Аманда Палмер - The Art of Asking; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help

How’s he feeling? I asked. I haven’t talked to him since Monday .

Anthony had been recovering, but in and out of doctors’ offices and hospitals for the past month. I tried to call him at least every other day, to get the sick-friend weather report.

He gets more test results back next week , said Neil. He’s annoyed with the steroids they’re making him take, and he’s angry about everything. I can relate. I once had to take the same steroids for a week, and I just remember thinking everybody around me was incredibly stupid and irritating. And we talked about you. He told me a funny story about you and one of your ex-boyfriends .

Oh NO. Which one?

Aaron , said Neil. He told me about the time that you and Aaron were having some kind of problem, and Aaron went to him for advice. Anthony told him, “Whatever you do, just give her some space. Leave her alone. And for god’s sake, don’t throw yourself at her feet or bring her flowers or anything.” And how the next day Aaron showed up at your house with a giant bouquet of flowers .

Ha. Yeah , I said. Aaron wasn’t a very good listener in general .

He also said something very wise. He said: “Once she hits ’em, they stay hit.”

I laughed. Yeah, that’s a thing he’s been saying for years .

He also said: “You’ve got a tiger by the tail, Neil-i-o.”

Ha. That’s such an Anthony thing to say. He actually called you Neil-i-o?

Yes , Neil said somewhat proudly, setting me off into a giggle fit.

Darling, I really like Anthony. I was worried in the beginning that he didn’t like me. I think he wants to be my real friend. Do you think so?

I stopped laughing. Neil was being so serious about it.

Yeah, I think so, honey. I think he does want to be your real friend. I think he loves you .

What? Why? Neil sounded amazed.

Well, first of all, because you love me. But more… because you keep offering to help. You’re buying the ticket. That’s what makes you a real friend, to him. But even more… because youask him to help with our relationship stuff. He loves to help his friends with their problems—that’s his thing, it’s his gift. And if he wants to help you, and you let him help, it seals the deal .

Really? said Neil. I was worried about being a bother . Then, puzzled, Buying what ticket?

As I was really hitting my couchsurfing and crowdsourcing Twitter stride, I booked a ticket to London on Icelandair at the start of a long tour. The catch was that you had to connect through Reykjavik, where they hoped you might stay a day or two to pump some money into the Icelandic economy.

We landed in the tiny Reykjavik airport and my connecting flight was delayed, so I went, like you do, in search of a power outlet and a sandwich. The sole airport café was out of sandwiches. I sat on the airport floor emailing for about an hour, and when they still hadn’t posted a new departure time, I approached the information counter.

As I stood in line, I looked up and, cartoonlike, one by one every single flight switched its status to CANCELED.

The volcano had just erupted.

We were on the opposite side of the island, so there was no imminent danger, but there was no saying when planes would be flying again. A day? A week? They didn’t know. I was supposed to be in London that night, doing press for the BBC, and then flying to Glasgow the day after to start the tour. I emailed my crew, who were scheduled to meet me in Glasgow. They were all grounded in America. All air traffic to Europe had been canceled. Things did not look good.

Everybody stranded at the Reykjavik airport was given a hotel voucher, and the airline started organizing shuttle buses.

I was stuck in Iceland, a place I’d never been and where I didn’t know a single person. Standing at the baggage carousel, somewhat stunned, I twittered the situation. BAM: someone volunteered their bar for a ninja gig that night, the fans in Iceland made themselves known, and a folk songwriter who’d once opened up for me in New Zealand saw my tweet and introduced me via text to her childhood friend Indiana, who screeched up to the airport terminal wearing a cowboy hat and blasting classic rock from her car stereo.

As everybody else glumly queued for the shuttle bus, I felt like some kind of lottery winner when Indiana jumped out of the car, hugged me, threw my luggage in the back, and whisked me away me into the lunar Nordic landscape.

You’re a friend of Hera’s! she shouted over the Jethro Tull. So I love you! Where do you wanna go?? You’re in Iceland! You have never been?? You make music?? I’ll take you anywhere!!!

Let’s go to those thermal baths! I shouted.

Yes! To the Blue Lagoon!!! she shouted.

Who are you!? I yelled back. And what are you supposed to be doing today instead of babysitting an American stranded by a volcano erupting on your island?!

I’m a grad student!!! My thesis is late! Fuck my thesis!!!! she replied, and proceeded to host me for the entire day, asking me about the music I made, taking me to the thermal baths, and enlightening me with stories—over a dinner she let me buy her in a local restaurant—about how everybody our age in Iceland was fleeing to mainland Europe due to the current economic climate.

After dinner, Indiana drove me to my ninja gig, which I’d been twittering and texting into existence for four hours straight: I’d twittered back then texted the guy who knew the bar owner who was keen to host the gig, I’d twittered then texted the person who was willing to loan a keyboard, and I’d twittered everybody in the world to please tell Iceland that I was playing a free, all-ages volcano-inspired show that night at Kaffibarinn at nine p.m.

That night was one for the books—or at least for this book. When we pulled up to the bar, the piano and speakers were already set up, the whole room cheered, and the place was so jam-packed that I had to crowdsurf over the crowd from the front door to get to the piano in the corner. I went straight at it, pounding out songs by request and trying every variety of vodka that was being passed from the bar to the piano, and twittered pictures from this glorious accidental moment all night (#StrandedInIceland #SoAwesome). The audience was made up of a few dozen hardcore fans who couldn’t believe I had suddenly materialized in this country I’d never toured in, a few dozen people who’d never heard of me, and a handful of Americans, Europeans, and Australians also stuck in Reykjavik who had twittered their situations and been flagged down by fans who told them about my spontaneous gig.

It all happened on just half a day’s notice, and it had the camaraderie of an international outpost bar, like a fleeting whiff of Rick’s Café in Casablanca . I enjoyed enough Icelandic vodka that evening that I didn’t even bother to make a mailing list. The country is small. If I came back, it seemed a single tweet would probably suffice to gather all of Iceland on a moment’s notice.

I finally told Neil I’d marry him on New Year’s Day of 2010, as we took a pause from a long late-morning walk. I was nursing a brutal hangover, having played a New Year’s Eve show the night before with the Boston Pops at Symphony Hall and consumed two bottles of champagne over the course of the evening: the first out of nervousness, the second out of triumph. We’d had brunch with my dad, his wife, and my half brother—they’d all come to town for the show—and I was now staggering down Newbury Street in Boston, trying not to project my breakfast smoothie onto the sidewalk.