September, 1996:
I embarked upon my second week-long seminar trip to New Zealand, where for the second consecutive year I was a guest speaker at the Radio Broadcasting Association’s annual convention.
Prior to the convention, however, I was scheduled to present several days of seminars for different NZ radio groups…starting with two days in two different cities for Radio New Zealand.
The first seminar was scheduled for Monday in Christchurch. To get there, I flew 14 hours from Los Angeles to Auckland, waited three hours at the airport, and then flew on to Christchurch…arriving at 10 o’clock Sunday morning.
For some reason, before leaving L.A. I had been unable to find out from my hosts what hotel I would be staying at in Christchurch. But I was told not to worry, because a limo driver would be waiting for me at the airport and would know where to take me. All I had to do was look for someone holding a sign with my name on it.
When I got off the plane in Christchurch, I didn’t see my name on any sign.
I went to Baggage Claim; I didn’t see my name.
I collected my bags and searched the entire terminal, unsuccessfully, for someone holding a sign with my name on it.
After 20 hours of traveling, bleary-eyed and exhausted, I was stuck at the Christchurch airport.
On a Sunday morning.
Not knowing into what hotel I was booked.
And not knowing anyone in Christchurch whom I could call for help.
My Radio New Zealand host, David Brice, lived in Auckland and wouldn’t be in town until the following morning. And at the time I didn’t know the name of the limo company that was supposed to have met me. (For the record, it was “Corporate Taxi.”)
I found the United Airlines lounge and beseeched them to call Directory Assistance for Auckland, in the hopes of locating David’s home number. (At this point, I did not have either the mental or emotional strength to figure out how to use a pay phone to call directory assistance in another city.)
It was here that my luck began to change: There was a David Brice in an Auckland suburb.
The sympathetic lounge staffer called the number for me.
A woman answered. Yes, this was the David Brice residence. Yes, the David Brice who works for Radio New Zealand. David wasn’t in, but I had reached his wife.
She was very nice and properly horrified to learn of my predicament. Mrs. Brice took down my phone number (i.e., at the UA lounge) and promised to call me back. And it wasn’t very long before she did so, having somehow found out the name of my hotel.
The next day’s seminar went quite well, and upon arriving that evening in Auckland for the following day’s seminar I was shocked to find myself ensconced in a suite at the Carlton Hotel.
Yes, this is typical of my hotel accommodations. (Sorry you can't see the second level of this townhouse suite.)
Not just a suite. This was A Suite.
Huge. Gigantic. Luxurious.
I don’t know who the hotel thought I was, but I didn’t bother to correct them. (As usual, though, I was there just long enough to sleep and to gawk at the furnishings.)
Alas, changed luck is ephemeral. Jumping ahead to the next evening, when a car had been arranged to take me to the airport: The driver from “Corporate Taxi” never showed up….
