Surprises for Rose in England and Ireland

In my work, I wear many hats: Teacher, Session Facilitator, Writer, Publishing Company President, Inventory Manager, Mailroom Clerk, Secretary, and Chief Travel Agent -- to name a few.  In this last capacity, Travel Agent, I set up for myself an unusual itinerary this past May through July, where I'd go to England, then Ireland, next Massachusetts, finally Japan. Home time between these various visits consisted of two days at the most.

Maybe the travel plans disregarded common sense, but astrologically, the timing for all these book tours couldn't be better.

The only questions that remained were: Will I have the time of my life?  Will I have the chance to help many people?  Earn some money?  Get new stamps on my passport?  Eat new, strange food? 

Fortunately, all this happened and more.  Here are some of the highlights.  Call it Rose's travelogue. 

It's hard to say what I love most about London, because as soon as I land at Heathrow, I turn into such a gusher. This being my third trip, I'm not shocked when it happens again, reliable as those British trains that run precisely on time. Still, if I had to choose one very favorite thing about England, it would have to be the people who carry my suitcases.

Of course, my suitcases are crammed up to the legal limit. That means two rolling suitcases, 50 lbs. each, suitcases cleverly designed to strap onto each other and be rolled together like twins in a double stroller.  Every time I take a train or subway, many staircases will have to be navigated but, as they say here a lot, "No worries."  Carrying luggage in England is like being given a fairy godfather.  Whenever I approach a staircase, whether up or down, the most adorable British men appear, offering to help.

This shows that the British must be a deeply considerate people, because I'm in that middle ground between being a cute little hottie and appearing so decrepit I'll never make it up the stairs.  None of these gentlemen has ever asked for a tip.  So why the politeness?  Is it because I look American and, Bush being so very popular right now, folks can't wait to help me any way they can?  The truth, I suspect, is that these wonderful British men would help anyone.

Sometimes they're 20, or 30.  Once, the gentleman who offers to carry my bags is a slightly chubby businessman, wearing a very dapper suit.  He looks to be about my age, 58.  For him, as with my suitcases, appearances are deceptive.

He appears fit and they appear light.  Oops.

I worry a lot about Mr. Volunteer Luggage Carrier.  By the time he's halfway up the stairs, he's breathing hard.  Close to the top of the stairs, he's sweating a small fountain, and his legs appear to wobble.  Both of us, however, are far too proud to say a word until he reaches the landing.  Then all I can say is a grateful thank you, not "Now, can I return the favor by calling you an ambulance?"

RADICAL RADIO

Speaking up does get me into a bit of trouble while on the radio.  Mostly my media interviews go smoothly enough.  Before this trip to England, I've done a two-part phoner.  At my friend Cheryl's house, I do another phoner, this one for a major station in Cork, Ireland.  As a graduate of my aura reading workshop the previous year, Cheryl asks to stay in the room to watch what happens to my aura while I'm interviewed.  Sure enough, it whooshes out whenever I talk on the air.  When we go to commercial breaks, I get to hear delightful advertisements for products they don't sell back home.  Listening curiously, my aura whooshes back to more normal proportions.

Cheryl and I have a giggle over this.  A week later, I'm going to do some very serious interviewing, my first appearance on the biggest privately run talk station in England, where I'll be the guest on a popular Friday night talk show.  This station is so opulent, they actually send a taxi to transport me, definitely a career first.

While waiting to go on, I'm given tea (of course, this being England) and listen to the interview in progress.  An actress is explaining that she will be part of a group of some 500 volunteers raising money for breast cancer.

They will start tonight, at midnight, going out to random places all over London during the next 24 hours.  From the waist up, these women will wear nothing but brassieres, specially decorated for the occasion, to raise money for breast cancer research.

I'm not to do anything nearly so unusual with this radio interview.  Becky and Chris are interviewing me about face reading, and I'll be asked to comment on some faces in the news, like that of Paul McCartney.  But first come questions for background and, then, demonstrating face reading with my hosts.  Becky is the dream interviewer.  Not only does she agree enthusiastically will all my observations about her face but she volunteers to tell listeners that she keeps one of my how-to books right on her night table.

Chris, her co-host, is a lively young man who is both too sweet and too young to pretend to be a curmudgeon.  Still, the listeners can't see him.  So if they can't read his aura through his voice, they might think him considerably more cranky than normal.  Despite his intimidating air, we're getting along very well with his short face reading... until I get to his chin.

When I start to deconstruct the doorknob-like configuration on his chin, the strangest thing starts to happen.  Chris clearly doesn't like what I'm saying.  Somehow, I'm making him enormously uncomfortable.  If he could move away from his headset, and if the sound studio only were bigger than a large closet, Chris would now be in a different room entirely.

Why is he having this reaction? I can't figure it out for the life of me.

So, finally, being the up-front person I am, right on the air I confront him by asking,.  "What do you think about that chin of yours?"  With the deft verbal skills that have earned him this coveted job as broadcast personality, Chris finds a delicate way to comment on the part of his face I've been reading, his so-called "Macho Knob."

"Perhaps you don't know this, being from America, but in England the term 'knob' refers to the end of a very private, ahem, part of a man's, ahem, anatomy."

Explosive laughter bursts out.  People are roaring with laughter in the broadcast room, the sound crew room, and for all I know, every living room in England.  Quickly, we go to into a commercial break.  Becky, Chris and I join in the laughter until tears streamed down our faces.  And unlike what you'd see on those unflappable folks who do broadcast news, all our faces turn bright red.

TEACHING, SOBBING

The next day, I teach an all-day workshop for empaths at the Inner Potential Centre.  Students do beautifully, except for our big surprise.  The highlight of this workshop is the Coming Home technique, meant to be taught as a deep inner experience lasting about 45 minutes.  Well, five minutes into it, a marching band begins to play right outside our window.  For my first time ever, I get to lead students in a deep inward experience to the tune of "Rule Britannia."

The band continues to play British favourites for the next half hour.  For me the experience is enriched by the sure knowledge that right outside our window, volunteers are raising money to find a cure for breast cancer.  Yes, if we'll only open our eyes and look, we'll find the ladies fund-raising in their creatively decorated brassieres.

I never manage to catch a glimpse.  Still, I make inquiries later.  Apparently all we've missed has been the celebration for an elementary school.  And most shocking spectacle outside our window has been a roundabout, an inflatable slide for the kids.  Who knew?

Mostly, I am in England to do their biggest annual exposition for Mind-Body-Spirit.  I launched my new book, Let Today Be a Holiday, during a workshop.  Participants do very well.  My biggest success, probably, is not bursting into tears.  I am so very happy to be giving a workshop on this new book, I nearly sob with gratitude.

Otherwise, doing the expo means hard work.  Back home, when I do the annual Pathways Expo, two or three volunteers help me in shifts all day long, so I can simply do short readings and autograph books.  Here in London, I have no volunteers, except for one workshop participant who follows me out to my booth where she works for three hours straight, helping to sell books and make appointments for my readings.  Otherwise, however, I was on my own.

Including the two-hour commute twice daily from Cheryl's home in Surrey, and I'm working from 8 a.m. straight through to 9 p.m. for six days straight.

Typically, I take my "lunch" break at 5 p.m.

Wonderful things happen as expos like this one.  Many people have miraculous healings, and others simply had a very good time learning about their auras or faces.  On the whole, however, I'm mostly exhausted.  Never before have I worked quite so hard.  I resolve never to work that hard again.  What astonishing news for my family!

STONEHENGE AND BEYOND

Still, sometimes I do get to play. My generous friend Simon Davies takes me for an outing.  We drove two hours, passing signs for places like Marlborough, Andover and Cambridge -- all of which cities I am booked to teach at next month, only back in America.  So, now I appreciate why we call Massachusetts "New England."

Finally, Simon and I arrive at our surprise destination, Stonehenge.  I fall in love with the place.  And remember it, too.

Other days, on my own, I walk through many parts of London, meditating in various cathedrals.  A high point is evensong at St. Paul's Cathedral.  Huge crowds assemble to take the tours, St. Paul's being the famously ornate church where Prince Charles married Diana Spencer.  At this Evensong Service, however, the place is nearly empty.  I felt so fortunate to be there, in a place that had been hallowed by centuries of worship.  The choir sings polyphonic motets by the likes of Thomas Tallis.

It's my favorite kind of music.  But I'd never heard it sound like this.  In the fantastic echoing space, the sound fractures like a deep bell, with overtones banging against each other.  Amazing!

I also manage to see one of Shakespeare's plays at the Folger Theatre.

"Coriolanus" isn't one of his greatest plays but even second-rate Shakespeare is better than almost anyone else's greatest, and the performances are riveting.  Oddly enough, the best seats in the house are the cheap ones you stand in, "groundling" seats, where you huddle right near the stage.

The classically trained actors make it sound easy, projecting their voices to a volume that can fill the theatre without microphones.  Being really, really close to them, however, I have a clue.  These actors spit a lot.  All that air and force pushing through their mouths... hey, you'd spit, too.

To make the performances extra authentic, the tragedy is staged using real blood on the actors' faces.  Maybe stage performances always use real blood?

Usually I'm not close enough to tell.  In this case, I definitely am.

At the very end of the show, Coriolanus is stabbed, to put it mildly.  His heart is ripped from his body and waved around enthusiastically by the victor.  Well, for this performance, all this action takes place one person over from me.  So I get a very good look indeed.  Clearly, it isn't the actor's heart, merely the heart of a cow, or some other large animal being waved around.  It is definitely somebody's former heart, and I nearly add to the authentic ambiance at the Folger by throwing up all over it.

Altogether a very satisfying experience!

LIGHTHOUSES, FROM THE SUBLIME TO THE RIDICULOUS

On to Ireland.  At the airport, I buy coffee and compliment myself on the thrilling spectacle of my wallet, which now contains three different currencies, bills and coins galore, with dollars and pounds and euros.

Flying in to Cork, I've never seen such vibrant green.  My host, Brigid, meets me at the airport.  Her laugh is liquid, like a child's.  Add the dancing light in her eyes, and I know for sure that I have arrived in a country of my dreams.

When I praise the greenery, Brigid gives another sample of that laughter and explains that the fields are way greener than usual.  Today is the first of June.  It follows the wettest May in 450 years.  Now that the sun has finally come out, the plants are taking advantage.

Could all of this be staged just for me?  It's incredible being in Ireland, at once both familiar and exotic. Brigid makes our first stop a lighthouse.

Cork is a seaside town, with homes painted in pastels.  Once a friend went to Africa and brought back photos where streets wore a similar gaiety, bright color splashed over every house, and the whole street like a paint box.

My first day, Brigid drives me to three different radio interviews.

Afterwards, calls come through to her cell phone.  This is good, because I'll give a free Intro that night at Brigid's healing center, Pool of Light.

One call begins, "May I please speak with Rose, the fortuneteller?"

I take the call, explaining that I am no fortuneteller.

"Well," said the caller, "I want a session with you because my best friend says that my boyfriend will be proposing to me in two weeks.  I want to know if that is true."

I explain which services I do and do not provide.  Fortune-telling is not among them.  I avoid saying, "Why don't you just ask your boyfriend?"

The caller asks to speak to Brigid again.  Brigid reiterates my explanation, and the caller hangs up without making any appointment.

Ten minutes later, another caller: "May I please speak with Rose, the fortuneteller?"

Again I explain that I am no fortuneteller.  Once again, the caller isn't satisfied and demands to speak with Brigid.  After Brigid handles the call, she starts to laugh.

"What is it?" I ask.

She says, "This caller was very insistent that you tell her fortune.

"After I explained that you didn't do that, she said, 'I know Rose's sessions cost 110 euros. I get paid on Friday. Then I can pay her 400 euros. Can she tell me the really important things?'"

We did wind up having wonderful clients, none of whom expected me to tell their fortunes.  Turnout for my various workshops was small, however.  For my all-day workshop about aura reading, we had exactly two participants.  They'd come a long way. One had, in fact, flown from Italy just to study with me (She'd studied with me before).

So I gamely did the workshop.  When I taught the same workshop in Tokyo, it would be a two-day format, and we would have 82 participants. But that's the second half of my story.