I have attended many new media conferences, but only once as a member of the audience – apart from that one occasion, I’ve always been the chairman or one of the speakers.
It has nothing to do with arrogance; unless I have some function to perform, I find it almost impossible to concentrate on what’s happening on stage, rapidly fall into a disgruntled daze, and end the day feeling crapulous, and not one whit better informed.
When you’re chairing the thing, it forces you to concentrate on what’s being said so that, at the least, you can ask questions that don’t suggest you spent the last thirty minutes wondering what’s for lunch or trying to guess the nationality or sexual orientation of the delegates in the front row. And, if you can maintain a pose of alertness, and manage to sound as if you at least vaguely understand what Dieter or Jean-Marie or Mr Asahito have been droning on about, there’s always a chance someone out there might – just might – decide they like the cut of your jib and rush to hire Scott Gronmark Associates at the next coffee break. Mind you, chances are they’re just wondering what’s for lunch.
In return for occasionally pretending to be riveted by talk of targeted advertising and churn rates, and making sure that the speaker who has arrived with a 47-slide presentation finishes within his allotted 30 minutes, I ask for nothing but plane tickets, a taxi from the airport and a hotel room within walking distance of the city centre. Apart from that, my only two requirements (and they’re at the heart of the matter) are that the conference takes place in a civilized city, and that I arrive on the morning of the day before the conference.
This allows me to indulge in one of my greatest pleasures. Given I don’t drink, am happily married, don’t care a fig for fine dining and am generally as tight as a gnat’s chuff, the choice of activity in a foreign city is fairly limited. Luckily, it’s the same choice I’d make if I were a spendthrift alcoholic philanderer.
After visiting my room and memorizing the number, I return to the lobby, pick up a map of the city, and head out to explore Oslo, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Manhattan, Barcelona, Berlin, Munich, Monte Carlo, Rome - or wherever the digerati are gathering this particular month. And then I walk. And walk. And then walk some more. Street after street after park after square after art gallery after cathedral after church after waterfront after museum. No one to tell me where to go or what to look at or admire or sneer at or what to eat or buy. No one to look after or chivvy along or listen to or worry about, and no deadline to meet, no appointments scheduled until the next day.
Freedom. Bliss.
But I recently turned down the chance to do a conference in a city I love. Why? Partly because what you hear from the stage has become less useful over the years – this is inevitable as the new media industry matures – but mainly to do with the sheer grinding awfulness of modern air travel. For every intensely pleasurable hour spent roaming a foreign city in utter freedom, I’ve suffered at least one intensely unpleasurable hour travelling to or from it – and I’ve just had enough.
So, nowadays, when Dieter or Phillipe or Astrid put up an incomprehensible, painfully detailed slide demonstrating how a single piece of video content can reach their subscribers by at least 28 different routes, I won’t be the one sticking a fork in my leg to ensure I can ask something relevant after they’ve finished.
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