedos. Maybe it was for fancy business investors. I don’t know, because I took one look— and ducked down the stairs: OK, I fled down the stairs.

There was no one below but a pretty South Korean. Was I welcome, I asked, to look at the art? “Yes.” I did so. The art was all one piece, lighted like a Christmas tree, stretching over three rooms in the basement. Could I look at the books on the shelves? “Yes.” I did, and then we talked. 

I figured she was working hard, tired, and maybe her feet were sore her from her high heeled office shoes. So I spoke nicely to brighten her day; she even offered to take my photograph, with my own camera. There was a TV, with a DVD Korean soap opera just starting. I knew that all the housewives over in Japan are watching the Korean dramas, so I settled in, with English subtitles, thinking, “Wow.” I stayed, feeling quite at home, for an hour. Too bad I’ll never know how the show ended. Such a nice experience.

Sutton House, part One

From the embassy I turned left and walked along the Thames riverbank. There was an impressive building, across the multi-lane, labeled Sutton House. So I crossed the street and went up to the door. Inside to my left was a free exhibition of tattooist’s art. Not of tattoos, no, the exhibit was for respecting how the best tattooists were also good artists. Here were their paintings. I wandered through and then wandered upstairs. Maybe that was a mistake—suddenly I was among young men and women in formal black-and-white clothing. It was London Fashion Week, as I well knew, and here was a fancy fashion gathering. 

The young people were the staff for the cloakroom, the “hoers doh-vers” tables, and so forth. I asked: If I stay out of the food rooms, am I welcome here? “Yes.” I’m a poor kid from the prairies who can’t even pronounce “hoers doh-vers,” let alone spell it. Am I still welcome? Yes. The Londoners didn’t even notice the hayseed in my hair, not after I figured their feet were tired from standing, and I talked with them nicely to brighten their day. 

Outside was a huge courtyard, just like in those old movies on the late show, a square filled with crews from TV and radio, with managers and young models, and their parents too. I don’t have much savoir faire, not like an international model, but I could surely relate to the plain parents. So I asked my young new black-and-white acquaintances: As I am “only” a wandering tourist, may I go outside, to pass through the square to find the street? “Yes.” So I did. I saw that some of the models being interviewed weren’t wearing much clothing. I whispered “Ooh la la.” Such a nice experience.

…Ok, dear reader, time to get a nice cup of tea

I mean, let’s face it, we mostly have a small attention span, being conditioned by the television show-time between commercials.…

Sutton House, part Two  

Three years later, I’m walking along the Thames and hey, there’s Sutton House. So I crossed the street. I wandered upstairs. Two older white haired ladies were taking tickets for something, and they confirmed my memory that there had been a fashion thing there. “Ooh la la,” said one of the ladies. I said, “I know what you mean.”

There was a perfume exhibit, with a gate charge. I entered in, only because I had already photographed the exhibit poster for my camera. (Because what if someone saw my photo, and asked if I went in?) The exhibit was well done—in fact, I wish I could shake the hand of whoever planned it. 

Lots of cultured elegant museum staff about. Here’s the hard part: The public is supposed to smell the perfume and then write down impressions. What impressions? I confess: With my body language I may have implied that I’m an awkward “real man” who doesn’t know anything about perfume. 

Me, cultured? I mean, I don’t even know how to properly hold out my pinkie when I drink tea, and yet there I was, in a fancy London museum. Turns out I was welcome to be there, to write down my impressions of what I thought for each scent, writing on stiff manila paper, to be collected and hung on a two hole binder. Perhaps I was even more welcome by the museum staff after I reflected that their feet probably hurt, they were probably tired, and so I talked nicely to brighten their day. I remember, when one exhibit included sage, explaining how we use smudging to produce a sacred space.

At the end I met a man from a perfume lab. He gave me a scented stick to smell. Then a candy. Then, when I turned to smell the stick again—it was now completely odourless! Proof that smells can cancel out: No wonder a lot of ingredients go into a perfume. A nice experience.

Epilogue

From the sports car dealership the boy and his mother left feeling down. The boy asked why people are so mean, the mother replied it was because their sort don’t look like buyers.

A thought experiment: What if I had been there with the boy? Remembering that the salesman’s feet probably hurt, I would have talked nicely to brighten his day… As “a poor kid from the farm,” I would have explained that I truly didn’t want to buy a car, but that I honestly thought I might change the boy’s life, by getting him to envision winning. And, of course, then ask the man if we were welcome to sit inside a car, like winners.

Hearing my honesty, the salesman could have reflected: You can’t be in sales unless you’re a positive thinker. Maybe he himself had started out in a small prairie town selling old jalopies but now look at him: In the big city! Selling fancy cars! Maybe he would have even invited us to go sit on some pristine leather seats. (Which would scare me) Or probably not. (Whew!) 

Either way, for the boy, just hearing the salesman tell his backstory, with everyone standing tall as respected equals, could have been just as good as stooping to duck into a car. Lord knows I don’t have as much savoir-faire as, say, people who have sports cars, but still, I think I could have managed to offer the boy a nice growth experience.

Yes, indeed.

As a traveler from the British colonies—I used to live down in British Columbia—I have come to know one thing for sure, to paraphrase Maya Angelou: After posh people pour you tea, in gracious welcome, they won’t remember whether you could properly stick out your pinkie, or what you said, they will only remember how you made them feel.

Sean Crawford

On the Canadian prairies,

aka 

The great plains,

March 

2017

Note: ~Of course “sore feet” is surely a metaphor, meant as much figuratively as literally. But hey, you already knew that…

Sidebar: For any perfume lovers, here’s the what the explanatory Perfume “postcard” says: (minus the first paragraphs)

From the self-taught to the classically trained, these perfume provocateurs reveal how they came to create signature fragrances that deviate from the traditional cues of the natural world, challenging convention and enabling us to smell unique.

This pioneering exhibition — the first of its kind in the UK —will explore the origins of modern perfumery and reveal the industry’s historical innovators, before inviting you to journey through a series of interconnected rooms where each perfume will be experienced in unique and surprising ways. Perfume offers a privileged insight into a changing industry and a refreshing challenge to the way we think about fragrance.

This exhibition also features a fully functioning laboratory, where you can interact with professional perfumers to see up close the skill and science behind a fragrance.

Footnotes:
~Here is a link with a view of folks at Sutton House courtyard for a summer outdoor film festival.

~And yet another link to Sutton House, about the philosophy of the Peanuts cartoons. How I miss London! I want to return!

~Sure I’m a nerd—or maybe an elegant intellectual. No wonder I bypass Mazatlan in Mexico, Miami, Maui and all the other places starting with an "M" where regular folks go… in favour of rainy old London: I enjoy good indoor museums!

~If I was in the bar telling you this story, I would have time to tell you all about the various perfumes, and how very often I was right in guessing the scents. Amazing, eh? Turns out you are supposed to be right; the making of perfume is a real art. There are even enthusiastic blogs about perfumes. I was so awesomely privileged to be there. … And yes, probably I will never, in this life, buy any gorgeous perfume for myself —oops, I mean, buy men’s cologne. But still, privileged.

And you should have seen the attached gift shop.