🎧 C2 Advanced English Listening Practice | Native-Level Conversations

Welcome back to the deep dive.

We are so glad you're here with us today

because we are tackling a problem

that and I say this with uh with zero exaggeration.

Literally every single person listening has faced.

>> Oh, that's a bold claim.

Every single person >> every single person I know I've faced it.

In fact, I faced it about 3 weeks ago.

And the um the shame is still fresh.

>> Oh, that sounds ominous.

The shame is still fresh.

What happened 3 weeks ago?

>> Okay, so let me set the scene.

I went on this trip and it wasn't just, you know, a weekend getaway.

It was the trip, the one you plan for months,

the one you save up for, >> the big one.

>> The big one.

It was incredible.

I mean, life-changing stuff.

I saw architecture that literally made me weep.

I ate food that just blew my mind.

I met people who completely changed my perspective on the world.

I was living in like high definition 4K.

>> Sound like the dream.

A perfect trip.

>> It was the dream.

But then, well, the dream ended.

I came home and a few days later I went to dinner with some

friends.

We're sitting there, the drinks arrive,

the table goes quiet for a second

and then someone leans in

and asks the dreaded question.

So, how was the trip?

>> Ah, and you froze.

>> I didn't just freeze.

I crumbled.

I completely utterly choked.

I opened my mouth and this is what came out.

I think I said something profound like it was nice.

Yeah, Italy was really nice.

>> Oh no.

>> And then it got worse and they asked about the food and I said,

"Oh, the food was good."

>> The two cardinal sins of storytelling.

Nice and good.

>> I know.

The two most boring, useless words in the entire English language.

And I just watched their eyes glaze over.

It was like I could literally see their souls leaving their bodies out of

sheer boredom.

>> That's a very vivid description right there.

See, you can do it.

>> Well, I can now after the fact, but in that moment,

I knew I was losing them, but I couldn't stop myself.

I was listing places. is we went to Rome, then we went to Florence.

It was awful.

That is the classic struggle and it is painful.

But you are not alone.

In the research we're looking at today, they actually have a name for this.

They call it the slideshow effect.

>> The slideshow effect is

that like when your uncle gets out the projector

and forces you to watch 300 blurry photos of his garden gnomes.

>> It's exactly that energy, but in a conversation, it's that phenomenon where the speaker,

you in this case, knows exactly what happened.

You have the full emotional context, right?

You have the memories, the heat of the sun on your skin,

the taste of the wine, the adrenaline of navigating a new city, >> right?

I'm reliving it.

The whole movie is playing in my head.

>> Exactly.

But the listener, they have none of that.

They're starting from a blank slate.

So, when you rely on words like nice or good,

or you just list the places you went, you aren't actually transferring the experience.

>> I'm not.

I'm just transferring data.

>> You're giving them a list.

And lists are boring.

>> Incredibly boring.

You're essentially giving them a grocery list of your vacation.

I went to Rome, then I went to Florence, then I ate pizza.

It's factually correct, sure, but it is emotionally flat.

It's a transaction of data, not a story.

It's a report.

>> That is exactly what it felt like.

I felt like I was failing my own memories,

like I was betraying this amazing trip by making it sound so dull.

So, that is our mission today.

We are going to fix this.

We have a fantastic stack of sources specifically looking at an advanced language learning

session featuring two experts,

Emma and John, who break down the specific mechanics of captivating storytelling.

>> And what's fascinating here, and I think this is really key for our listeners,

is that they don't frame this as just travel tips.

This isn't a lifestyle blog post.

They frame it as a masterass in C2 level proficiency.

>> C2 level, so advanced, >> very advanced.

This is about highle communication and more importantly social connection.

The ability to tell a good story is one of the most powerful social

tools we have.

>> Right?

So we aren't just trying to make you a better storyteller

so you can be the center of attention at parties,

although that's a nice side effect.

We want to move you from making these boring lists of dates

and places to creating what the sources call evocative sensory narratives.

>> We want to turn

that boring slideshow into a movie

that plays inside your listener's mind.

We want them to smell the pasta and feel the cobblestones under their feet.

>> Exactly.

So, let's unpack this.

The sources identify a few key rules

or maybe we can call them pillars of great storytelling.

And the very first one is something I had never really thought about before

despite being a human being with,

you know, a body.

They call it the sensory audit.

>> The sensory audit.

This is foundational.

If you get this wrong, nothing else you do really matters.

The whole story will be built on a weak foundation.

>> So, here's the problem they identify when we travel.

And when we tell stories about travel, we rely almost 90% on visual descriptions,

>> which you know, it makes sense biologically.

We are visual creatures.

Think about it.

When you are on vacation, what are you strictly doing most of the time?

>> I'm looking at things.

I'm sightseeing.

I'm taking hundreds of photos to look at later.

>> Exactly.

You are consuming the world primarily through your eyes.

So, it's only natural that when you come home,

your memory is coded in images.

I saw the tower.

I saw the beach.

The sunset looked pretty.

>> But the experts, they say this is a trap.

>> It is a massive trap because purely visual descriptions, they actually create distance.

If you tell me, I saw the coliseum and it was big.

I have to do all the heavy lifting to imagine it.

And frankly, I've seen a picture of the coliseum.

We all have.

You aren't giving me anything new.

>> You're not adding any value.

>> No.

Visuals are often just static observations.

They place the listener on the outside looking in.

They don't pull the listener inside the experience with you.

>> So the solution they propose is the five sense check, the sensory audit, >> right?

And the challenge here is to consciously pause.

I mean actually stop yourself before you start talking and ask yourself,

forget what I saw for a second.

What did I hear?

What did I smell?

What did I taste?

What did I feel physically against my skin?

>> This seems so simple, almost childishly simple,

but when you actually try to do it,

it changes the entire texture of the story.

The sources give this incredible case study of the Trevy Fountain in Rome to

prove the point.

>> And this is such a perfect example because everyone knows the Trevy Fountain.

It's the cliche tourist spot.

It's on a million postcards.

So, the challenge is how do you make that fresh?

>> Okay, so let's look at the boring version first.

The version I probably would have told at that disastrous dinner.

I went to the Trevy Fountain.

It was uh big.

It was incredibly crowded and there was a lot of water.

>> Again, factually true.

No lies detected. a solid C minus report,

but it is a narrative dead end.

There is nowhere for the conversation to go from it was crowded.

It's just a statement of logistical fact, >> right?

Oh, that's nice.

End of a conversation.

Okay, so now let's look at how the source material breaks this down using

the sensory audit.

They strip away the visual dominance and they look at the other inputs.

Let's start with sound.

>> In the source, John, one of the experts,

notes that it wasn't just water sound.

He describes it as a deafening roar.

>> A deafening roar.

Hm.

I mean, that instantly changes the scale, doesn't it?

>> Completely.

Sound of water could be a bathtub.

Roar implies power.

It implies something almost animalistic or overwhelming.

It implies that you have to shout to be heard by the person standing

right next to you.

And he adds that this roar created a constant cascade.

>> Okay, that's sound.

Then there is smell.

This is the one that really got me.

I never ever think to describe the smell of a tourist attraction,

but in the source,

the description is so specific and frankly kind of weirdly evocative.

He says it smelled like chlorine and old coins.

>> That is brilliant.

Just brilliant.

Chlorine and old coins.

>> It's so specific.

I never would have come up with that.

>> No, but that's why it worked.

If he just said it smelled like water, well, that means nothing.

Water doesn't really have a smell.

But chlorine, that immediately tells you it's treated water.

It's artificial.

It's a city feature, not a mountain stream.

>> And the old coins part, >> that's the master stroke.

It immediately summons the image of the thousands upon thousands of people throwing their

pennies and their euros in.

It creates a scent profile

that is absolutely unique to

that one specific place on Earth.

>> It anchors you.

You can almost smell that metallic tang mixed with the chemicals.

I feel like I'm there.

>> You are.

And then there's touch.

The source mentions the oppressive heat of Rome. that sticky urban summer heat.

But he contrasts that with the cool spray misting against the face.

>> Ah, that contrast is key.

The heat of the city, but the cool of the fountain.

It creates a little moment of relief in the story.

>> And finally, taste.

Now, this is the most poetic part of the breakdown,

and it shows how sensory details can lead you to more philosophical

or emotional ones.

He says, "The water tasted faintly of chlorine

and the wishes of a thousand tourists."

>> The wishes of a thousand tourists.

That is such a killer line.

It's beautiful.

>> It is.

And notice what just happened.

In the span of a minute,

we went from it was crowded and big to a full multiensory experience.

And when you combine all of those,

you get a sentence like this from the source.

A constant cascade that swallowed the excited chatter.

>> Swallowed the excited chatter.

>> That is the key shift.

In your first version, it was crowded.

You are observing the crowd.

You are separate from it.

You're a spectator.

>> I'm just watching.

Exactly.

In the second version, the roar swallowed the chatter.

You are immersed in it.

The environment is now an active character in your story.

The noise is eating the conversation.

You weren't just looking at a postcard.

You are inside a memory.

>> It really does stop being a description and starts being a scene.

>> Yeah, >> I can hear that roar.

I can smell that metallic coin smell.

It's totally immersive.

>> And that is the power of the sensory audit.

It forces you to access memories

that are stickier and more emotionally resonant than just visuals.

Smell and sound are deeply linked to our emotional centers in the brain,

the amygdala and hippocampus.

It's why a certain smell can transport you back to your childhood instantly.

>> Right.

Like the smell of crayons or something.

>> Exactly.

So, if you can communicate those sensory details,

you are essentially bypassing the listener's logical brain and going straight for their gut.

You're making them feel it, not just understand it.

So, step one for all of us, stop just talking about what you saw.

Or at least don't only talk about what you saw.

Tell me what it smelled like.

>> Tell me what the texture of the old stone wall felt like under

your hand.

Tell me if the air was humid and heavy or dry and crisp.

Tell me if the floor of the cafe was sticky.

Those are the details that build a world.

>> Okay, so we've got our senses engaged.

We're building a scene.

But now we run into another problem.

The words themselves.

I mentioned earlier my default crime is nice and good.

The sources call this the good nice embargo.

>> We need to put a full embargo on these words.

A complete blockade.

Economic sanctions against bland adjectives.

>> I feel personally attacked by this, but I know it's true.

The source explicitly mandates deleting nice, good, and bad from your storytelling vocabulary.

Why are we so hard on these words?

They seem harmless.

>> They are harmless.

And that is precisely the problem.

Nice and good are filler words. their conversational safety nets.

When you say, "The pasta was good," you're basically just saying, "I ate pasta.

It provided the necessary nutrition, and I did not actively hate it.

>> It conveys almost zero new information."

>> Zero.

It is conversational beige.

It's the color of a cubicle wall.

It's lazy.

>> It is efficient, I guess, but it is lazy storytelling.

>> Yes.

If you want to captivate someone,

you need to reach for what the source calls the menu of words.

You need to upgrade your vocabulary.

>> The menu of words.

I like that.

Sounds like we're ordering off the top shelf.

>> Okay.

>> So, let's look at the alternatives the source suggests.

Let's start with food because that's usually where I use good the most.

>> The pizza was good.

The gelato was good.

>> Right?

So, instead of good, look at the profile of the food.

If it was a high-end, perfectly prepared meal, maybe it was exquisite.

If it was a hearty home-cooked meal that felt comforting,

maybe it was savory.

>> What about the flavors >> exactly?

Was it tangy?

Was it aromatic?

Was it zesty?

Was it rich?

Was it delicate?

>> Aromatic is a great one

because that ties right back to the sensory audit we were just talking about.

It pulls the listener's nose into the story.

>> Precisely.

Delectable is another great option.

Succulent, if you're talking about meat, these words carry weight.

They have flavor themselves.

Good has no flavor.

Good is tap water.

Savory is a rich red wine.

>> Okay, but what about when things go wrong?

Because we all have bad trips or at least bad moments.

My instinct is just to say the flight was bad

or the hotel was bad.

>> And again, bad is just as boring as good.

It tells me nothing about the nature of the badness.

The source suggests aiming for more precise words.

Was it just underwhelming?

>> Ooh, underwhelming.

I like that one.

It implies you had high expectations and they weren't met.

That tells the whole story right there.

It implies disappointment, not just simple badness.

>> Exactly.

Was the situation chaotic?

That implies noise, confusion, a lack of order.

Was the museum disappointing?

Was the tour guide uninspired?

Or, and this is the one the experts really dive into, was it harrowing?

>> Harrowing.

Now, that is a heavy word

that feels like I should be wearing a cape

or holding a sword

if I use that.

It's a very dramatic word.

>> It is a heavy word, and that's why it's so useful.

You deploy it strategically.

>> Let's deep dive on heroing for a second >>

because the expert in the source makes a really specific point about the weight

of this word.

>> They do.

They discuss how a word like that changes the stakes of a story.

If you say the taxi ride from the airport was bad,

I'll assume maybe the AC wasn't working or the driver was a bit rude.

It's a complaint.

>> It's a minor inconvenience.

>> Yes.

But if you say the taxi ride from the airport was harrowing.

>> I assume you almost died.

I'm leaning in.

I'm putting my drink down.

I need to hear the rest of the story immediately.

>> Exactly.

It implies survival.

It implies intensity and real danger.

It sets the stage for drama.

Bad is a one-star Yelp review.

Harrowing is the beginning of an adventure story.

>> That's a great distinction.

Bad is a complaint.

Harrowing is an adventure.

And that actually leads us perfectly into the next section of our deep dive

because if we are going to talk about harrowing experiences,

we are talking about things going wrong.

>> The mishaps, the disasters, the glorious failures, >> the mishaps.

Now, I have to be honest.

When I post on social media or even when I tell stories,

I have this deep-seated instinct to curate everything.

I want to look like the perfect traveler.

>> We all do.

>> I want people to think I breeze through airports.

I always find the best non-touristy local spots

and I never ever get lost.

I want them to think I'm sophisticated and in control.

>> That is the Instagram filter effect applied directly to conversation.

We want to present the highlight reel

because we think that's what makes us look successful

or impressive,

>> right?

But the source material has a very very strong philosophy on this.

They say perfection is boring.

>> It is incredibly boring.

Hearing about someone's flawless,

perfect vacation is like listening to someone describe a dream they had where everything

went right.

It's nice for them, I suppose, but it has zero stakes for the listener.

The source calls mishaps gold dust.

>> Gold dust.

I love that.

Like you're panning for it.

>> They are the most valuable part of any story.

And why?

Because people connect with vulnerability.

They connect with struggle.

And most importantly, they connect with humor.

If everything goes right, there is no story.

>> There's no conflict.

>> A story by its very definition requires conflict.

Think about any movie you love.

Does the hero just wake up, have a nice day,

achieve all their goals with no problems, and then go home?

No.

That would be the worst movie ever made.

>> So, if you didn't miss a train

or get terrible food poisoning

or get hopelessly lost in a strange neighborhood,

you might have had a nice trip, but you don't have a good story.

Precisely.

And the source gives us a hilarious case study to illustrate this exact point.

They call it the Barcelona Churro incident.

>> The Barcelona Churro incident.

I love this example.

It made me laugh out loud just reading the transcript,

>> which is a classic story of human folly.

>> So, let's set the scene.

We have John, one of the speakers in the source.

He is in Barcelona.

He has a very practical, time-sensitive goal.

He needs to catch a train.

>> So, there are immediate stakes.

He has a deadline.

He is on a mission.

The clock is ticking.

>> But then the distraction, the inciting incident.

He finds a stall selling churros.

And not just any churros.

They are dipped in thick molten chocolate.

>> And note that sensory language again.

Thick molten chocolate.

Not just good chocolate or chocolate sauce.

Molten implies danger, heat, viscosity.

It's a lava for your mouth.

>> Exactly.

So describing his state of mind at this moment, he says he was stoked.

He uses that very casual, relatable phrasing.

He's excited.

He's not thinking about his train anymore.

And he enters what he calls a churoinduced trance.

>> He says he was in the zone.

The world, the train station, the clock, it all just fell away.

There was only him in the churro.

>> He's just going to town on these churros, dipping them in the molden chocolate.

And then the climax of the story, he snaps out of the trance.

He looks up at the board >> and the train is gone.

>> The train is gone.

He missed it. because he missed it.

He has to buy a brand new last minute ticket

which he says cost him an arm

and a leg.

>> Idiomatic gold right there.

An arm and a leg.

>> So in that moment, he's out of a bunch of money.

He's majorly inconvenience.

He's probably incredibly stressed and angry at himself at the time.

Was he happy about this?

>> Absolutely not.

He was likely furious.

He was probably cursing himself, cursing the churros, cursing the entire Spanish rail system.

He was having a bad time.

But, and here is where it gets really interesting for storytelling.

How does he tell the story now in hindsight?

>> He tells it as a comedy.

And this is the sophisticated social skill that the expert Emma highlights.

The art of self-deprecation, >> making yourself the punchline.

>> Yes.

He isn't telling the story to complain about the Spanish rail system.

He isn't telling the story to complain about the price of lastminute tickets.

He is telling the story to illustrate his own lack of self-control around pastry.

>> That is such a crucial shift in perspective.

It changes everything.

>> It does.

It transforms the listener's reaction.

If you just complain, the listener feels awkward.

They're forced into a position where they have to say, "Oh, that sucks.

I'm so sorry."

It's an emotional burden on them.

But if you make fun of yourself,

if you frame it as your own ridiculous human flaw,

>> they get to laugh with you.

It's an invitation.

>> It is.

And it signals confidence, too.

It shows you don't take yourself too seriously.

You're secure enough to admit you made a silly mistake.

>> It makes you relatable.

>> Exactly.

It invites connection.

We all have a lack of self-control sometimes.

We can all relate to choosing delicious molten chocolate over our responsibilities.

It makes John Hume not a perfect curated traveler.

>> So, the experts provide some key phrasing to help frame these mishaps.

You don't just list the bad things that happen.

You have to frame them for the listener, >> right?

You can introduce the story by calling it a comedy of errors.

>> I love that phrase.

Let me tell you about this total comedy of errors that happened in Paris.

It immediately frames the chaos as a play as entertainment.

>> Or you can use the phrase, "In hindsight, it was hilarious."

That's a crucial signal to the listener.

It says, "It's okay to laugh at this now,

even though it was objectively terrible for me at the time."

>> Or if there was a silver lining to the disaster,

you can call it a blessing in disguise.

Maybe missing the train led to meeting someone interesting

or discovering a new part of the city.

>> The main takeaway here is don't just complain.

Find the lesson or find the laugh.

If you can't find either, maybe it's not a story worth telling yet.

Maybe it's still just a bad memory.

>> Give it time to ferment.

>> Exactly.

Tragedy plus time equals comedy.

So, we've covered the sensory details.

We've upgraded our vocabulary to banish the word nice.

And we are embracing our mishaps as narrative gold dust.

But now we come to the part of the story

that I think I

and probably a lot of people struggle with the most.

The ending.

Sticking the landing.

>> The ending.

The source calls this the awkward stop.

And I know this feeling so well.

>> We've all been there.

You tell a story.

You're hitting all the beats.

You describe the churros.

You describe missing the train.

And then why?

You just say, "So yeah, that was Barcelona."

>> Exactly.

You just kind of trail off.

We went to the beach.

We had dinner.

The sunset was nice.

And >> yeah, that was the trip.

>> And then there is

that terrible awkward silence

and you just kind of nod >>

and they nod.

>> Yeah.

>> And you both stare at your drinks and someone has to change the subject.

>> It's the worst.

It's like a song that just cuts off in the middle of a chorus.

It fizzles out.

There's no closure.

>> Yeah.

>> So, how do we fix the awkward stop?

>> The fix is what the source calls the takeaway or the reflection.

>> Okay, let's unpack this.

Yeah.

>> What does a takeaway look like in a travel story?

It sounds a bit like a business meeting.

What are the key takeaways?

>> It does sound a bit corporate, but the principle is sound.

It means connecting the physical experience you just described to an internal emotion

or a realization.

You have to answer the listener's unspoken question.

So what?

Why are you telling me this?

What's the point?

How did it change you?

Or what did you learn from it?

Does it have to be some big, heavy, lifealtering moral like,

"And that day I learned the true meaning of friendship?"

>> No, definitely not.

Please don't be preachy.

This isn't one of Esop's fables.

It just has to be a conclusion.

It can be light and funny.

With the Churro story, the takeaway is,

and that's how I learned I cannot be trusted around fried dough.

That's a perfectly valid takeaway.

It closes the loop, >> but it can also be deeper and more serious.

The source gives a really powerful example of this involving a visit to the

Berlin Wall memorial.

>> This is a great contrast to the Churro story

because obviously visiting a place like

that isn't fun or amazing,

>> right?

You can't come back and say, "Oh, the Berlin Wall was so nice.

You would sound like a monster."

>> It would be incredibly tonedeaf and inappropriate.

So, first look at the vocabulary they use to describe the experience.

Words like sobering, poignant, jarring.

>> Jarring.

That's such a good one.

It implies a physical shakeup like you've been emotionally rattled.

>> And describing the narrative arc standing in what was once no man's land,

that strip of death between the two walls.

That's the setting.

But notice how they land the story.

They don't just say,

"And then we took the Yubon back to the hotel for lunch, >> right?

They don't just fizzle out.

They go for the reflection."

The source text says, "The sheer weight of history felt overwhelming."

And then this line, "It was a reminder of how fragile freedom can be."

That is the landing, a reminder of how fragile freedom can be.

That is the so what.

That's the reason for telling the story.

>> And there is a specific idiom the expert analyzes here

that I think is

so useful for this kind of ending.

The phrase it brought home the reality.

>> It brought home the reality.

Such a powerful phrase.

>> Yeah.

What does that actually mean though?

We use it all the time.

But what's the core of it?

>> It's a beautiful idiom.

It means to make someone fully and deeply understand or realize something.

Usually by contrasting an abstract textbook understanding with a physical sensory experience.

You can read about the Cold War in a history book.

You can know the dates.

You can know the politics.

That's all in your head.

>> It's intellectual knowledge.

>> Exactly.

But standing in that death strip, seeing the concrete, touching it,

feeling the cold air, that brings it home.

It moves the knowledge from your head to your heart or your gut.

>> Precisely.

And when you end a story that way,

it really brought home the reality of the situation.

You leave the listener with something to think about.

It resonates emotionally long after you've stopped speaking.

>> It respects the listener's intelligence.

It's not telling them what to think,

but it's inviting them to share in that feeling of realization,

>> and it creates a deeply satisfying sense of closure.

You started with a trip to a physical place,

and you ended with a new understanding or a deeper meaning.

That is a complete narrative arc.

>> So we have a structure now.

It feels like we are building a machine here, a storytelling engine.

>> We are.

It's a repeatable framework.

>> You hook them with the specific intriguing detail.

You paint the scene with the full sensory audit, the smell, the sound,

the touch.

You embrace the conflict or the mishap, the harrowing taxi ride, the molten churros,

and then you stick the landing with a reflection.

What did it bring home to you?

>> That is the formula.

If you follow those steps,

nobody will ever glaze over at your dinner parties ever again.

You'll have them hanging on every word.

>> But there is one more layer to this deep dive,

and this is something that happens before you even tell the story.

In fact, it happens while you are still on the trip itself.

>> This is the prerequisite.

This is the concept of becoming a travel detective.

>> I love this title, the travel detective.

It makes me want a little notepad and a magnifying glass.

>> The premise is this.

You cannot tell better stories if you don't have better observations to begin with.

Great storytelling starts with active observation.

Or to put it another way,

you can't output high-quality data if your input is low quality.

Garbage in, garbage out.

>> The source says we need to be looking for clues.

But what kind of clues are we talking about?

>> Not the obvious ones, not the big sign that says museum entrance.

You need to look for the textures, the contrast,

the little details other people miss.

The source lists some fantastic examples.

Look for the moment of silence in a busy city.

>> The silence in a busy city, that's totally counterintuitive.

>> It is.

But if you find a quiet,

hidden courtyard just off a main chaotic street in Rome,

that contrast is the story.

That's a discovery.

Look for the specific smell of rain on hot asphalt.

>> Petra core.

>> Yes.

Or look for the specific shades of blue in a Portuguese tile.

Not just the tiles were blue, but they were this deep cobalt blue,

almost purple in the shade.

>> It's about specificity again.

It always comes back to specificity.

>> Always.

The host in the source material emphasizes

that better storytelling starts with better noticing during the trip.

You have to consciously turn your antenna up to a higher frequency.

>> So, you're not just a tourist passively walking through a checklist.

Okay, saw that.

Check.

Took a selfie.

Check.

You are actively hunting for details.

>> You are gathering evidence.

You are collecting the raw materials for your future stories.

You're taking mental notes or even physical notes on the smell of the air,

the sound of the church bells, not just the name of the cathedral.

>> And once you have those raw materials,

the source suggests you can learn how to assemble them by,

and I love this phrase, stealing from authors.

>> Yes.

Read great travel literature, >> not just guide books with lists of restaurants.

>> No, absolutely not. narrative travel writing, Bill Bryson, Pico Ayer, Jan Morris,

authors who are masters of this craft.

They know how to use literary devices to bypass generic descriptions.

They use powerful similes and metaphors.

>> The source gives two examples that I thought were just perfect illustrations of this.

The first one is a visual metaphor.

The traffic was a river of red lights.

>> A river of red lights.

Just think about how much more effective

and evocative that is than saying there was a lot of traffic.

>> There was a lot of traffic is a statistic.

It's a complaint.

A river of red lights is a painting.

It implies flow.

It implies an endless stream.

It implies a menacing, beautiful color palette.

It's an image.

>> Exactly.

And the second one they give is a tactile simile.

This one is incredible.

The heat wrapped around me like a wet towel.

>> I felt that.

I physically recoiled when I read that in the source.

>> Like a wet towel.

>> That is so unpleasantly accurate.

>> That is a visceral reaction >> and that is proof that it works.

If I just say it was really humid, you understand me intellectually,

you nod your head.

But if I say the heat wrapped around me like a wet towel,

you feel the suffocation.

You feel the clammy, oppressive stickiness on your own skin.

>> It's gross, but it's incredibly effective.

>> It evokes a sensation of humidity

that a simple adjective like hot simply cannot achieve.

>> So stealing from authors means looking for those kinds of comparisons in your

own experience.

What does this remind me of?

Does the ocean look like hammered steel today?

Does the mountain look like a jagged tooth against the sky?

>> You use the things your listener already knows to describe the new things

you're seeing.

That is how you bridge the gap between your experience and their imagination.

Okay, let's recap this entire framework because we have covered a lot of ground.

We are moving from it was nice all the way up to C2 level

storytelling mastery.

>> We are it's a complete toolkit.

>> So step one, the hook.

Start with a sensory detail, not a date or a place name.

>> The sensory audit.

Don't just give me visuals.

Give me the deafening roar and the chlorine and old coins.

>> Banish the bland.

No more nice.

No more good.

Use the menu of words.

>> Exquisite, harrowing, chaotic, underwhelming, sobering.

>> Step four, embrace the mishap.

That's the gold dust.

Be vulnerable.

Tell us about the churros.

Make yourself the butt of the joke.

>> Stick the landing.

What did it bring home to you?

What is the final reflection?

>> And underpinning all of this, the foundation for everything.

Be a travel detective.

Actively observe the world with all your senses

so you have something unique

and powerful worth saying.

>> The source puts out a challenge to the listeners at the end of

the session and I want to extend

that same challenge to our listeners today.

>> Do it.

It's a great exercise.

>> Take one specific travel memory.

It could be from 10 years ago.

It could be from a walk you took last week.

And try to rewrite it using these tools.

>> Delete the word nice.

Just get it out of there.

>> Delete it. burn it from your vocabulary.

Instead, try to insert a word like cacophony

or aroma or even harrowing

if it fits >>

and see if you can describe the smell of the place without using the

name of the place.

See if you can describe the feeling of the air on your skin.

>> It's a real workout for your brain.

It forces you to revisit

that memory and excavate details you probably forgot you even noticed.

>> It is.

And you know, there's a final thought from the expert in this source

that I found really profound.

It kind of elevates this whole discussion from just being about travel stories.

>> What's that?

>> They suggest that this isn't just about describing a vacation better.

It's actually about how we process our own lives.

>> How so?

>> Well, they pose this question.

If we can't tell a good story about where we've been,

did we really experience it fully?

>> Whoa, that's heavy.

That's an existential question right there.

>> It is.

Storytelling is a form of processing.

It's how we make sense of the chaos of experience.

It's how we encode memory and create a meaning.

If your story about a twoe trip to Italy is just it was nice,

maybe your experience of it was just nice, maybe you weren't really paying attention.

>> So, becoming a better storyteller actually forces you to become a better liver

of life,

a better experiencer.

>> A more active participant in your own existence.

You have to pay attention to the details of your own life

so that you have something meaningful to narrate later.

You have to be an active observer, as the source says,

whether real or in your imagination.

>> That is a powerful place to leave it.

We aren't just teaching you to talk better about your vacations.

We're challenging you to live deeper.

>> Deep dive indeed.

>> I am officially never going to use the word nice again.

I am going to go out

and find some harrowing experiences this week just

so I can tell you about them.

>> Please don't do anything too harrowing, but do tell me about the sensory details.

>> I will.

I'll report back on the aroma and the cacophony of my week.

Thanks for listening everyone.

Go out there, be a travel detective

and we will see you on the next deep dive.

>> I want you to picture a scenario

and uh I guarantee this has happened to you probably within the last month.

>> Oh, for sure.

Maybe even the last week.

>> Exactly.

So, you meet up with a friend, could be for coffee,

could be a drink, and they've just gotten back from a trip.

>> And it really doesn't matter where.

Bali for three weeks, a weekend in Paris,

>> or even just a hiking trip upstate.

The location is like totally irrelevant.

>> It's the dynamic.

It's always the same dynamic.

>> It is.

So, you sit down, you're genuinely excited for them.

You know, you can see they have a bit of a tan,

they look rested, and you lean in.

You are ready to be transported.

>> You want to live vicariously.

You're ready for the story.

>> Yes.

So, you ask the golden question, "How was it?"

And they look you dead in the eye.

They get this little smile and they say, "Ah, it was amazing.

We found this little hidden gem.

The views were just breathtaking."

>> And that's it.

That's the moment the light just dies behind your eyes.

>> It really is.

You find yourself doing that slow polite nod saying, "Wow, that sounds great."

But inside your brain has completely flatlined,

>> total system shut down >> because you have absolutely no idea what they experienced.

I mean, hidden gem could be anything.

It could be a pristine beach with no one on it,

or it could be a dive bar

that happens to have a good burger >>

and breathtaking.

What does that even mean?

A mountain, very steep set of stairs.

It conveys nothing.

>> It's the illusion of communication.

That's what it is.

>> That is a perfect way to put it.

They feel like they've told you everything, you know,

and you feel like you've heard nothing.

I call it caloric emptiness.

>> Caloric emptiness.

I like that.

It fills the silence, sure, but it provides zero nutritional value to the conversation.

>> It is the verbal equivalent of a rice cake.

>> Yes, that's it.

It's dry.

It's airy.

It occupies space, but 5 minutes later, you're absolutely starving for something real.

>> And the tragedy is we all do it.

I mean, I know I do it.

You return from these incredible complex experiences

and the first thing you do is default to these shiny empty adjectives.

>> It's like we check our storytelling skills at the baggage claim.

We just we leave them there.

Well, that is exactly why we are here today.

We are doing a deep dive into something

that might just save our social lives.

We're calling it the anti- cliche protocol.

>> It sounds pretty intense, like some kind of covert operation.

>> It is.

It's basically a rescue mission for our conversations.

We are digging into a masterclass session from the Advanced Learner Studio.

The instructors are Emma and John, >> right?

And the source material is called Beyond the Brochure: Advanced Narrative Techniques,

specifically part two.

>> And their entire mission,

their whole goal is to stop us from boring people to death.

>> A truly noble mission.

And they make a really bold claim right off the bat in this thing.

>> Yeah, they do.

>> They argue this isn't just, you know, a vocabulary problem.

It's not that people don't know enough words.

It's that 99% of advanced learners, and we're talking about fluent, smart people here,

>> fall into the trap of using what they call hackne language.

Hackne needed.

That is a word you just don't hear enough.

It feels heavy, you know.

>> It does.

It has weight.

It comes from the old word for a horse

that was like hired out for any old job.

>> So, just overworked, worn out, >> completely worn out.

A hackneed phrase is a one that's been used

so many times by

so many people that it's lost all of its original power.

It's basically a zombie phrase.

>> A zombie phrase.

>> It's walking, but it has no soul.

>> Okay.

Okay.

So, the goal of this deep dive is to give us the weapons to

fight these language zombies.

>> Yeah.

>> We're going to break down three specific pillars from Emma and John's session.

>> Right.

First up is killing the cliches.

>> Then, mastering the character sketch and my personal favorite, which we'll get to later,

the social pivot.

>> Ah, the social pivot.

That's basically verbal martial arts.

>> It really is.

We will get to that.

But I want to start with the core premise of this whole master class.

The instructors claim that if you follow this protocol,

you can make a simple trip to the grocery store sound like an epic

odyssey.

>> Which, you know, it sounds like hyperbole.

It sounds like an exaggeration,

but when you actually look at the mechanics of it, it completely holds up.

>> How so?

>> Well, the difference between a boring story

and a gripping story is almost never the content.

It's the framing.

It's how you present it.

>> You're saying I could tell a boring story about climbing Mount Everest.

>> Absolutely.

You could say, "Yeah, it was cold and uh the view was nice."

End of story.

And conversely, you can tell a riveting story about buying a carton of milk.

>> Like what?

>> The fluorescent lights in aisle 7 hummed like a swarm of angry bees

and the checkout line snaked back to the dawn of time.

>> Okay, I see your point.

That's immediately more interesting.

So, let's get into the toolkit.

The first pillar is all about identifying the enemy.

>> And they actually give us a list.

A list of banned words.

>> Yes.

And if you were in their studio,

apparently saying one of these words would trigger a loud buzzer sound.

>> It's a great list.

It's basically a hit list of words we think are compliments

but are actually conversation killers.

>> All right, let's run through them.

First up on the chopping block.

Beautiful.

>> The classic, the absolute default.

>> Then we have >> nice, >> the kiss of death.

Nothing is ever just nice.

>> Then bustling.

This is a big one for travel writers.

A bustling market.

>> Can we pause on bustling for a second?

Why do we hate bustling so much?

Well, for me, I feel like I've read it in every single guide book

ever printed.

Visit the bustling souks of Marrikesh.

>> Exactly.

It's become a lazy shortorthhand.

It tells me, okay, there were people moving around,

but it strips away the entire sensory reality of the place.

>> Right.

Is it bustling with people shouting and laughing,

or is it bustling with like mopeds trying to run you over?

>> Does it smell like spices, or does it smell like diesel exhaust?

bustling sanitizes the chaos.

It puts this polite, sterile filter over what is usually a sweaty, loud, intense,

and interesting experience.

>> Safe.

It's a brochure word.

>> And that's the whole problem.

We are not living brochures.

We're human beings.

>> Okay.

Next on the band list, hidden gem.

>> I have such a visceral reaction to hidden gem.

>> But why?

It sounds so positive.

I found a hidden gem.

It makes you sound like a savvy traveler.

>> Because it's almost never true.

For one, if you found it on Yelp or a travel blog, guess what?

It's not hidden.

>> Good point.

>> But more importantly, it's just vague.

What makes it a gem?

The food, the decor, the fact that it was quiet.

Hidden gem is just a label you slap on something

so you don't have to do the work of actually describing it.

>> And then we come to the ultimate offender, the final boss of lazy storytelling.

>> Ah, yes.

Breathtaking.

>> Breathtaking.

Emma and John in the source material,

they say this is the hill they're willing to die on.

They argue that breathtaking is the single laziest word in the English language.

>> It's a bold claim.

>> It is.

And I I have to play devil's advocate for a second here.

I have been to places I'm thinking the Grand Canyon at sunrise,

the Swiss Alps, where the view literally feels like it knocks the wind out

of you.

It is breathtaking.

Why can't I just say that?

>> And that's the trap.

You can say it, of course,

but you have to understand what you're doing when you say it.

You're telling the listener how you felt,

but you're not giving them any of the evidence to feel it for themselves.

>> So, I'm just giving them a conclusion without the proof.

>> Precisely.

It's a command.

You're saying, "This view is amazing, and you have to trust me on this."

>> It's like a stand-up comedian walking on stage and just saying,

"By the way, I'm hilarious."

Instead of actually telling a joke.

>> Exactly.

You are demanding a reaction, in this case, awe, without earning it.

You're outsourcing the mental work to the listener.

>> What do you mean outsourcing?

>> You say breathtaking and my brain has to scramble to fill in the blank.

It goes, "Okay, was it a sunset, a mountain, a big building?"

And because my brain is lazy, you know what it does?

It just pulls up a generic stock photo of nice nature.

>> So, I'm not giving you the actual image.

I'm just giving you a vague category.

>> You're robbing me of the actual image.

And that brings us to the core mechanism of the whole protocol.

The rule is this.

If you catch yourself reaching for a band word,

if you feel breathtaking starting to form in your throat, you have to stop.

>> Physically stop >> and replace it.

>> Yeah, >> you must replace it with either a metaphor or a specific action.

>> The mantra they use in the source is writing is seeing

or for our purposes speaking is seeing.

>> Right?

The whole goal is to force the listener's brain to visualize the scene.

You want to make them hallucinate what you saw.

>> Okay, let's make this concrete.

The case study from the session is perfect for this.

It's where the theory becomes practice.

We have the student John describing a trip to the Swiss Alps.

>> A classic scenario.

High stakes, big beauty.

It's so easy to mess this up.

>> So, his first attempt is what we'd all do.

Yeah.

It's the default setting.

>> He says, "I went to the Swiss Alps.

The view was breathtaking."

>> Buzzer buzzer sound >> vetoed.

Emma, the instructor, she stalks him.

She makes him go back.

She says, "Look again. describe the shape, the texture, the feeling.

And his second attempt is, well, it's something else entirely.

It's so intense.

Let's break it down line by line.

>> Let's do it.

>> Okay, so instead of the mountains were breathtaking,

he says the peaks tore into the sky like jagged teeth.

>> Okay, just stop right there.

Let's just live with that for a second.

Jagged teeth.

>> It's so aggressive, isn't it?

>> It's violent.

And that is exactly why it works.

When you and I think Swiss Alps, we usually think of like chocolate boxes,

Heidi, cows with bells.

>> It's all very sound of music.

Very peaceful.

>> Very peaceful.

But real mountains, I mean big, massive mountains.

They aren't just peaceful.

They are scary.

They're dangerous.

They are completely indifferent to human life.

>> And jagged teeth captures that danger.

It captures the threat.

>> It does.

I mean, think about the word jagged versus a word like sharp.

A knife is sharp.

A scalpel is sharp.

Sharpness implies something clean, something precise, right?

Jagged implies something that's been broken, something that's been ruptured.

It suggests a kind of geological violence.

And then you add teeth, >> which immediately makes you think of a predator.

>> A mouth.

Exactly.

He's personified the entire mountain range as a monstrous mouth.

And notice the verb he used.

The peaks didn't touch the sky.

They tore into the sky.

>> So the sky is the victim.

The sky is the prey.

The sky is being wounded by the earth.

That is such a heavy primal image.

It taps into our deep evolutionary fear of big sharp things.

And because it's a little bit scary, it's sticky.

>> You remember jagged teeth.

You instantly forget beautiful peaks.

>> It wakes up the brain.

The word beautiful puts the brain to sleep.

The phrase jagged teeth sounds an alarm ball.

>> Okay, so that's the first part.

It's intense.

Yeah.

>> But he doesn't just stay in that highintensity violence.

He then moves his gaze down into the valley.

And this is where the genius of contrast comes in.

>> This is the line that really stuck with me.

He says, "The valley stretched out below like a rumpled green blanket stitched together

by silver rivers."

>> Okay, so this is just masterful.

We just came from jagged teeth, which is all hard, sharp, dangerous,

and now we get rumpled green blanket.

What's the immediate association you have with a blanket?

>> Comfort, warmth.

It's soft.

It's your bed.

It's safety.

>> It's domestic.

It's human scale.

He has taken this massive indifferent geological feature

and he's scaled it down to something you find in your bedroom.

He's made the valley feel lived in and familiar.

>> And the word rumpled.

He didn't say a flat green blanket.

Why rumpled?

>> Because rumpled is a texture word.

A flat green blanket sounds boring.

It sounds like a golf course or something artificial.

Rumpled means it has folds.

It has hills.

It has smaller valleys within the valley.

It looks organic.

>> It looks like someone just woke up there.

It feels messy and real.

>> Exactly.

It adds that human messy element to the landscape.

And then he continues the metaphor.

Stitched together by silver rivers.

>> He's sticking with the fabric idea, >> right?

Stitched.

It implies the rivers are doing work.

They are the thread holding this whole fabric of the land together.

It gives the landscape a sense of design, of interconnectedness.

>> And he uses silver.

He doesn't say the rivers were blue.

>> And this is such a crucial detail of observation.

If you ask a 5-year-old to draw a river,

they're going to pick the blue crayon.

But if you actually stand on a mountain and look down at a river,

does it look blue?

>> No.

Not usually.

It's reflecting the sun, the sky, it looks white or gray or silver.

>> Exactly.

Blue is an assumption.

Silver is an observation.

When he says silver,

it tells my brain

that he was actually standing there really looking at how the light was hitting

the water.

It adds so much credibility.

>> It feels metallic and precious, too.

Like jewelry on the blanket.

Yes.

So, think about what we have now.

In just two sentences,

we have a monster biting the sky

and a cozy blanket stitched with silver thread.

That's an incredibly complex picture.

>> It's the contrast.

The brain loves that.

>> Breathtaking is one flat, boring note.

This description is a full chord with tension and harmony.

>> But he's still not done.

He adds one more layer.

And this one is about physical sensation.

He says, "The air was so crisp,

it actually stung my lungs." going my lungs.

Now we've left the purely visual and we've entered the somatic, the physical body.

>> I can feel that.

I know that exact feeling of breathing in cold air

that has so much oxygen it almost hurts.

>> Your mirror neurons are firing.

The moment he says stung, your body remembers a time it felt that sting.

You might even involuntarily take a shallower breath.

He's bridged the gap between his body and yours.

>> Breathtaking is an abstract idea.

Stinging my lungs is a physiological event.

>> That's the difference.

So, the big takeaway here for anyone listening is don't just tell me how

great it was,

force my brain to see it, and then force my body to feel it.

>> But it requires effort.

That's the catch, isn't it?

It's so much easier to just say, "Beautiful."

>> Of course it is.

It's hard work to scan your memory and ask,

"What did it really look like?

Was it like a blanket?

Was it like a saw blade?

Was it like spilled ink?"

You have to engage your own imagination before you can ever hope to engage

someone else's.

But the payoff is huge.

The payoff is that people actually listen to you.

>> The payoff is that you become memorable.

Your stories become memorable.

>> Okay, so we've handled the scenery.

We've officially killed the breathtaking mountains.

But usually when you go on a trip

or even just go to a dinner party,

the most important part isn't the landscape, it's the people.

>> It's the cast of characters you meet along the way.

>> And this is where we run into the second pillar of the protocol,

the character sketch.

And just like before,

the source material identifies one specific word

that it calls the killer of good stories.

>> And that word is friendly.

>> I feel personally intact again.

I use friendly all the time.

Oh, the waiter was so friendly.

My Uber driver was really friendly.

The locals were friendly.

>> And again, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news,

but friendly is a garbage word in storytelling.

It's just terrible.

>> But why?

I mean, being friendly is a good thing.

Being friendly is a great thing for society.

It is a terrible thing for narrative because friendly is the absolute baseline.

It's the default setting for civilized human interaction.

>> So, it's just expected.

>> It's expected.

>> Yeah.

>> If a waiter brings you your food and doesn't spit in it,

they are by definition friendly.

It tells me absolutely nothing about who they are as a person.

>> It's generic.

It turns them into an NPC, a non-player character from a video game.

>> Precisely.

Friendly creates a cardboard cutout.

It erases their humanity.

If you say the locals were friendly,

you've effectively said the humans acted like humans.

Great.

No new data.

My brain is bored.

>> So, what's the fix?

How do we turn an NPC into a main character?

>> The solution they propose is all about micro details.

The technique is to zoom in.

You stop describing a whole population

or a general vibe

and you focus on one specific person

and one specific observable trait

or action.

Let's use the example from the class cuz it's perfect.

The Moroccan tea vendor, >> right?

So John, our student, starts with the lazy version.

He says, "I met this old tea vendor in the market."

He was very nice.

>> Another veto nice is just friendly in a cheap suit.

>> Emma pushes him.

She says, "Look at him again in your memory.

Look at his face.

Look at his hands.

What did he actually do?"

She's demanding a portrait, not a label.

>> And John digs deep.

He comes back with this description.

His face was a road map of the desert etched with deep lines.

Okay, let's unpack that metaphor.

A road map of the desert.

What does a road map do?

>> It guides you.

It shows you the way.

It shows you where you've been.

>> And it implies history.

It implies that this man knows the terrain of life.

He isn't just old.

Old can suggest frailty, weakness.

Road map suggests wisdom and survival.

>> It suggests the sun, the wind, the sand.

They've literally written his life story on his skin.

>> It's an act of respect.

Old can feel dismissive.

Road map feels like an honor.

>> But then John adds a twist

because if you just leave it at road map of the desert,

he might sound a little too serious, a bit stoic.

>> Yeah.

You risk falling into another cliche, the wise old elder trope, >> right?

But John adds this detail, but his eyes sparkled with mischief.

>> Mischief.

That's the hook.

That's the word that changes everything.

>> It completely changes him.

Now he's not just some wise silent man.

He's a prankster.

He's got a secret.

He's got energy.

Maybe he's about to tease Jon.

Maybe he's overcharging him for the tea,

but he's doing it with a little smile.

It creates a contradiction.

A weathered ancient face, but youthful, energetic eyes.

>> And that's where characters live, right?

In the contradictions.

>> Always real people are complicated.

Friendly is simple.

Weathered but mischievous is complex.

That is a person I actually want to meet.

>> And then the source emphasizes the importance of a specific action.

We need to see this character do something, >> right?

Don't just tell me he served tea.

Show me how he did it.

John says he poured the tea from 3 ft high with the precision of

a surgeon.

>> Precision of a surgeon.

Wow.

That completely elevates the act, doesn't it?

>> It turns a simple chore into a masterful performance.

If he just pours tea, he's a waiter.

If he pours it from 3 ft in the air without spilling a single

drop,

he's a master of his craft.

>> It gives him high status.

>> Surgeon is a high status word.

It implies life and death stakes, years of training, perfectly steady hands.

By applying that word to a tea vendor,

you're granting him immense dignity and skill.

You're telling the listener, "Pay attention.

Respect this man."

>> So, let's compare the before and after.

I met a nice old guy who gave me tea versus I met a

man with a road map on his face

and mischievous eyes who poured tea like a surgeon.

>> One is a forgettable encounter you'd tell no one about.

The other is a scene from a movie.

And you see the pattern again.

Friendly becomes sparkling with mischief.

Skilled becomes precision of a surgeon.

>> You're creating vague adjectives for specific powerful images.

>> Exactly.

>> But I do have a question here.

This sounds amazing for, you know,

a travel story where you have the time and space to observe these details.

But what about normal life?

If I'm just telling my partner about a guy I dealt with at the

DMV,

do I really need to look for the road map on his face?

Isn't that a little much?

>> It's a fair question.

It doesn't have to be poetic every single time.

It just has to be specific.

So, if you're at the DMV, don't just say the clerk was rude.

>> What would I say instead?

>> Say, "He stamped my form

so hard I thought he was trying to kill a spider."

>> Okay, I can see that.

That's a very clear image.

>> Or, he typed with just one finger staring at the ceiling the entire time.

That's a micro detail.

It's funny.

It's visual.

And it perfectly conveys rude

or incompetent or bored without you ever having to use those boring labels.

>> So, it's about capturing the specific behavior, not just summarizing the vibe.

>> That's it.

Our brains are prediction machines.

When you say, "The clerk was rude," my brain just goes, "Okay, got it."

And it predicts the rest of the story and stops listening.

But when you say,

"He stamped the form like he was killing a spider," my brain wakes up.

It goes, "Whoa, that's aggressive.

Tell me more."

Specificity creates curiosity.

>> Okay, so we have the setting, we have the characters.

Now we get to the part of the source material

that I think is maybe the most practical for everyday life,

but also maybe the most dangerous to execute.

>> Social pivot.

>> This is segment three, and the source calls it verbal judo.

>> And that's a perfect name for it.

It really is a form of conversational self-defense.

>> So here's the scenario they lay out.

You are in the middle of telling your story.

You've set the scene with your jagged teeth mountains.

You've introduced your surgeon-like tea vendor.

You are on a roll.

You have the audience in the palm of your hand.

And then someone interrupts.

>> Uh the oneuper, the story hijacker.

>> Yes.

The person who says, "Oh, Morocco.

I went there, too.

We stay at the Marriott.

The breakfast buffet was incredible."

>> And just like that, the train has completely derailed.

We are no longer talking about ancient culture and masterful artisans.

We are talking about omelet stations at a multinational hotel chain.

>> It's so painful to experience.

And John, the student in the source,

admits that his usual reaction in that situation is to just shut down.

He just stops talking.

>> Which is the flight response, right?

You feel defeated.

You think, "Well, I guess nobody cares about my story."

But Emma, the instructor, says, "No, do not surrender the microphone.

Pivot."

>> But this is the tricky part, isn't it?

Because if you just steamroll them and keep talking,

you look like a total narcissist who doesn't listen to other people.

>> Exactly.

If you say, "Yeah, anyway, back to my story."

You're the villain in that situation.

You just come off as rude.

So, you have to do something that feels counterintuitive.

>> What's that?

>> You have to feed the interrupter just for a second.

>> Feed the beast.

>> It's a very specific three-step process.

Acknowledge, validate, and then steer.

>> Let's try to roleplay this

because I think the tone of voice here is everything.

If you get the tone wrong, you can sound really condescending.

>> Okay, good idea.

I'll be the oneuper.

You start your story.

>> Okay, so I was deep in the desert

and the silence was

so heavy it felt like a physical blanket.

>> The desert.

I went to Dubai last year.

We went dune buggy.

It was so loud and crazy my hat flew right off.

>> Okay, so my initial gut reaction is that I want to kill you.

You just took my beautiful,

profound silence and ran it over with a loud dune bugging.

>> I did.

I completely hijacked the mood.

Now use the protocol.

Fix it.

But don't ignore me.

>> Right.

Okay.

Step one, acknowledge and validate.

Oh, wow.

Dune bugging in Dubai sounds absolutely intense.

That must have been a huge adrenaline rush.

>> Okay, I feel good now.

You listen to me.

You acknowledge my cool story.

I'm nodding.

I like you again.

>> Okay, now step two, the bridge.

I need to find a link between your story and my story.

You said loud and crazy.

My story is about silence.

Those are total opposites.

>> Perfect.

Use that contrast.

That's your bridge.

>> You know, speaking of that kind of intensity,

what really shocked me about my trip was actually the complete opposite.

It was how quiet everything was.

>> And you're back seamless.

>> That felt surprisingly smooth.

>> It was because you didn't shut me down.

You actually used my energy, the concept of loudness,

as a springboard to get right back to your topic of silence.

>> The phrase speaking of seems to be the magic key.

Speaking of is the Swiss Army knife of conversation.

It's an incredible tool.

It allows you to connect almost anything to anything else.

>> Give me another example.

What if they interrupt with something totally random?

I bought a rug there.

>> Okay.

I bought a rug there.

You validate.

That's amazing.

The rugs there are incredible works of art.

Then you bridge.

Speaking of craftsmanship.