Hello Mother, Hello Father
TIME's Jeff Chu sends his first postcard from Camp Davos
BY JEFF CHU Davos
The Davos experience began before we even boarded the flight to
Switzerland. In the gate area at London Heathrow, clusters of old-timers
crowded the entrance, air-kissing, pulling their best cocktail-party
smiles, catching up on all that's happened and whose companies have
tanked since they last saw each other.
You know what it reminded me of? The first day of summer camp. In fact,
from my initial impressions, Davos seems to be no more than a truncated,
wintry version of camp for the world's business and political elite. Yes,
I know: most people here are closer to 70 years old than seven. We've
traded the campfire and s'mores for the fondue pot and melted cheese. And
the lame camp newsletter has been replaced by the equally lame World
Economic Forum channel in my hotel room.
But some things seem the same. Take the social stereotypes, for example.
The newbies stood out from the moment I stepped into the boarding area. A
couple of them looked really nervous, like they wanted one last hug from
Momma. They hid behind their copies of the FT, occasionally peeking over
the top to see if there was someone-anyone!-they recognized. The studious
ones (and there are always a couple of those) pored over their briefing
booklets, marking all the seminars they wanted to attend and reviewing
their dog-eared notes.
Remember how the back of the bus was always the coolest? Well, the
airline somehow knew to reserve the back of the plane for the raucous
ones. We got the best stewardess, Sue, who promised (threatened?) to
liven up our trip with a floor show somewhere over France and cracked
jokes about deep-vein thrombosis. And my row, at least, managed to bond
during the flight by holding our noses and making fun of the boring
smelly guy in 33D who was the conversational equivalent of a sleeping
pill. Not everyone wanted to be back there. One Frenchwoman acted like
her seat had cooties. (She'd probably just never been that far back in
the plane before.) She was fuming: "I told them not the back of the
plane! Not the back of the plane!"
I'm told that, as with camp, the formal program in Davos isn't the point.
Sure, the set schedule fills a whole thick book, with list after list of
panels and prominent speakers. But Davos is more about events like Sports
Day and skiing on Sunday. It's about the late-night chats and the special
dinners. And it's about the people you meet, network with and remember
until you're back together again.
How sweet? Not quite. I'm having flashbacks of my one terribly traumatic
childhood camp experience, and I'm not sure I'm ready to deal with that
yet. But I suppose the memories' escape from my long-locked psychological
trunk will all have been worth it if I can sit by the fondue pot and
listen to Bill Gates break out with a rousing chorus of "Kumbayah."
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Hello Mother, Hello Father
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