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Traveling down the Danube, my daughter and I kept hearing voices. And we listened. They were telling us, after all, what we’d never heard before—that chocolate makers in Salzburg had to prove they weren’t sampling sweets by whistling as they worked; that lots of chimneys on a roof meant lots of money, and so some people added fake chimneys to fool their neighbors; that Maria Theresa, who was the ruler of the vast Habsburg Empire for 40 years, also had 16 children.
We listened even when it was hard.
At the foot of the Plague Column, our guide told us that Vienna lost two thirds of its population in one year. Outside the Colosseum building in Regensburg, we learned about Jewish prisoners, who had been brought from death camps and housed in the building.
By day, they endured frequent beatings as they repaired railroads that had been bombed by the Allies. In the evening, they were marched back to the Colosseum, the stronger dragging the weak. A handcart followed behind them, carrying the dead of the day. At night, they were packed like sardines into the dance hall to sleep on wood shavings behind windows that were barb-wired and nailed shut. And each morning, they were warned at roll call that escape attempts would result in the shooting of ten fellow inmates.
Such listening takes effort. We all think faster than most people talk. And this leaves lots of time between words for brains to wander off, especially if you are standing on a street corner in a new city on a new continent. But my daughter and I found ourselves unusually attentive.
And we began to wonder why. So we took notice of not only what guides said, but how they said it. We found that they didn’t speak in black and white, like they were reciting. They colored their words—emphasizing and de-emphasizing, pausing to create anticipation and to give time to mourn.
Their voices were full of tears and of smiles. And because they were taken by their content, we were also drawn in. Never syrupy, their warm buttery tones made us want more.
We started thinking about our own voices. What would happen, we wondered, if we borrowed their skills? My daughter, in the thick of her career as a parent coach, has years to practice. I, on the other hand, have already run my race. But I still use my voice—with young people who ask to meet with me, with an occasional speaking assignment, with elderly parents, with my grandchildren and children, with my husband.
And so I’m grateful that, along with the wonderful and terrible stories I heard traveling down the Danube, I also learned more about how to tell stories.
Apple to Apple 