Across the Pond

by Cheri Crystal

  Debs and I made our way to the desk to find our names and were greeted politely.

  “Hallo. Welcome to Devon and The Imperial Hotel,” said the woman manning the table. She explained a few things in our packets. “Some parts of the conference will take place at the Riviera Conference Centre, but you’ll have plenty of warning, and transportation is provided, if you don’t want to take the short walk; but enough of that after your long journey. Do get all settled, and don’t hesitate to ask any questions you might have. Have a good conference, ladies. And again, welcome.”

  After we were all set, the small group, including the apparent mud wrestler had vanished. I had this sudden urge to comb the venue for the intriguing woman.

  Debs had other things on her mind. “We’re just in time for afternoon tea,” she said. “Shouldn’t we freshen up first?”

  “Yes, let’s dump our stuff. Are you really okay we’re sharing?”

  “Yes, of course. Marcus gave us a limit on the expense account. Wouldn’t you rather use it to hit the night life?”

  “I suppose,” I said. But what I did want to do was take excursions to the moors, Kents Caverns, Brixham, Paignton, and whatever else we could fit in with an already-bursting schedule. Right now, though, it didn’t take long for jetlag to set in like concrete, making movement nearly impossible.

  Our room upstairs was so luxurious, Debs truly could have no problem sharing with me. But it’s not like I could really appreciate it with the waves of exhaustion rolling over me. “I can’t keep my eyes open another second. Feel free to grab tea without me.” I yawned.

  “Okay, if you’re sure?” Debs said, primping herself in the bathroom mirror.

  “I am.”

  “It says here that the formal icebreaker is at seven o’clock tomorrow evening, but they’re having afternoon tea later. Should I come back and get you?”

  “Nah, I will be down before that, but thanks.” The last sound I heard was the clicking of the door as it closed behind Debs.

  I must have been in a deeply sleep-deprived state, because when I awoke, I remembered bits and pieces of my ridiculous dream: The mystery woman from registration was in it, wearing her mud-encrusted shorts and boots like a badge. She then became the mud wrestler in an arena. Avoiding the bandaged hand, she single-handedly fought off muddy lions, which in reality inhabit grasslands, open woodlands and scrub country. If they happen to traipse through mud, they are forever licking themselves clean. But in my dream, this mud wrestler defended her human pride—made up of the conference organizer and a few other delegates I had seen earlier. In the quite preposterous way dreams often have, she fought off lions as muddied as pigs after a good wallow, and she did this all with one bare hand. Meanwhile we all scrambled to find where the first meeting was to be held now that the lions, tigers and bears were occupying our seats. The annoying dream had me chasing my own tail, searching for an empty room but getting knee-deep in mud. I woke with a start, instantly relieved it was only a dream.

  I spent the rest of the night in exhausted, dreamless sleep. It wasn’t until the next morning that I regretted missing afternoon tea, but being refreshed and ready to give my full attention at the convention was a necessary trade-off.

  CHAPTER 7

  The view from our fourth-floor room the next morning was amazing. Debs had the doors to the balcony wide open, lending a vacation feel to the space as the cool ocean breeze brushed past us. It went against the natural order of things to be zipping up a skirt instead of stepping into a bathing suit.

  “I’m glad we had opted to share a nicer room with a sea view.”

  “I’ll say. Will you look at that?” Debs held onto the balcony railing on tiptoes. “I can see inside the penguin center.”

  “What penguin center?”

  “The sea aquarium.” She came back inside, lifted a bunch of pamphlets off the table, and flipped through them until she found the one she wanted. “It’s called Living Coasts—Torquay’s Coastal Zoo and Aquarium. And they’re in walking distance. Cool.”

  “Nice.” I tucked in my blouse. “You can’t tear yourself away from that view can you?”

  “No way. Although I can’t wait to get started, it’s a shame we have to work today. The water looks so inviting, and the penguins are so cute. I could just stand here all day. That’s a funny-looking gull. Oh, and there’s more than one.”

  “Let me take a gander.” I had no idea what she was talking about. All the seagulls looked ordinary to me. “Where?”

  “You silly goose.” It was never a good idea to get into a pun war with Debs. She always won. “Look there.” She pointed out the window. “Flying around inside the net. The gulls with the handlebar moustaches.”

  “Those are not gulls. I’m not a hundred percent sure—I’d guess they’re Terns, maybe, but wait a minute.” I opened my bird book and found the section I was searching. “They’re definitely Terns, but this book doesn’t have the exact species. I’ll Google it later.” Grandpa would be so proud I named the group correctly, I thought. Was it an omen that we lucked out with this room? Maybe I would resume birding after all. After Faith, I hadn’t had interest in anything other than my job and working out. It was about time I found a relaxing hobby to balance out my life.

  I called out to Debs, who had pulled herself away from the window only to plant herself in front of the mirror. “Are you ready? I don’t want to miss Dr. Wright’s talk. I’ve read her articles, and I hear she has a book coming out soon. And today’s topic is controversial. It should be interesting to get her take on the changes in the food industry and how unorthodox production methods have affected the population.”

  Debs easily slipped into debate mode. “It would be great if we could grow and process our own food and have enough to feed every person on the planet, but let’s be practical.”

  “Exactly. Can we please go now?”

  “Yep, ready to roll. Do I look okay?”

  “Perfect.” I had the handy-dandy backpack they gave out at registration; it had plenty of room for everything: a laptop, leaflets, pads, you name it.

  Stepping into my heels, I briefly checked myself in the mirror.

  “You should wear skirts more often,” she remarked. “You have great legs. Although those shoes can hardly be considered heels, Janalyn; they’re so lame.”

  “Gee, thanks.” My sarcasm was unmistakable. “If I wear the higher heels in the name of fashion, that’s exactly what I’ll be—lame! Well, I have sneakers in my bag. I’ll put them on instead.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Want to bet?”

  Debs shook her head in that disapproving way. I was tempted to keep on the low-heeled pumps I’d paid a small fortune for in the vain pursuit of comfort, just to show her I meant business. But first impressions took precedence, and in a summer suit, silk blouse, and the dreaded heels that pinched my toes, I knew I would fit right in with the other conference members.

  “You win. Let’s go.”

  We left the room and headed to the elevator. The hallway maintained a Mediterranean-style Victorian aura—from the ornate moldings, sconces and wallpaper down to the carpet. I could imagine passing Agatha Christie along the way, especially after noticing a plaque with her likeness on the wall by reception. The elevator ride was silent, but the moment the doors opened, a room-filled with the buzz of chatter filled the air. Debs and I weaved around but soon split up.

  I grabbed the last two seats in the large meeting room while Debs went in search of caffeine. Once she had returned, I surveyed the room as I sipped the steaming brew she had brought me. I checked that my name badge was affixed onto the lapel of my jacket just as the organizer, a Rachel Smith, came over to personally welcome us.

  “Hello, Miss Jacobs. Miss Foster-Baker?” she said. “That’s a mouthful.”

  De
bs smiled at her. “‘Debs is just fine,” she said. “It’s so nice to meet you. May I call you ‘Rachel’?”

  “Of course. Thank you both for coming. I hope your travels from America were pleasant?” She sounded posh, but without the airs. “I’ve never been, but I’ve always wanted to.”

  Debs and I smiled.

  “What’s wonderful is being here in Devon—we’ve never been,” Debs said.

  “It’s a pretty part of the country,” Rachel said. “I hope you’ll get a chance to sample some of it. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.” Her voice turned bright. “Oh, I see we’d better get started. I have the honor of introducing today’s speaker, Dr. Wright—a local celebrity. Having the con here in Devon was her idea. I’ll see you around ladies.”

  “Did you know we had a celeb in our midst?” I said after Rachel walked away.

  “I’ve heard the name, but hadn’t realized she was famous. Do you know anything about her?”

  “Nothing more than reading her work. She makes many valid points, but can she, or anyone, invoke worthwhile changes? The food industry has a powerful lobby. I doubt the likes of Wright or any of us will have that great an impact.”

  I vaguely remembered seeing a stamp-sized photo of Dr. Wright but couldn’t remember many details, so I looked up at the podium in curiosity. Rachel Smith introduced her, and when our speaker took the stand, I nearly fell out of my chair.

  “That’s the mud wrestler,” I whispered to Debs.

  “Who?”

  “You know, the one caked in mud who we originally thought was a homeless stranger.”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re right. She sure cleans up well.”

  I’ll say. I couldn’t take enough of her in. Standing taller than her presenter, she raised the microphone to level with her lips, painted a subtle shade of red. Her subtle makeup, if she was wearing anything other than lightly tinted lipstick, lent credibility to her face by downplaying her sexy lips. While she wasn’t dressed any sharper than the rest of us, in her tailored multi-colored pin-striped blouse and body-hugging taupe slacks, this woman easily stood out in a crowd with her inherent star quality. Her neatly coiffed hairdo, a stylish feathery cut in varying shades of gold with every hair in place, looked like she’d just stepped out of a salon. Gone were the smudges of dirt and the sweat streaking her face. All cleaned up, her complexion was clear with a youthful glow, just beyond pale and not quite tanned. Her eyes, well, her eyes were blue, bright, and for lack of a better word, beautiful.

  “Thank you for the generous introduction, Rachel, well done,” Wright said. “Now, what do you want in return?”

  Rachel Smith put her hand up and laughed, shaking her head. “Endless favors.”

  Dr. Wright paused and waited for the laughter to die down. “Welcome, everyone, to the First Annual Wellness at Work and World Health Initiative. We have an impressive roster of attendees with two-hundred and fifty delegates from all over the world. I’m honored to be here among many great minds in various fields from medicine, nutrition, food technology, economics, you name it. My personal thanks to every member of this committee, particularly…” She rattled off many names, some I knew and some I had never heard before.

  Her voice was resonant, but what impressed me most was that she didn’t rely on the usual quirks of public speaking, like, um, er, or some annoying pet saying, my least favorite at the moment being ‘the reality is.’ It was a pleasure to listen to someone who had command of the English language.

  “According the World Health Organization, ‘Health is a state of complete physical, mental, and social well-being and not merely an absence of disease or infirmity.’ We are privileged to have members of WHO among us. Will the following delegates please stand when I call your name?”

  My attention honed in on her accent. She could have spoken gibberish, and I would have hung on her every word.

  “We also have representatives from The Bureau of Labor Statistics and The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Don’t be afraid to enlist their help. Don’t be too proud to beg.” That gained a laugh from the audience.

  “There’s been a global shift in the healthcare paradigm, moving from traditional medical practice, treating illness as it arises, toward prevention-focused strategies. It’s what we’ve been promoting all along, but now governments faced with a healthcare crisis—and on a level more close to home, employers who face huge prices paying out sick leave—we need a societal and community outreach plan to reduce chronic illness. In 2002, the Institute of Medicine called on both the corporate and public health communities to join forces in promoting health and prevention efforts through collaboration and research. Have you all heard of the Ottawa Charter? It was the first international conference on health promotion way back in the mid-1980s. You’d think in all that time we would have a handle on this problem, but instead we’re seeing an exponential increase in the numbers of chronic illness.”

  She spoke for an hour and conducted a question-and-answer period that went on for thirty or more minutes. Yet the morning flew. After she stepped off the podium, we were granted a break, and immediately, she was surrounded by a flock of attendees all vying for her undivided attention. Debs and I checked out our schedules and headed to a nutrition overview given by a registered dietitian nutritionist, also from America. Afterwards, Debs and I headed to the lunch buffet.

  “The dietitian was very good. She touched upon many important topics, but as a public speaker she doesn’t have the star quality of Dr. Wright. Now she’s an amazing speaker,” Debs said.

  “Dr. Wright is one tough act to follow.” I perused the buffet table for the beginning of the line. And under my breath, I mumbled, “No doubt about that.”

  “Let’s see what’s for lunch.” Debs was eyeing the menu selection as listed on the free-standing easel by the tableware. I took two trays and handed one to Debs. We helped ourselves to silverware, dinner rolls and salad.

  Once seated, we introduced ourselves to everyone. I couldn’t pronounce some of the foreign names, but I probably would not have remembered them even if I could.

  “This steak and kidney pie tastes delicious. But what are these meatball looking things?” I asked.

  Debs shrugged. I called over the nearest server.

  “Excuse me, what are these?”

  “Faggots in a rich sauce,” she said, in a thick Polish accent.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a traditional dish in the UK.”

  I made a point of not curling up my lips with distaste. “What’s it made of?”

  “I’ll ask chef. Be back in a minute.”

  After she walked away, I asked Debs, “Now why would I want to eat a faggot in rich sauce?”

  Debs laughed. “Beats me.”

  True to her word, the server was soon back at our table. “It’s pig heart and liver with bacon and crumbs of bread.”

  “Thank you, I think.” I was happier not knowing and placed my helping on Debs’s plate.

  “Oh, no you don’t. You took it, you eat it.”

  “You’re not my mother.”

  “Good thing for that.”

  “I’m ready for dessert. Want some?”

  “No thanks, you go, though. I want to hit the little girl’s room. Meet you at the next meeting. Whoever gets there first saves us a seat.”

  “You got it.” I ambled over to the “pudding” section, expecting chocolate, rice, or tapioca pudding, only to find wide assortments of cakes in finger-sized portions. I took about five of them. When I noticed how the British attendees liberally poured hot custard from heavy-duty insulated white jugs over their Victoria sponge, I did too. So much for making healthy choices. I then selected a meager helping of fresh berries in four varieties so I wouldn’t be completely without redemption.

&
nbsp; We were well into the afternoon session before my head stopped spinning with all I planned to learn and accomplish. I’d worked so hard to get here and, so far, so good. It was surreal to finally be among peers from other nations, and if surveyed to comment on what I thought of the convention, my report would be glowing. But like most conferences I’d attended, there were amazing and not-so-great presenters. Not all people were born lecturers. It was a shame that the afternoon presenter had the personality of a sloth after such a dynamic speaker like Dr. Wright and even the dietitian, who had entertained us with her funny anecdotes. Not only was postprandial tiredness from such a heavy lunch setting in, but we were forced to sit for over an hour that felt like forever. His pompous prattle droned us all to sleep. My mind unavoidably wandered astray, landing a few rows ahead on an intriguing butch. I swore I could feel my pupils immediately dilate as I realized it was Dr. Wright.

  She sat tall. I hoped she’d turn around and grant me another view of her face. From the way she was positioned in her seat, legs spread wide, it was like she owned the space. Her briefcase was by her side on the floor. I got a glimpse of her profile as she bent down to open her bag and removed a small black carrying case. She glanced in the direction of the time keeper at the back—he held up a sign saying five minutes left, and then she extracted what looked like fancy-schmancy binoculars, placing the cord around her neck and adjusting the collar of her shirt. I couldn’t imagine why she’d need binoculars, but imagined that she might be a bird lover like me; that would be interesting.