Most of us have been to a Trade Show of some sort, where vendors display their wares at a convention center, and potential customers walk around and "trick or treat" carrying logo bags and gathering literature, and every free handout. Be it gun or coin, car, boat or airplane, there is a trade show out there for practically everything.
My industry is Machine Tools, and I have 20 years of trade show experience under my belt. Some of the adventures and stories from them have gone global, here's one.
In the era of "The Giant Sucking Sound" Perot introduced us to, a lot of manufacturers were heading south, we, as suppliers of metal working machinery, decided to follow this buffalo herd, and booked a booth at a trade show in Monterrey, MX. At the time, we had a Danish trading partner. We imported some equipment they build, and added it to the product line we built, so the idea was to have a booth full of their stuff and ours. Being fairly low on the totem pole at the time, I was tagged with the responsibilty for making sure the show went off well, the other guy "assisting" was the son of the owner of the Danish Firm, Peter.
Now, the Danes are a great people, their english is excellent, sense of humor quite similar to ours, and to survive, they have to plunder the planet like their Viking forefathers did. This heritage tends to give them an "air" of superiority, which Peter had an abundance of. Peter was about my age, a big hulk of a man, who said he once boxed for the Danish Olympic Boxing team, that turned out to be a lie, as you will see. I'm a little fella, but growing up in the 60's on the east side of Detroit, I can and have held my own in pugilistic fisticuffs of the bare knuckle sort.
The booth was set up and looking good, we had thirteen machines crammed into a 30x30, the doors opened, and guess who walked in? A bunch of Mexicans! Well, like most yankees, my understanding of the dialect is limited to a few common swears, and the numbers up to ten, Peter was worse off than I, and stood in the middle of the booth with his arms across his massive chest, at full height, with a malevolent scowl, looking like Thor.
It was my duty to have a successful show, and I engaged potential customers in halting conversations relating to the features and benefits, and prices of the machines. Luckily, most foreigners speak english quite well, and I started making deals. Typically, in the States, when a price agreement is reached, the buyer arranges financing, funds are transferred, and machines are shipped from the factory a few weeks later. In Mexico, I learned, the customer pulls out a wad of CASH, and hands it to you, with the understanding that the machine is now "theirs" and they will pick it up at the end of the show! We sold all thirteen machines, and my pockets were bulging with thousands of dollars!
As all of this was transpiring, the Big Dane stood in his pose, and mutterred under his breath to anyone that came near him, "Get za hell out of my booth, you greasy little Mexican"
I stepped up in amazement and said "Whoa! Pete! Half these guys understand english!" He replied, "I do not give a damn! for I can kick za hell out of six or seven of them at once!"
So as I sold, he insulted customers, calling them names, and rudely chasing them away..
We left the show at the close of the day, and had a couple of blocks to walk to get to the hotel. I was terrified of getting jumped on the crowded streets, pockets overstuffed with cash, I scurried along on the narrow sidewalks, fists balled up, in a crouch, with perp radar set on high. Peter strolled along a few paces behind, as if he was walking the streets of Copenhagen on a sunny afternoon, hands swinging loosely at his side, swinging his mighty shoulders, mutterring to the crowd, "Get za hell out of my way!"
Just then, a car pulled up from an underground parking garage and straddled the sidewalk right in front of me, half in and half out of the garage! I was not going to stop and wait for it to proceed, nor was I going to walk into the street in front of it, so I quickly stepped behind it to cut around. Right when I got behind the car, in the darkness of the garage, he pulled out, and I began to get into the light and keep moving.
BAM! I was clubbed over the head in the darkness! In a nanosecond, my brain, convinced I was getting jumped, chose the Fight reflex, and I threw a massive left hook! Swish! no contact! BAM! again I was clubbed! Here comes the right! Swish! another failed attempt to defend myself! Time slows down in a curious way in situations like this, and I wondered where the hell was that big talking Viking now, still on my feet, I loaded up big Lefty again only to be clobbered once more..knocked to the ground this time, on my hands and knees, I began crawling up towards the light, to the perceived safety of the group on onlookers that had gathered there. As my vision cleared, I could see them all laughing hysterically, including the Viking! I wobbled to my feet and turned to meet my assailant...There was nobody there! Just the automatic parking garage arm, now hanging mutely in its horizontal position, the red and white striped culprit, attacking me from overhead, impervious to my blows, its sensors now at rest...
Peter said in a booming voice " I have never seen a yankee get his @ss kicked by a parking garage in my entire life!"
And so it is in Denmark, in a tiny little village, every Christmas time, Peter is begged to tell this story in the local tavern. He says it gets longer and funnier every year.
He did get Montezumas Revenge that week in Mexico, and lost 20 lbs, all of it brown, so I guess theres a God after all.
My industry is Machine Tools, and I have 20 years of trade show experience under my belt. Some of the adventures and stories from them have gone global, here's one.
In the era of "The Giant Sucking Sound" Perot introduced us to, a lot of manufacturers were heading south, we, as suppliers of metal working machinery, decided to follow this buffalo herd, and booked a booth at a trade show in Monterrey, MX. At the time, we had a Danish trading partner. We imported some equipment they build, and added it to the product line we built, so the idea was to have a booth full of their stuff and ours. Being fairly low on the totem pole at the time, I was tagged with the responsibilty for making sure the show went off well, the other guy "assisting" was the son of the owner of the Danish Firm, Peter.
Now, the Danes are a great people, their english is excellent, sense of humor quite similar to ours, and to survive, they have to plunder the planet like their Viking forefathers did. This heritage tends to give them an "air" of superiority, which Peter had an abundance of. Peter was about my age, a big hulk of a man, who said he once boxed for the Danish Olympic Boxing team, that turned out to be a lie, as you will see. I'm a little fella, but growing up in the 60's on the east side of Detroit, I can and have held my own in pugilistic fisticuffs of the bare knuckle sort.
The booth was set up and looking good, we had thirteen machines crammed into a 30x30, the doors opened, and guess who walked in? A bunch of Mexicans! Well, like most yankees, my understanding of the dialect is limited to a few common swears, and the numbers up to ten, Peter was worse off than I, and stood in the middle of the booth with his arms across his massive chest, at full height, with a malevolent scowl, looking like Thor.
It was my duty to have a successful show, and I engaged potential customers in halting conversations relating to the features and benefits, and prices of the machines. Luckily, most foreigners speak english quite well, and I started making deals. Typically, in the States, when a price agreement is reached, the buyer arranges financing, funds are transferred, and machines are shipped from the factory a few weeks later. In Mexico, I learned, the customer pulls out a wad of CASH, and hands it to you, with the understanding that the machine is now "theirs" and they will pick it up at the end of the show! We sold all thirteen machines, and my pockets were bulging with thousands of dollars!
As all of this was transpiring, the Big Dane stood in his pose, and mutterred under his breath to anyone that came near him, "Get za hell out of my booth, you greasy little Mexican"
I stepped up in amazement and said "Whoa! Pete! Half these guys understand english!" He replied, "I do not give a damn! for I can kick za hell out of six or seven of them at once!"
So as I sold, he insulted customers, calling them names, and rudely chasing them away..
We left the show at the close of the day, and had a couple of blocks to walk to get to the hotel. I was terrified of getting jumped on the crowded streets, pockets overstuffed with cash, I scurried along on the narrow sidewalks, fists balled up, in a crouch, with perp radar set on high. Peter strolled along a few paces behind, as if he was walking the streets of Copenhagen on a sunny afternoon, hands swinging loosely at his side, swinging his mighty shoulders, mutterring to the crowd, "Get za hell out of my way!"
Just then, a car pulled up from an underground parking garage and straddled the sidewalk right in front of me, half in and half out of the garage! I was not going to stop and wait for it to proceed, nor was I going to walk into the street in front of it, so I quickly stepped behind it to cut around. Right when I got behind the car, in the darkness of the garage, he pulled out, and I began to get into the light and keep moving.
BAM! I was clubbed over the head in the darkness! In a nanosecond, my brain, convinced I was getting jumped, chose the Fight reflex, and I threw a massive left hook! Swish! no contact! BAM! again I was clubbed! Here comes the right! Swish! another failed attempt to defend myself! Time slows down in a curious way in situations like this, and I wondered where the hell was that big talking Viking now, still on my feet, I loaded up big Lefty again only to be clobbered once more..knocked to the ground this time, on my hands and knees, I began crawling up towards the light, to the perceived safety of the group on onlookers that had gathered there. As my vision cleared, I could see them all laughing hysterically, including the Viking! I wobbled to my feet and turned to meet my assailant...There was nobody there! Just the automatic parking garage arm, now hanging mutely in its horizontal position, the red and white striped culprit, attacking me from overhead, impervious to my blows, its sensors now at rest...
Peter said in a booming voice " I have never seen a yankee get his @ss kicked by a parking garage in my entire life!"
And so it is in Denmark, in a tiny little village, every Christmas time, Peter is begged to tell this story in the local tavern. He says it gets longer and funnier every year.
He did get Montezumas Revenge that week in Mexico, and lost 20 lbs, all of it brown, so I guess theres a God after all.
