How to Make “Where Are You From?” Sound Exciting

You wouldn't dream of going to a party naked. And I hope you

wouldn't dream of letting your conversation be exposed naked and

defenseless against the two inevitable assaults "Where are you

from?" and "What do you do?"

When asked these questions, most people, like clunking a frozen steak on a china platter, drop a brick of frozen geography or

baffling job title on the asker's conversational platter. Then they

slap on the muzzle.

You're at a convention. Everyone you meet will, of course, ask

"And where are you from?" When you give them the short-form

naked-city answer "Oh, I'm from Muscatine, Iowa" (or Millinocket, Maine; Winnemucca, Nevada; or anywhere they haven't

heard of ), what can you expect except a blank stare? Even if you're

a relatively big city slicker from Denver, Colorado; Detroit, Michigan; or San Diego, California, you'll receive a panicked look from

all but American history professors. They're rapidly racking their

brains thinking "What do I say next?" Even the names of worldclass burgs like New York, Chicago, Washington, and Los Angeles inspire less-than-riveting responses. When I tell people I'm

from New York City, what are they expected to say? "Duh, seen

any good muggings lately?"

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How to Make "Where

Are You From?"

Sound Exciting

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Copyright 2003 by Leil Lowndes. Click Here for Terms of Use.

Do humanity and yourself a favor. Never, ever, give just a onesentence response to the question, "Where are you from?" Give the

asker some fuel for his tank, some fodder for his trough. Give the hungry communicator something to conversationally nibble on. All it

takes is an extra sentence or two about your city—some interesting

fact, some witty observation—to hook the asker into the conversation.

Several months ago, a trade association invited me to be its

keynote speaker on networking and teaching people to be better

conversationalists. Just before my speech, I was introduced to Mrs.

Devlin, who was the head of the association.

"How do you do?" she asked.

"How do you do?" I replied.

Then Mrs. Devlin smiled, anxiously awaiting a sample of my

stimulating conversational expertise. I asked her where she was

from. She plunked a frozen "Columbus, Ohio" and a big expectant

grin on my platter. I had to quickly thaw her answer into digestible

conversation. My mind thrashed into action. Leil's thought pattern: "Gulp, Columbus, Ohio. I've never been there, hmm. Criminy, what do I know about Columbus? I know a fellow named Jeff,

a successful speaker who lives there. But Columbus is too big to

ask if she knows him . . . and besides only kids play the 'Do-youknow-so-and-so' game." My panicked silent search continued. "I

think it's named after Christopher Columbus . . . but I'm not sure,

so I better keep my mouth shut on that one." Four or five other

possibilities raced through my mind but I rejected them all as too

obvious, too adolescent, or too off-the-wall.

I realized by now that seconds had passed, and Mrs. Devlin

was still standing there with a slowly dissipating smile on her face.

She was waiting for me (the "expert" who, within the hour, was

expected to teach her trade association lessons on scintillating conversation) to spew forth words of wit or wisdom.

"Oh, Columbus, gee," I mumbled in desperation, watching

her face fall into the worried expression of a patient being asked

by the surgeon, knife poised in hand, "Where's your appendix?"