Conferences & Chandeliers

I spent the last couple nights in a Red Lion Hotel. I remember in the early 90s, the Red Lion was the mecca of all things business. The first time I saw a limo was in the Red Lion parking lot. I remember seeing men wearing suits and ties, walking in and out of the fancy hotel - they were always walking really fast and carrying brief cases. They were in a hurry because business never stops, especially in Medford, Oregon. They were successful and successful people always stayed at the Red Lion. I assumed that they were probably working for Harry and David. In Medford, children were led to believe that international business revolved around two Medford residents named, Harry and David. They were the Willy Wonka of Medford and every so often they would open their factory doors and throw chocolate truffles at the kids, free turkeys at the poor and bus passes to suspended drivers. When I was in grade school, my teacher announced that we were going to go on a field trip to Harry and David and I began running around the classroom singing, "I've got the golden ticket" and wishing I had a bed ridden Grandpa to invite to the big factory. Here are your slippers Grandpa!


I remember the night before the big field trip, thinking that I should probably wear something really nice because I was going to meet fancy men that wore suits and ties. I decided on wearing an oversized faux silk jacket that I stole from my dairy farmer Grandpa. I stole the jacket because it was made of the same material as those NFL starter jackets. Instead of an NFL logo, it had a farm logo with a cow mooing the words, "Glenn County, California." I only weighed 65 pounds and the jacket was an adult size medium with sleeves that extended far past my knuckles. No matter how many times my Mom washed and dried that jacket, it was not going to shrink or stop smelling like cow shit. I wore that jacket all day because I was sure that faux silk was cool and made me look rich. In retrospect, I'm not surprised that I was offered a free turkey at the end of the day. I was a skinny child, wearing an adult sized coat and I smelled like cow shit.

When I was told I was staying in a Red Lion, I thought to myself, shit is really happening for you. I then found out that this training was called a "conference." I had never been to a conference at a hotel. I envisioned important people, board rooms and graphs showing percentages. I imagined over the course of the conference, I would be hearing a lot words like, "flow charts," "methodology" and "synergy." Truthfully, I had always wanted to go to a conference. I thought about what my name tag would look like, the attractive people I would meet and how everyone would approach me and start up meaningful, important conversations because I looked interesting. Yes, this was my moment.

The days leading up to my departure, I wanted to make sure everyone knew that I was going to a big, important conference. I would do things like leave the conference itinerary out on my desk. I wrote "CONFERENCE" in all capital letters on my desk calendar and colored in the entire week with a bright pink highlighter. I would ask others what they had scheduled for the following week in hopes that they would ask me what I had planned. It didn't take long for everyone to find out about my new travel plans. What I was most excited about was changing my message on my work phone - I could finally say, "You've reached Don, I will be out of the office this week at a conference." I was hoping that I would have a record amount of calls during my absence.

I pulled up in the parking lot to the Red Lion with the window down. I may or may not have had the song "Taking Care of Business" playing. As I pulled into entrance outside the lobby, I put the car in park and waited. I had imagined at any moment a man in a tuxedo and white gloves would come out and say, "Welcome Don, your room awaits." I waited a long time and decided that the parking guy was probably busy parking a ferrari - I would save my two bucks and park my own Pontiac.


As I walked into the lobby, I had to check myself. Suddenly, I was surrounded by an excessive amount of marble and chandeliers. After counting eight chandeliers and two lion sculptures I knew I wasn't in a Motel 6 anymore and I had to act accordingly. This was no lobby. This was something different, something fancier. This was a foyer. By saying foyer, I instantly felt richer and classier. I've always loved the word foyer and felt like I deserved a lifestyle that would afford me the opportunity to use the word more often. I've tried many times to casually throw it into conversations at dinner parties and such, but it's never really worked - I've always either mispronounced it or used the word to describe something that isn't actually a foyer. For a long time, I would describe anything fancy as a foyer - a fancy toilet that sprays you with water is not a foyer - it's a bidet. This was going to be my opportunity to properly use the word foyer and I was excited. I said it in my head 10 times fast so that when I met the front desk lady, the word foyer would roll off my tongue like I had said it a thousands times before.

I was certain that her name-tag was made of gold and after she checked me in, she asked me if there was anything else she could help me with. This was a curveball that only a woman who frequents a foyer could throw. I had my room key, a map and access to a hot tub, what else was there? Was I forgetting something? I was certain that I had ignored some form of etiquette that only kids who grew up skiing knew about. Do I tip her for my room key? Do I ask for a warm towel? I started looking around for clues - maybe there were some sparkling water bottles that I could request. I looked down at the granite counter and saw the word, "concierge." It sounded Spanish so I said, "No mas gracias" and made a hasty escape.

(pt 2 will be posted soon)