Georgia

In the airport on my way to Georgia I pick up a New York Times that has, on the cover, a photo of people in boats paddling through their neighborhoods that now, due to two weeks of unrelenting rain, are under 20 feet of water. And this is in Georgia. I have spent the last few weeks of my life so buried in work that I am completely oblivious to the fact that maybe I should have packed scuba equipment for the sales calls I have planned in Georgia.

Fortunately, everything is fine. Which reinforces a dangerous suspicion on my side that the news you read or hear has virtually nothing to do with reality - and hence can be ignored.


I can't figure out Augusta. I was expecting everything to look like, well, a really nice golf course. Instead there are a lot of strip malls, and then you go over the Savannah River (above) and there you are in the midst of this old town. Where there is a rather charming hodge-podge of historic buildings like the Georgia Cotton Exchange, modish architecture like this one designed by IM Pei (right). And a big Marriott. What pulls it all together is that everything seems to be owned by a William S. Morris of Morris Communications.















I have lunch with the director of manufacturing at MVP, a division of Morris Communications, in this great local restaurant serving hearty, simple fare like this "Fried Smothered Pork Chop" (I know it sounds cruel but the pork chop is really happy in the end)

My client laughs when I tell him how I tried to get an appointment to see Augusta National. "No one gets in there without being invited" he says. "But I don't want to play golf!" I complain "I just want to discuss printing! And besides - the guy I spoke to was so nice I was sure he would see me." Which shows how clueless I am because 1) this is the South and it is kind of a professional obligation to be courteous (ie opposite of New York City), and 2) this goes double if you are associated with Augusta National. "If someone gets invited to Augusta National and they piss other members or guests off and have to be escorted out - not only is that person put on a blackball list, and never allowed on the grounds again. The person who allowed him to come onto the property in the first place is ALSO put on the blackball list and never allowed back again!"

Who amongst your friends could you trust with such responsibility? Could you trust yourself - or would the pressure to behave so flawlessly bear down upon you with such force that inevitably you would be compelled to have too many martinis, or dress inappropriately, or get into a shouting match with a complete stranger?

It appears I will not have a chance to find out, at least not on this sales trip ....

Sea turtle Illustrations copyright Morris Communications