I always wanted to be in international sales.
See the world. Meet interesting people. Travel on somebody else’s dime.
Nobody mentioned the pigeon, snake, pig intestines or chicken feet.
Those details apparently came after you accepted the assignment.
I joined a global packaging company in domestic business development, figuring it could be my entrance into the international arena. After three successful years, I approached the vice president of global development.
“I’ve proven I can sell, I get along with everybody in the sandbox, and I’d love to join your team.”
“John, I appreciate your interest, but I need someone with global experience.”
A reasonable requirement. Difficult to acquire when nobody lets you leave the country.
Three months later, I tried again.
“I still need someone with global experience.”
Another six months passed.
Same answer. But this time, he added a favor.
“A group from Korea is coming Friday. They’re considering a multimillion-dollar equipment purchase. They land at O’Hare at three. Call them and give them the airport shuttle’s 800 number so they can get to the Hilton.”
That was our international welcome.
Millions of dollars in potential business.
Here’s a phone number. Find your hotel.
“Would you mind if I rented a van, picked them up, took them to dinner and showed them around Chicago?”
“Go ahead, John, if you want to tie up your whole weekend.”
I did.
Thank God I rented a large van. Nine people arrived: the president, Mr. Lee, his wife, several executives and technical people, and a translator.
After checking them into the hotel, I picked them up for dinner.
“Mr. John,” the translator said, “Mr. Lee would like to know where we are going.”
“Downtown Chicago.”
A discussion followed.
“He says we cannot go there.”
“Why?”
“Mafia.”
Of all the things that might derail my international career, I hadn’t considered Al Capone.
I assured them we would be fine.
Later, I took them to a tourist shop loaded with Mafia souvenirs.
They bought T-shirts, key chains, license plates and coffee mugs. They posed for pictures with Al Capone.
Apparently, the Mafia was terrifying until it had a gift shop.
We spent the weekend seeing Chicago: the Sears Tower, museums, the aquarium, drinks on the 95th floor of the Hancock Building and a great steakhouse. We also visited a Korean restaurant, where they could enjoy familiar food and visit with people who spoke their language.
We had an absolute blast.
Even the jokes required teamwork. Someone would tell the translator something, and the whole group would laugh. Then he would explain it to me, and we would all laugh again.
Every joke got two performances.
On our way back from Koreatown, we drove through a neighborhood that didn’t appear in the sightseeing brochures.
“Mr. John, could you pull over?”
I assumed somebody needed a bathroom.
One of the gentlemen disappeared into a corner strip mall. Fifteen minutes later, he returned carrying a loaded shopping bag.
On the side were the words:
Pleasure Palace.
I didn’t ask.
I had volunteered to drive the van. Customs declarations were somebody else’s department.
Monday brought meetings with our company’s team. On Tuesday, we hosted a farewell lunch before their flight home.
I wrote a little song and played it on my banjo.
Some companies close with a formal presentation.
I had four strings and considerable enthusiasm.
You came to Chicago from far across the sea,
And it’s been a pleasure having you with me.
We’d love to work together when this visit’s through,
And someday in Korea, I hope to visit you.
There was more, but you get the idea. Gratitude, friendship, Chicago and the possibility that our equipment might be worth several million dollars.
I dropped them at O’Hare and returned to domestic sales.
Three weeks later, the global sales manager found me.
“John, you son of a bitch. We got the order.”
Wonderful news.
“Contingent on you going to Korea.”
For nine months, I couldn’t get overseas because I lacked international experience.
Now the customer wouldn’t buy unless I came along.
I was beginning to understand global development.
A dozen people met me at the airport in Korea. They brought gifts: portraits, vases, jewelry. I was treated like royalty.
Our company had supplied T-shirts and key chains.
Fortunately, Chicago’s organized-crime souvenir industry had helped balance the exchange.
I spent three wonderful days in Seoul. On my last day, my hosts celebrated with a special meal.
Pigeon.
Until then, my relationship with pigeons had consisted of protecting my windshield.
Now one was dinner.
I had finally made it into international sales, and I wasn’t about to let a bird send me home.
Then the office called.
“Since you’re already in Seoul, we have an issue in Taiwan. We need you there.”
Absolutely.
Another call followed.
“We have a problem in China.”
I flew to Hong Kong, a city seemingly designed for my attention span. Lights, crowds, signs, activity everywhere. An ADHD dream town.
Then I took the train into China.
Somewhere along the way, I discovered that my conservative meat-and-potatoes diet had not been consulted about this promotion.
In Asia, client dinners often took place in private rooms around a large table with a lazy Susan.
Dishes kept rotating past me.
Pig intestines. Snake. Liver. Other things whose identities I decided not to pursue.
At home, a lazy Susan helped you reach the mashed potatoes.
Here, it gave you advance warning.
Fish seemed like a safe option. I ate fish.
First, however, you walked past aquariums and selected your dinner personally.
Fifteen minutes later, it arrived at the table fully intact.
At home, fish came as a fillet.
Here, we had already met.
My hosts were generous and proud of the meals they shared. I wanted to show my appreciation, even when my stomach requested a private conversation.
Then came the chicken feet.
“No, thank you.”
“John. Chinese delicacy.”
I looked again.
Still feet.
They explained the tradition and encouraged me to try them.
These people had welcomed me into their country, their businesses and their celebrations.
Not eat? Insult.
So I somehow got them down.
I joined the global team and made several more trips to Korea, Hong Kong, China, the Philippines and Singapore.
I got the career I had wanted. I saw the world, made friends and helped build business—all because I thought nine visitors deserved more than an airport shuttle number.
The banjo probably didn’t hurt.
I finally had international experience.
Apparently, it tasted like chicken feet.
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