Road Show Diary
Feb 6th, 2000 | 07:28 PM
#1
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Road Show Diary
Prologue
In the world of investment banking, there is a right of passage that is two parts anachronism, one part endurance test. It is called a road show. Every company that goes public goes through one; every company that wants to sell debt or additional stock to raise money gets to go through it again. Rumors persist that the Internet will make the road show obsolete, but in my company’s discussions with investment bankers, no mention was made of an alternative. Perhaps bankers believe, in some mad scientist way, that surviving a road show is part and parcel of proving that a company’s management is worthy of the investing public’s faith.
What a road show is, is a two- to three-week barnstorming tour of the country, with periodic forays to Europe or Asia. At this writing, four days before our road show is to begin, we have only a vague notion that we will “start in the midwest” and move on to the “west coast.” This covers a powerful amount of terrain. The three of us who are making this journey know only that, like troops told they are moving up to the front, we are to be ready for orders; we leave Sunday night. In reality, the underwriting companies’ salesmen are still making calls to the mutual funds and money managers that are their customers. If we don’t know if our first stop is Chicago or Kansas City, it is likely because our investment bankers still do not know, either.
This is not my first road show, which is why I am writing these words. While I am far from an old hand, I have “been there, done that” enough times to have some clue of what lies ahead. My purpose in writing is to entertain: to offer some observations of a life on the road in which you wake up in Seattle, have lunch in Portland, and go to sleep in San Francisco. I should mention that when one participates in a road show, one is pampered. If I know and have been able to offer advice in this Forum on the Ritz Carlton or the Four Seasons in this city or that, road shows have contributed mightily to my body of knowledge. On a road show, you fly and stay first class. It is part of the regimen that keeps you looking fresh each morning as you start the next round of presentations.
Finally, a word about me. I normally contribute to Fodors using my own name and e-mail address, and have been rewarded with the pleasure of sporadic correspondence from fellow Fodorites. But mine is a company in registration, and so is in what is called a “quiet period” (drop a note to Brian in Atlanta to get full details; I’m sure he’s an expert). I choose not to run afoul of the folks that oversee public offerings, and so will remain anonymous.
* * * * *
In the past month, I’ve logged enough miles on the Delta Shuttle that they’ve offered to name a plane after me. Well, maybe not that many miles, but I’ve come to know the vagaries of traffic patterns between Manhattan and LaGuardia Airport sufficiently that I can tell by how traffic is moving on the entrance ramp to FDR Drive whether I should direct the taxi driver to head for Marine Air Terminal or the US Air Shuttle. And, along the way, I have acquired a new, favorite hotel in New York.
Folks, the next time you are headed for the Big Apple, don’t bother with the phony glitz of the Marriott Marquis or some “European boutique hotel” in Greenwich Village. Call the Palace and demand a room… a good room on the Madison Avenue side. The Palace, nee the Helmsley Palace, has surely got to combine the best service, best views, with the nicest hotel rooms ever planted on Manhattan Island. The Palace begins with its base, the magnificent old Villard Houses, a remnant of a Manhattan fast disappearing.
There is one block along Madison Avenue – between 51st and 52nd Street, where the scale is human and the pedestrian encouraged to slow down a bit. On the west side of the street are the Manse houses of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. On the east side, the Villard Houses. These block-long structures, Romanesque on the west, Belle Epoque on the east, prove that God likes and protects good architecture. Instead of leveling the mansion, the Palace integrates it into the structure, with the dark brown hotel tower rising submissively behind the cool stone exterior of the Villard Houses. Inside, the mansion has become a functional part of the hotel, housing shops, part of the lobby, and meeting rooms. The restoration is first rate, the effect dazzling.
My room on the 19th Floor, Madison Avenue side, provided me a spectacular view overlooking St. Pats with Rockefeller Center in the block beyond. The hotel, nearing its 15th birthday, looks as though it were opened last week. My spacious room was newly decorated and had all the trappings of a luxury hotel. And, that included a down comforter. It is the first time I’ve ever encountered one in a hotel; it was a pleasure. The rooms are extremely quiet, something rare in a high-rise hotel.
The rate was $250 per night. Not cheap, but less than I’ve paid in recent weeks at the Sheraton, Essex House, and Plaza.
* * * *
Day 1
I have read that when Allied commanders briefed the press in advance of D-Day, great pains were taken to throw reporters off the scent of the Normandy landing site. Generals would point their walking sticks at maps with dozens of locales from Calais to Antwerp, arguing why each was the most plausible beachhead. And so our “first day” itinerary has shifted a half a dozen times, from Chicago to Minneapolis to Milwaukee. On Friday, morning, we were being booked into the Four Seasons in Chicago for Sunday night. By Friday evening, our destination was settled on as Milwaukee.
Why Milwaukee? Who knows. Maybe it’s like trying out in New Haven. We can re-write the script before we do damage to ourselves in front of the “real” audiences that lay ahead. In any event, our destination this evening is the Pfister Hotel. The Pfister is Milwaukee’s “grand” hotel, a great stone pile with turn-of-the-century marble lobby. The elevators have gold leaf; clearly, someone has gone to a lot of trouble to either keep the Pfister first rate or else turn it into something of a destination.
My room, in the “old section” (“much nicer than the tower rooms,” the bellman assures me), is pretty enough, but the three windows open out on to nothing but a rooftop and rooms across the air shaft. A major disappointment.
I’ve often wondered what goes into the thought process of amenities to provide in a given hotel’s bathroom. For my single room, the Pfister has chosen to provide the following: 4 bath towels, 4 hair towels, 4 face cloths, 2 “skin care bars,” each 40 grams, Gilchrist and Soames soap, 1 bar of glycerine soap, and 1 each of 1 ounce Gilchrist & Soames “hydrating body lotion” and shampoo. Is all of this stuff to justify the room rate, or does someone expect me to take four baths?
Well, enough for day one. My thanks to anyone who has chosen to read this; tomorrow, the work begins.
In the world of investment banking, there is a right of passage that is two parts anachronism, one part endurance test. It is called a road show. Every company that goes public goes through one; every company that wants to sell debt or additional stock to raise money gets to go through it again. Rumors persist that the Internet will make the road show obsolete, but in my company’s discussions with investment bankers, no mention was made of an alternative. Perhaps bankers believe, in some mad scientist way, that surviving a road show is part and parcel of proving that a company’s management is worthy of the investing public’s faith.
What a road show is, is a two- to three-week barnstorming tour of the country, with periodic forays to Europe or Asia. At this writing, four days before our road show is to begin, we have only a vague notion that we will “start in the midwest” and move on to the “west coast.” This covers a powerful amount of terrain. The three of us who are making this journey know only that, like troops told they are moving up to the front, we are to be ready for orders; we leave Sunday night. In reality, the underwriting companies’ salesmen are still making calls to the mutual funds and money managers that are their customers. If we don’t know if our first stop is Chicago or Kansas City, it is likely because our investment bankers still do not know, either.
This is not my first road show, which is why I am writing these words. While I am far from an old hand, I have “been there, done that” enough times to have some clue of what lies ahead. My purpose in writing is to entertain: to offer some observations of a life on the road in which you wake up in Seattle, have lunch in Portland, and go to sleep in San Francisco. I should mention that when one participates in a road show, one is pampered. If I know and have been able to offer advice in this Forum on the Ritz Carlton or the Four Seasons in this city or that, road shows have contributed mightily to my body of knowledge. On a road show, you fly and stay first class. It is part of the regimen that keeps you looking fresh each morning as you start the next round of presentations.
Finally, a word about me. I normally contribute to Fodors using my own name and e-mail address, and have been rewarded with the pleasure of sporadic correspondence from fellow Fodorites. But mine is a company in registration, and so is in what is called a “quiet period” (drop a note to Brian in Atlanta to get full details; I’m sure he’s an expert). I choose not to run afoul of the folks that oversee public offerings, and so will remain anonymous.
* * * * *
In the past month, I’ve logged enough miles on the Delta Shuttle that they’ve offered to name a plane after me. Well, maybe not that many miles, but I’ve come to know the vagaries of traffic patterns between Manhattan and LaGuardia Airport sufficiently that I can tell by how traffic is moving on the entrance ramp to FDR Drive whether I should direct the taxi driver to head for Marine Air Terminal or the US Air Shuttle. And, along the way, I have acquired a new, favorite hotel in New York.
Folks, the next time you are headed for the Big Apple, don’t bother with the phony glitz of the Marriott Marquis or some “European boutique hotel” in Greenwich Village. Call the Palace and demand a room… a good room on the Madison Avenue side. The Palace, nee the Helmsley Palace, has surely got to combine the best service, best views, with the nicest hotel rooms ever planted on Manhattan Island. The Palace begins with its base, the magnificent old Villard Houses, a remnant of a Manhattan fast disappearing.
There is one block along Madison Avenue – between 51st and 52nd Street, where the scale is human and the pedestrian encouraged to slow down a bit. On the west side of the street are the Manse houses of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. On the east side, the Villard Houses. These block-long structures, Romanesque on the west, Belle Epoque on the east, prove that God likes and protects good architecture. Instead of leveling the mansion, the Palace integrates it into the structure, with the dark brown hotel tower rising submissively behind the cool stone exterior of the Villard Houses. Inside, the mansion has become a functional part of the hotel, housing shops, part of the lobby, and meeting rooms. The restoration is first rate, the effect dazzling.
My room on the 19th Floor, Madison Avenue side, provided me a spectacular view overlooking St. Pats with Rockefeller Center in the block beyond. The hotel, nearing its 15th birthday, looks as though it were opened last week. My spacious room was newly decorated and had all the trappings of a luxury hotel. And, that included a down comforter. It is the first time I’ve ever encountered one in a hotel; it was a pleasure. The rooms are extremely quiet, something rare in a high-rise hotel.
The rate was $250 per night. Not cheap, but less than I’ve paid in recent weeks at the Sheraton, Essex House, and Plaza.
* * * *
Day 1
I have read that when Allied commanders briefed the press in advance of D-Day, great pains were taken to throw reporters off the scent of the Normandy landing site. Generals would point their walking sticks at maps with dozens of locales from Calais to Antwerp, arguing why each was the most plausible beachhead. And so our “first day” itinerary has shifted a half a dozen times, from Chicago to Minneapolis to Milwaukee. On Friday, morning, we were being booked into the Four Seasons in Chicago for Sunday night. By Friday evening, our destination was settled on as Milwaukee.
Why Milwaukee? Who knows. Maybe it’s like trying out in New Haven. We can re-write the script before we do damage to ourselves in front of the “real” audiences that lay ahead. In any event, our destination this evening is the Pfister Hotel. The Pfister is Milwaukee’s “grand” hotel, a great stone pile with turn-of-the-century marble lobby. The elevators have gold leaf; clearly, someone has gone to a lot of trouble to either keep the Pfister first rate or else turn it into something of a destination.
My room, in the “old section” (“much nicer than the tower rooms,” the bellman assures me), is pretty enough, but the three windows open out on to nothing but a rooftop and rooms across the air shaft. A major disappointment.
I’ve often wondered what goes into the thought process of amenities to provide in a given hotel’s bathroom. For my single room, the Pfister has chosen to provide the following: 4 bath towels, 4 hair towels, 4 face cloths, 2 “skin care bars,” each 40 grams, Gilchrist and Soames soap, 1 bar of glycerine soap, and 1 each of 1 ounce Gilchrist & Soames “hydrating body lotion” and shampoo. Is all of this stuff to justify the room rate, or does someone expect me to take four baths?
Well, enough for day one. My thanks to anyone who has chosen to read this; tomorrow, the work begins.
Feb 7th, 2000 | 08:24 PM
#2
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Posts: n/a
Day 2
I have been struck today by art. I never entered a museum; never walked into a gallery, yet I was exposed to public and private displays of art that were of a quantity and quality that still has me smiling.
I checked into the Pfister Hotel rather late last evening; made a bee-line for the front desk and never bothered to look up. This morning I had more time to explore, and was rewarded by painting and decoration that spoke to America’s first gilded age. The Pfister dates to 1898, and some time in the past decade, the property has undergone a full-scale restoration. Paintings, primarily social scenes, cover most of the ceilings and walls; vast expanses of civic art. The art conservation hasn’t been perfect; the colors are muted and portions of the murals appear fragile, but the artist and architect’s vision comes through clearly. The Pfister was and is again Milwaukee’s grand gathering place.
My second surprise came at one of our morning meetings. A road show consists of a combination of group meetings (typically over breakfast or lunch) held at restaurants or clubs, and “one-on-one” meetings with larger mutual funds and institutional investors held in the offices of those investors. Our second meeting of the morning was in a high floor or a perfectly ordinary office tower in downtown Milwaukee. The office suite beyond the entry door was anything but ordinary. There, the passion of one collector came through vividly. The office suite had been configured to match several rooms worth of paneling from a European country house. Wonderful in its texture, rich in patina, it was pleasure to look at and to touch. Beside the reception desk was an 18th Century English long case clock, the body of which was inlaid woods of different hues forming intricate and involved patterns. I got a history of the clock, capped by a view inside of it, where each craftsman who had worked on the clock from the time it was constructed had left a written record of his contribution.
But no European hunting lodge ever held artwork such as this. The collector’s second passion is western art. On the table next to where our meeting was conducted stood a bronze indian warrior, resplendent in war bonnet and attired in the varied articles of clothing of those he had vanquished. The paintings were of western scenes, modern and historic. It was the kind of art that can be found at breath-taking prices in the better galleries of Sante Fe and Aspen. The juxtaposition of western art against Old World walls heightened the enjoyment of each.
My third surprise was seeing the AT&T Corporate Center in Chicago’s Loop. Now a decade old and looking better with each passing year, the AT&T Center is Frank Lloyd Wright writ large. The stone and wood appear in recurring geometries, a treat for the eye, a homage to the great Chicago architect. This, too, is a public space. There is a wonderful vantage point from atop an escalator on the mezzanine of the building; looking across a massive open space where the building comes together. For anyone visiting Chicago, the AT&T Center is more than just a warm passage between blocks; it’s a terrific place to appreciate just how good modern architecture can be.
My fourth surprise is also the best. A lot of wealth has been created in America in the past decade. This afternoon, I saw how one person with a cultured eye channeled that wealth into an office that is at once an art museum even as it functions as the headquarters of an investment management firm.
A few blocks due west of the Water Tower, that landmark of Old Chicago, is a Romanesque mansion, built in 1886. The pink limestone building is surrounded by glass and concrete apartment buildings, an oasis of civility to all who pass by its gardens. The passerby sees a glimpse – some interesting statuary in the garden and lamp posts that look rather ornate. But it is when you step inside the mansion that your breath involuntarily leaves you. The owner of this firm has re-created an opulence that might have existed for a few decades into the 20th Century, with decorations and objects d’art from America and Europe that would have been considered “modern” in 1910. There is Tiffany glass everywhere you turn – more than a dozen Tiffany lamps and half a dozen Tiffany murals, some of them two stories high. The statuary is by Saint Gaudens and Gerome, the posters by Jules Cheret. We give our presentation in a Belle Epoque “French Room” where a zodiac clock from the 18th Century keeps perfect time.
Late in the afternoon, we fly to Minneapolis, arriving in time for a superb dinner at Goodfellows. The name sounds like one that would adorn a cheap themed Italian restaurant. Instead, this turns out to be American cuisine with an emphasis on game. The wine list, virtually all American, runs to 30 pages. We repair back to the Raddisson Minneapolis, a glass and chrome hotel in the heart of the city.
To be continued.
I have been struck today by art. I never entered a museum; never walked into a gallery, yet I was exposed to public and private displays of art that were of a quantity and quality that still has me smiling.
I checked into the Pfister Hotel rather late last evening; made a bee-line for the front desk and never bothered to look up. This morning I had more time to explore, and was rewarded by painting and decoration that spoke to America’s first gilded age. The Pfister dates to 1898, and some time in the past decade, the property has undergone a full-scale restoration. Paintings, primarily social scenes, cover most of the ceilings and walls; vast expanses of civic art. The art conservation hasn’t been perfect; the colors are muted and portions of the murals appear fragile, but the artist and architect’s vision comes through clearly. The Pfister was and is again Milwaukee’s grand gathering place.
My second surprise came at one of our morning meetings. A road show consists of a combination of group meetings (typically over breakfast or lunch) held at restaurants or clubs, and “one-on-one” meetings with larger mutual funds and institutional investors held in the offices of those investors. Our second meeting of the morning was in a high floor or a perfectly ordinary office tower in downtown Milwaukee. The office suite beyond the entry door was anything but ordinary. There, the passion of one collector came through vividly. The office suite had been configured to match several rooms worth of paneling from a European country house. Wonderful in its texture, rich in patina, it was pleasure to look at and to touch. Beside the reception desk was an 18th Century English long case clock, the body of which was inlaid woods of different hues forming intricate and involved patterns. I got a history of the clock, capped by a view inside of it, where each craftsman who had worked on the clock from the time it was constructed had left a written record of his contribution.
But no European hunting lodge ever held artwork such as this. The collector’s second passion is western art. On the table next to where our meeting was conducted stood a bronze indian warrior, resplendent in war bonnet and attired in the varied articles of clothing of those he had vanquished. The paintings were of western scenes, modern and historic. It was the kind of art that can be found at breath-taking prices in the better galleries of Sante Fe and Aspen. The juxtaposition of western art against Old World walls heightened the enjoyment of each.
My third surprise was seeing the AT&T Corporate Center in Chicago’s Loop. Now a decade old and looking better with each passing year, the AT&T Center is Frank Lloyd Wright writ large. The stone and wood appear in recurring geometries, a treat for the eye, a homage to the great Chicago architect. This, too, is a public space. There is a wonderful vantage point from atop an escalator on the mezzanine of the building; looking across a massive open space where the building comes together. For anyone visiting Chicago, the AT&T Center is more than just a warm passage between blocks; it’s a terrific place to appreciate just how good modern architecture can be.
My fourth surprise is also the best. A lot of wealth has been created in America in the past decade. This afternoon, I saw how one person with a cultured eye channeled that wealth into an office that is at once an art museum even as it functions as the headquarters of an investment management firm.
A few blocks due west of the Water Tower, that landmark of Old Chicago, is a Romanesque mansion, built in 1886. The pink limestone building is surrounded by glass and concrete apartment buildings, an oasis of civility to all who pass by its gardens. The passerby sees a glimpse – some interesting statuary in the garden and lamp posts that look rather ornate. But it is when you step inside the mansion that your breath involuntarily leaves you. The owner of this firm has re-created an opulence that might have existed for a few decades into the 20th Century, with decorations and objects d’art from America and Europe that would have been considered “modern” in 1910. There is Tiffany glass everywhere you turn – more than a dozen Tiffany lamps and half a dozen Tiffany murals, some of them two stories high. The statuary is by Saint Gaudens and Gerome, the posters by Jules Cheret. We give our presentation in a Belle Epoque “French Room” where a zodiac clock from the 18th Century keeps perfect time.
Late in the afternoon, we fly to Minneapolis, arriving in time for a superb dinner at Goodfellows. The name sounds like one that would adorn a cheap themed Italian restaurant. Instead, this turns out to be American cuisine with an emphasis on game. The wine list, virtually all American, runs to 30 pages. We repair back to the Raddisson Minneapolis, a glass and chrome hotel in the heart of the city.
To be continued.
Feb 8th, 2000 | 05:53 AM
#4
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Posts: n/a
To Bored, So, nu? just skip this report! Odysseus explained his purpose very clearly in his first post, and I find he's a very good writer who is telling us about a journey most of us will never experience ourselves, a totally hardworking but pampered tour of corporate America. It's certainly a departure from our normal postings, and if this doesn't interest you, stop reading this thread. I'd like to say that I do find it interesting, though at times my deeply held socialist feelings get ruffled by hearing where all this wealth is going, but this isn't a political forum, it's a travel forum! So, please keep up your reports, and thanks.
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Feb 8th, 2000 | 09:34 PM
#8
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Thank you, Miriam and Cherie, for the kind words. I didn't set out to attract responses, just to try to offer a different vantage point.
Day 3. Limousines.
On a road show, transportation is by limousine, usually a stretch limousine, and invariably black. The stretch limo is necessitated by the presence of a traveling entourage consisting of one to three company representatives, one or possibly two investment bankers, a salesman and, in large cities, a securities analyst. Getting these people, their luggage, coats, laptops, briefcases, and projectors from one place to another is an act of choreography worthy of Agnes DeMille. Meetings may be blocks apart or a hundred miles away. The limo is the glue that holds together the road show.
Thus far, our road show has taken us to Milwaukee, Chicago, Minneapolis, and St. Louis (these words are written en route to Denver). I am not a connoisseur of limousines, but I have come to note that there are distinctly different species of the beast; sometimes but not always a function of length. The simplest limos have two facing bench seats, separated from the driver by a privacy window. Our limo in Milwaukee and Chicago was of this variety; a utilitarian limo (unless that is an oxymoron). It seated six in comfort, was well lighted, and got us to our appointments.
In Minneapolis we graduated to a longer limo. Inside, a side bench seat has been added, and we had acquired a television, VCR, and CD player. Because no one had thought to bring along music or videos, these features went unused. Still, we had good lighting and ample room for our paraphernalia.
In St. Louis, we graduated (or perhaps devolved) to what we called the “ooh ooh baby–mobile.” Side bench, TV and for lights, a string of twinklers on one side, a blue neon tube on the other. The privacy partition was now a mirror, and we had acquired a full bar, curiously without mixers. We cruised from one side of St. Louis to another, businessmen attired in somber suits, trying to dial cell phone calls by the light of a blue neon tube.
When I see a limo pass by, I cannot help but wonder who is inside. Most likely it will be a group of business people trapped on the road show circuit, but it might also be someone famous. And so I look, hoping to catch the darkened glass of the passenger compartment at just that refractive point where the occupants can be seen. Apparently, it is an interest that I share with no one else. When I was not making my own phone calls, I looked out the window to see who was trying to look in. In four cities, no one has yet to be looking my way. We are as invisible as the UPS truck or the suburban minivan.
Notes: I like Minneapolis. It has more interesting buildings in its downtown than does almost any other city in America, and the skyway system is a feat of civic engineering that amazes me. Nearly every building has an attractive enclosed public space, some filled with trees and flowers. The citizens of Minneapolis can take justifiable pride in their city. The staff of Goodfellows restaurant also has my admiration. I absent-mindedly left behind my reading glasses when I departed that restaurant. I had not been in my room five minutes when the phone rang. It was the maitre’d inquiring if I had inadvertently lost my glasses. Working from my name and strange area code which were on the glass case, they had deduced that I was likely a guest at one of the nearby hotels. They found me with their second call, and apologized that they couldn’t spare someone to deliver the glasses. Minneapolis has earned a permanent gold star.
Day 3. Limousines.
On a road show, transportation is by limousine, usually a stretch limousine, and invariably black. The stretch limo is necessitated by the presence of a traveling entourage consisting of one to three company representatives, one or possibly two investment bankers, a salesman and, in large cities, a securities analyst. Getting these people, their luggage, coats, laptops, briefcases, and projectors from one place to another is an act of choreography worthy of Agnes DeMille. Meetings may be blocks apart or a hundred miles away. The limo is the glue that holds together the road show.
Thus far, our road show has taken us to Milwaukee, Chicago, Minneapolis, and St. Louis (these words are written en route to Denver). I am not a connoisseur of limousines, but I have come to note that there are distinctly different species of the beast; sometimes but not always a function of length. The simplest limos have two facing bench seats, separated from the driver by a privacy window. Our limo in Milwaukee and Chicago was of this variety; a utilitarian limo (unless that is an oxymoron). It seated six in comfort, was well lighted, and got us to our appointments.
In Minneapolis we graduated to a longer limo. Inside, a side bench seat has been added, and we had acquired a television, VCR, and CD player. Because no one had thought to bring along music or videos, these features went unused. Still, we had good lighting and ample room for our paraphernalia.
In St. Louis, we graduated (or perhaps devolved) to what we called the “ooh ooh baby–mobile.” Side bench, TV and for lights, a string of twinklers on one side, a blue neon tube on the other. The privacy partition was now a mirror, and we had acquired a full bar, curiously without mixers. We cruised from one side of St. Louis to another, businessmen attired in somber suits, trying to dial cell phone calls by the light of a blue neon tube.
When I see a limo pass by, I cannot help but wonder who is inside. Most likely it will be a group of business people trapped on the road show circuit, but it might also be someone famous. And so I look, hoping to catch the darkened glass of the passenger compartment at just that refractive point where the occupants can be seen. Apparently, it is an interest that I share with no one else. When I was not making my own phone calls, I looked out the window to see who was trying to look in. In four cities, no one has yet to be looking my way. We are as invisible as the UPS truck or the suburban minivan.
Notes: I like Minneapolis. It has more interesting buildings in its downtown than does almost any other city in America, and the skyway system is a feat of civic engineering that amazes me. Nearly every building has an attractive enclosed public space, some filled with trees and flowers. The citizens of Minneapolis can take justifiable pride in their city. The staff of Goodfellows restaurant also has my admiration. I absent-mindedly left behind my reading glasses when I departed that restaurant. I had not been in my room five minutes when the phone rang. It was the maitre’d inquiring if I had inadvertently lost my glasses. Working from my name and strange area code which were on the glass case, they had deduced that I was likely a guest at one of the nearby hotels. They found me with their second call, and apologized that they couldn’t spare someone to deliver the glasses. Minneapolis has earned a permanent gold star.
Feb 9th, 2000 | 11:21 AM
#9
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Posts: n/a
Limos are a whole different world to the uninitiated. They are one of the few ways I am still able to WOW the kids. Some towns are known for their multitude of stretched limos. Chicago comes to mind. They are actually cost-efficient when transporting executives with any equipment to a large-scale show or meeting. Now that I have read your RR (Roadshow Report) I will have available (in briefcase) mixers and my favorite CD (Santana at the moment). Question, Odysseus: If you rent one with a hottub....should you warn your CEO you might arrive wet?
Feb 9th, 2000 | 08:57 PM
#10
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Posts: n/a
Day 4. First Class.
On a road show, your air travel is first class. This is more than just a perk. It ensures you will make tight connections because you are first off of the plane; it means carry-on baggage allowances are waived. On a road show, every minute counts, and first class is a necessary part of gaining precious minutes.
There is a school of thought that says first class isn’t what it used to be. That school is absolutely right. Until this evening, no flight that I have been on during this road show has provided any amenity worthy of the “first class” designation. The “meals” have been juice prior to departure, pretzels in the air. Of course, these were short hops; one to two hours of flying time. What was being purchased was priority boarding and de-planing.
Tonight, I am on a flight from Denver to Portland, Oregon, and a meal is scheduled to be served. For us first class passengers, there is a printed menu: “Garden fresh salad accompanied by balsamic vinaigrette or green goddess dressing, choice of roast turkey breast au jus with apple stuffing, honey glazed carrots and parsnips or Maryland crab cakes with Cajun remoulade sauce served with steamed asparagus; and today’s special dessert selection.”
There is a cloth cover for the tray table and “real” salt and pepper shakers, but any resemblance to a pleasurable meal ends there. The “garden fresh salad” is a few leaves of iceberg lettuce; the balsamic vinaigrette comes in a plastic container. The crab cakes… well, the less said the better. And the Cajun remoulade is Thousand Island dressing by any other name. Do you care for wine? There’s a Chilean cabernet sauvignon and a “California” chardonnay.
What you do get in first class is attention. There are 32 first class seats (all occupied) on this aircraft and two stewardesses and a “purser” to attend to our needs. I don’t think it is my imagination: beyond the simple 16-to-1 (or 10-to-1) passenger to steward ratio (versus probably 30-to-1 in the economy section), the attendants seem to enjoy what they’re doing. There is constant joshing; an air of conviviality. My mostly uneaten meal does not go unnoticed; I’m offered the turkey breast (I decline). My explanation that I ate at the airport is seen as a polite white lie – the attendant and purser agree tonight’s meal was “not memorable.”
Yes, the seats are larger and they recline a bit more than in coach, but there is noticeably less room between rows than in the past. As domestic air travel has become an indispensable part of life --cheap and frequent – much if not all of the romance has disappeared. Enough said.
* * * * *
Notes: If business or pleasure takes you to Denver in the future, be sure to put the Hyatt Regency Downtown at or near the bottom of your list of places to stay. For $185, I spent a night in a perfectly ordinary hotel room, unrelieved by any hint of where this hotel was located. The room was done in banal brown and beige; even the bathroom marble was brown. I could have been anywhere; this was a cookie-cutter “luxury” hotel. Having stayed in equally dull Hyatt Regency hotels in Miami and New Orleans, I have avoided the chain for the past several years. Once, the Hyatt Regency name was appended to hotels with spectacular architecture, spacious rooms, and wonderful city feelings. Today, it just another hotel with – maybe – a larger than average lobby. Certainly not something to seek out or to pay a premium.
A few blocks away from the Hyatt Regency is a truly luxurious hotel, and the model for those first Hyatt Regency hotels that lived up to their promise (Atlanta and San Francisco). I suspect architect John Portman had the Brown Palace Hotel in mind when he began designing those first avant garde hotels. Built in 1908, the Brown Palace is everything a hotel should be. Steeped in history, it is a microcosm of Denver. I had the pleasure to stay there a few years ago and would have returned on this visit had rooms been available. The stained glass atrium roof alone is reason enough for a visit.
On a road show, your air travel is first class. This is more than just a perk. It ensures you will make tight connections because you are first off of the plane; it means carry-on baggage allowances are waived. On a road show, every minute counts, and first class is a necessary part of gaining precious minutes.
There is a school of thought that says first class isn’t what it used to be. That school is absolutely right. Until this evening, no flight that I have been on during this road show has provided any amenity worthy of the “first class” designation. The “meals” have been juice prior to departure, pretzels in the air. Of course, these were short hops; one to two hours of flying time. What was being purchased was priority boarding and de-planing.
Tonight, I am on a flight from Denver to Portland, Oregon, and a meal is scheduled to be served. For us first class passengers, there is a printed menu: “Garden fresh salad accompanied by balsamic vinaigrette or green goddess dressing, choice of roast turkey breast au jus with apple stuffing, honey glazed carrots and parsnips or Maryland crab cakes with Cajun remoulade sauce served with steamed asparagus; and today’s special dessert selection.”
There is a cloth cover for the tray table and “real” salt and pepper shakers, but any resemblance to a pleasurable meal ends there. The “garden fresh salad” is a few leaves of iceberg lettuce; the balsamic vinaigrette comes in a plastic container. The crab cakes… well, the less said the better. And the Cajun remoulade is Thousand Island dressing by any other name. Do you care for wine? There’s a Chilean cabernet sauvignon and a “California” chardonnay.
What you do get in first class is attention. There are 32 first class seats (all occupied) on this aircraft and two stewardesses and a “purser” to attend to our needs. I don’t think it is my imagination: beyond the simple 16-to-1 (or 10-to-1) passenger to steward ratio (versus probably 30-to-1 in the economy section), the attendants seem to enjoy what they’re doing. There is constant joshing; an air of conviviality. My mostly uneaten meal does not go unnoticed; I’m offered the turkey breast (I decline). My explanation that I ate at the airport is seen as a polite white lie – the attendant and purser agree tonight’s meal was “not memorable.”
Yes, the seats are larger and they recline a bit more than in coach, but there is noticeably less room between rows than in the past. As domestic air travel has become an indispensable part of life --cheap and frequent – much if not all of the romance has disappeared. Enough said.
* * * * *
Notes: If business or pleasure takes you to Denver in the future, be sure to put the Hyatt Regency Downtown at or near the bottom of your list of places to stay. For $185, I spent a night in a perfectly ordinary hotel room, unrelieved by any hint of where this hotel was located. The room was done in banal brown and beige; even the bathroom marble was brown. I could have been anywhere; this was a cookie-cutter “luxury” hotel. Having stayed in equally dull Hyatt Regency hotels in Miami and New Orleans, I have avoided the chain for the past several years. Once, the Hyatt Regency name was appended to hotels with spectacular architecture, spacious rooms, and wonderful city feelings. Today, it just another hotel with – maybe – a larger than average lobby. Certainly not something to seek out or to pay a premium.
A few blocks away from the Hyatt Regency is a truly luxurious hotel, and the model for those first Hyatt Regency hotels that lived up to their promise (Atlanta and San Francisco). I suspect architect John Portman had the Brown Palace Hotel in mind when he began designing those first avant garde hotels. Built in 1908, the Brown Palace is everything a hotel should be. Steeped in history, it is a microcosm of Denver. I had the pleasure to stay there a few years ago and would have returned on this visit had rooms been available. The stained glass atrium roof alone is reason enough for a visit.
Feb 10th, 2000 | 08:06 AM
#13
Guest
Posts: n/a
I thought it was just me when I decided that the Heightened Reality Hotel Chain just meant blockhouse-with-an-atrium, now. I assume the linen you referred to in first class was what I refer to as a napkin? I am often amused when the wait-I mean stewardess carefully arranges one on the tray in 1st Class. I agree that 1st Class means first to board & depart the aircraft. There's an old joke about "Coach may depart the airplane.....First Class, prepare to land...." Nice RR.
Feb 10th, 2000 | 09:30 PM
#14
Guest
Posts: n/a
Day 5. Seatmates.
On a road show, you are cooped up with a small group of people in cars, hotels, meeting rooms, and restaurants. It is therefore natural that, when the opportunity presents itself, you want to get away from those people. One such place to do so is on an airplane. As we travel from city to city, I notice that we tend to occupy different rows on airplanes, each to do his or her own thing.
However, the desire to communicate is human, and so we strike up conversations with our seatmates. This morning, I sat next to a Very Important Advertising Man (hereinafter called the VIAM). I knew he was a VIAM because he told me he worked for an Important San Francisco Advertising Agency, and he was returning from Portland where he was counseling a young “dot com” company on strategy. With little prompting, he told me the company’s strategy, probably violating half a dozen non-disclosure agreements. As he never asked me a single question about myself, this VIAM will likely eventually sit next to a venture capitalist somewhere and divulge this same information. The venture capitalist will assemble a talent pool overnight, write a business plan on the fly, and VIAM’s dot-com client will find itself outspent and outgunned, never knowing why.
But the idea, as least as explained to me by the VIAM, is a particularly noxious one, having to do with a scheme to surreptitiously send “cookies” that will cause your PC to display a 30 second commercial while it either boots up or loads a web page. Because the VIAM’s grasp of computer technology is extremely weak, I cannot be certain that this is the heart of the dot-com’s strategy or merely one tangent, but it is all this VIAM can grasp. I listen politely for nearly an hour.
On last night’s flight from Denver to Portland, my seatmate was a twenty-something woman who unexpectedly found herself upgraded to first class because of a lack of seats in coach. She is recently returned from her honeymoon, and this homeward leg is her first business trip away from her spouse. She is clearly intelligent, hard-charging and highly motivated, and is starting to grapple with the pulls of career, mobility, marriage, and the prospects of children. I’m surprised when she says that her new husband is a minister. It gives me food for thought as to how this young couple, with careers headed on such different trajectories, will manage their lives together. After nearly two hours of conversation, I’m left with an awareness that I have much to learn about my fellow man.
Today, we have hosted a breakfast meeting in Portland, a luncheon in San Francisco, and seen four “power” institutional investors around the Bay area. Because our meetings ran later than expected, we are on a later flight to San Diego, where we will spend the night. Instead of a first class seat on a major carrier, I am on Southwest Airlines, occupying the aisle seat on a crowded plane. My seatmate is a teenager with a Sony CD player planted firmly in her lap. One CD is playing, another is under the player in readiness. She is in her own world; she has only once glanced over to see me scribbling this down on a lined pad, and she is apparently not the least bit curious as to what I am writing. For her, this flight from San Francisco to San Diego will pass without having met anyone or anything new. All she will hear is music she has probably heard many times before.
I still view travel, even the grueling kind of travel that constitutes this road show, as an adventure. Every flight and every waiting room is an opportunity to meet or observe people. Travel is what puts people of different backgrounds and perspectives together, and by finding ourselves in an enforced intimacy for a few hours, we have the chance to talk, to listen, and to share. The VIAM this morning and the minister’s wife last evening were people I would never have encountered had random chance not placed them in the seat next to mine. One had brought a book to read, the other a file of papers, but both set aside those singular pursuits in favor of conversation. My teenaged seatmate – perhaps 16 or 17 – seems to young to be shutting out the world. But that is her choice.
Notes: The Heathman Hotel on Broadway in downtown Portland is one of the new crop of “European” or “boutique” style hotels. Apparently built in the 1920s as either a hotel or apartment building, it has been remodeled and remade into a service-oriented hotel. I was offered my choice of four newspapers and breakfast at any hour. Unfortunately, my room was tiny, and its small size was made more obvious by the presence of a king size bed and a huge TV-in-an-armoire. The path between the two was scarcely a foot wide. The bathroom shelf was no more than six inches wide and so short as to hold only a few toiletries (the pedestal sink was no help). There was only one, small casement window in the room, further adding to the sense of claustrophobia. The Heathman is in an attractive part of downtown Portland, very lively in the evening. But it is not a hotel I would choose again. Returning to a room that small is just too depressing.
Addenda: Cherie, thanks for your concurring comments on Hyatt. The next time you're in Atlanta or San Francisco, though, be sure to look in the two best of the breed. It shows how far the concept has fallen. Martha, I prefer to be "Odysseus" until this is over, thank you. To anyone who has read this far, my next installment will likely be posted on Monday. Even investment bankers let the Road Show people go home for the weekend.
On a road show, you are cooped up with a small group of people in cars, hotels, meeting rooms, and restaurants. It is therefore natural that, when the opportunity presents itself, you want to get away from those people. One such place to do so is on an airplane. As we travel from city to city, I notice that we tend to occupy different rows on airplanes, each to do his or her own thing.
However, the desire to communicate is human, and so we strike up conversations with our seatmates. This morning, I sat next to a Very Important Advertising Man (hereinafter called the VIAM). I knew he was a VIAM because he told me he worked for an Important San Francisco Advertising Agency, and he was returning from Portland where he was counseling a young “dot com” company on strategy. With little prompting, he told me the company’s strategy, probably violating half a dozen non-disclosure agreements. As he never asked me a single question about myself, this VIAM will likely eventually sit next to a venture capitalist somewhere and divulge this same information. The venture capitalist will assemble a talent pool overnight, write a business plan on the fly, and VIAM’s dot-com client will find itself outspent and outgunned, never knowing why.
But the idea, as least as explained to me by the VIAM, is a particularly noxious one, having to do with a scheme to surreptitiously send “cookies” that will cause your PC to display a 30 second commercial while it either boots up or loads a web page. Because the VIAM’s grasp of computer technology is extremely weak, I cannot be certain that this is the heart of the dot-com’s strategy or merely one tangent, but it is all this VIAM can grasp. I listen politely for nearly an hour.
On last night’s flight from Denver to Portland, my seatmate was a twenty-something woman who unexpectedly found herself upgraded to first class because of a lack of seats in coach. She is recently returned from her honeymoon, and this homeward leg is her first business trip away from her spouse. She is clearly intelligent, hard-charging and highly motivated, and is starting to grapple with the pulls of career, mobility, marriage, and the prospects of children. I’m surprised when she says that her new husband is a minister. It gives me food for thought as to how this young couple, with careers headed on such different trajectories, will manage their lives together. After nearly two hours of conversation, I’m left with an awareness that I have much to learn about my fellow man.
Today, we have hosted a breakfast meeting in Portland, a luncheon in San Francisco, and seen four “power” institutional investors around the Bay area. Because our meetings ran later than expected, we are on a later flight to San Diego, where we will spend the night. Instead of a first class seat on a major carrier, I am on Southwest Airlines, occupying the aisle seat on a crowded plane. My seatmate is a teenager with a Sony CD player planted firmly in her lap. One CD is playing, another is under the player in readiness. She is in her own world; she has only once glanced over to see me scribbling this down on a lined pad, and she is apparently not the least bit curious as to what I am writing. For her, this flight from San Francisco to San Diego will pass without having met anyone or anything new. All she will hear is music she has probably heard many times before.
I still view travel, even the grueling kind of travel that constitutes this road show, as an adventure. Every flight and every waiting room is an opportunity to meet or observe people. Travel is what puts people of different backgrounds and perspectives together, and by finding ourselves in an enforced intimacy for a few hours, we have the chance to talk, to listen, and to share. The VIAM this morning and the minister’s wife last evening were people I would never have encountered had random chance not placed them in the seat next to mine. One had brought a book to read, the other a file of papers, but both set aside those singular pursuits in favor of conversation. My teenaged seatmate – perhaps 16 or 17 – seems to young to be shutting out the world. But that is her choice.
Notes: The Heathman Hotel on Broadway in downtown Portland is one of the new crop of “European” or “boutique” style hotels. Apparently built in the 1920s as either a hotel or apartment building, it has been remodeled and remade into a service-oriented hotel. I was offered my choice of four newspapers and breakfast at any hour. Unfortunately, my room was tiny, and its small size was made more obvious by the presence of a king size bed and a huge TV-in-an-armoire. The path between the two was scarcely a foot wide. The bathroom shelf was no more than six inches wide and so short as to hold only a few toiletries (the pedestal sink was no help). There was only one, small casement window in the room, further adding to the sense of claustrophobia. The Heathman is in an attractive part of downtown Portland, very lively in the evening. But it is not a hotel I would choose again. Returning to a room that small is just too depressing.
Addenda: Cherie, thanks for your concurring comments on Hyatt. The next time you're in Atlanta or San Francisco, though, be sure to look in the two best of the breed. It shows how far the concept has fallen. Martha, I prefer to be "Odysseus" until this is over, thank you. To anyone who has read this far, my next installment will likely be posted on Monday. Even investment bankers let the Road Show people go home for the weekend.
Feb 11th, 2000 | 07:49 AM
#16
Guest
Posts: n/a
Odysseus - Know that your efforts are appreciated by many of who value the opportunity to view travel from a persepctive that we may rarely or never be able to experience. It's admirable that you have obviously not become estranged from the sense of humanity and simple aesthetic appreciation that consitutes a well balanced person. Those few who may find your writing pedantic (some have posted here and I don't share their views) need to look beyond the difference of one'sn circumstances to the more significant aspects of shared experience. Keep 'em comin' and let us know when you're ready to post a reality based novella on the 'net - I for one would love to read it. P.S. - as a lousy typist (my frequent typos in this forum serve as ample evidence) but a stickler for proper spelling and word usage, I commend your writing style. Only notable flaw is that phrase "right of passage" which is properly "rite of passage". Those darn spellcheckers just can't do it all but they sure help!
Feb 11th, 2000 | 08:15 AM
#17
Guest
Posts: n/a
I too am enjoying this thread. It makes a nice contrast to, and relief from, the p*ssing contest going about Hawaii.
Re the Heathman, I always thought that "European-style" hotel was a euphemism for an hotel with a tiny or nonexistent lobby, tiny rooms, unreliable elevators that make scary sounds and eccentric plumbing that also makes scary sounds.
Re the Heathman, I always thought that "European-style" hotel was a euphemism for an hotel with a tiny or nonexistent lobby, tiny rooms, unreliable elevators that make scary sounds and eccentric plumbing that also makes scary sounds.
Feb 14th, 2000 | 04:44 PM
#19
Guest
Posts: n/a
While waiting for your next edition of RR, I reviewed our recent travel receipts. It seems that I was at the HR Chain at the Embarcadero. Was this the SF one you referred to? I remember staying at Club Level and the kids enjoying an early eve snack but the same Blockhouse style room. Without wanting to sound aristocratic, I respectfully disagree with those that find this hotel to be exceptional. For the rate they charged, we have booked finer establishments. I must be tired, because this was difficult to state. I wish I could write with your eloquence. (Come to think of it, I wish I could spell eloquence!) 
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