Our Calvinistic work ethic and sense of duty meant it was impossible for us to refuse the most generous invitation from the CMAA to attend the World Conference. Assuring our friends and colleagues that we were embarking on a gruelling, week-long, energy sapping education event perhaps lost some credibility when it was explained that this was to take place in one of the great party cities of the world. Rather unfairly, in our opinion, it was assumed that such a trip was being treated as an excuse to carouse and behave like the hedonists we clearly are not cut out to be.
We trooped towards our journey therefore, rather aggrieved and determined to prove the world wrong. Ah, but our resolve was to be sorely tested!
The window seat that I occupied provided an uninterrupted view of the snow clad fields of Lincolnshire as we made our way towards the USA from Amsterdam. This was of mixed benefit, bringing some interest to the journey, whilst at the same time enabling us to note that after travelling for four hours, we flew over Largs, from whence we came.
The cabin crew were perfunctory in their treatment of us but after three bottles of wine, why should we care? Detroit loomed quickly and we trailed through US immigration with the standard interrogation of our motives.
“A golf conference huh! Does that make you a golfer?”
Despite my urge to reply “DOH!” I refrained and we scooted through as best I could.
Detroit Airport was an unexpected boost to two already weary travellers. The two terminals are separated by a runway and therefore require to be connected, being so by a substantial tunnel. Some visionary had seen the sense in bringing some fun to this situation by lining the walls of this tunnel with glass panels displaying an ever changing light show accompanied by chill-out music.
Appearing from the tunnel wide-eyed and smiling, we stepped forward lighter than before. The fact that both Jim and I wanted to stand in the middle and gasp “Wow!” did not seem to be shared by our fellow travellers and we had to content ourselves with a few photos instead. The hour long wait for our flight was, in our opinion, best spent at the bar and it was here that we encountered our first Louisianan. Perched next to us was a diminutive southern man with the unlikely name of Keith Hebert (Eh-bear)
Keith was a pleasure to talk to and through him we learned a little of what New Orleans had in store. Urbane, polite and well travelled, Mr Hebert was the first of many people we met who were super-keen for us to enjoy their favourite city. He explained that as a native of New Orleans, an obvious career was to work for the oil industry as many of the major corporations had large offices there. Following the hurricane, many jobs including his, have been relocated to Houston, which he described as soulless. Eschewing our offer of a pint, he left with advice that we must eat proper Cajun food and take in the music on Bourbon Street. Bidding Mr Hebert farewell, we supplemented our own company with another two beers before slipping down the corridor to our flight.
New Orleans
Calloused travelling Scots as we are, we were quick to establish who else at the taxi rank at New Orleans Airport was heading for the hotel and the unfortunate individual was press ganged into sharing our fare. Given that this was the first American delegate that we had encountered, our enthusiasm for his company spilled beyond the basic need to save money. “Where are you from, how many conferences have you attended, how is your club doing?” The answers issued by our friend in the back of the cab made Marcel Marceau seem loquacious, so we contained our enthusiasm for the future, assuming that our friend was just travel weary.
Happily, Jim and I share much the same habits and we were able to check-in, refresh ourselves and head downtown in a matter of minutes. Finding a decent eating place in New Orleans is not difficult but I was pleased that we stumbled across somewhere authentic and charming. Thankfully, our Gumbo and shrimp did not disappoint and it was fairly priced at $15. We chatted amiably with the spinster (and far too slim) cook from the Midwest who was holidaying in Louisiana for culinary inspiration.
In addition to our first meal providing a hint of the good food that we were to enjoy, we discovered that the good people of the Southern States enjoy their dark beer and we tucked into their local brew with the effort required to set up a decent long sleep. Crashing at 9.00 pm, we were delighted that the beer had done the trick and we woke at 6.00 am, fresh as lemon juice.
Walking to the conference centre was a joy. Blue sky, warm air and the forbidding Mississippi providing a relaxing backdrop for our journey. Sadly we were too early to enjoy breakfast in The Riverside Mall and we were therefore forced to sample the dubious pleasures of the conference centre cafe. Surveying the scene carefully we decided that the ‘Classic Southern Breakfast’ would set us up nicely and ordered the same for two.
The sausages were good and the fact that the entire meal was tepid was no surprise for a conference centre. What was more of a surprise was the five star surliness of the staff:
‘Whaddaya want?’
‘A Classic Southern Breakfast please’
‘We’ve no eggs’
‘What in that case, could you tempt me with as a replacement?’
‘Huh?’
‘Could we have some bacon?’
‘Not with the Classic Southern!’
‘Could we have some scones?’
‘Huh?’
‘Those things’
‘You mean biscuits?’
‘If that is what they are called, yes’
‘Not with the Classic Southern!’
Having run out of options, we asked for more hash browns instead, which duly arrived on our paper plates with all the finesse of a brick layer trowelling cement.
The vastness of the shopping centre meant that by walking around the several hundred stands, we expended just as many calories as we could stuff down our throats in free samples. Many delightful people were met and a variety of fascinating goods and services associated with the club industry were investigated on route between free cookies and vintage rum.
A little footsore from our fossicking, we opted to take the shuttle bus back to the conference hotel, allowing ourselves a few carefully considered minutes at the bar before heading to the President’s reception. Every minute spent at the Marriott bar must be carefully considered, given the amount of money that it costs to do so. Arriving at the 37th floor, we entered the reception when ‘Old Tom Morris’ was in full flow and the canapés were being liberally dispensed. This is always a good time to join a party as allows the opportunity to scan the room and slot yourself in beside already established good company. This we duly did with Max Mason and Terry Conroy, who represented the Australian Club Managers involved at the conference.
Max and Terry are of the same generation, of similar backgrounds and a shared profession but display quite different personalities. I would be unsurprised to learn that Max had run a bar in a tough mining town in the new territories maintaining discipline with his rigid will and excoriating wit. His leaden features belie a core as sensitive as molten rock but he is good fun nonetheless. Terry on the other hand has a sparkle and a cheeky smile that I imagine maintains his popularity within the global club industry despite being Australian.
Time spent with our Ozzie cousins contains a number of laughs and no embarrassment at the amount we drink.
With the party breaking up, our next social engagement beckoned and we slipped off to meet Tom Robshaw and to share a meal with him. Tom is an amiable and surprisingly forgiving benefactor to Jim and me. His acceptance of the gentle ribbing sent his way all evening does not seem to dampen his enthusiasm for our company and it is very easy to share his hospitality. Our fellow guests for the meal were Albert and Reine, both of whom were happy to engage in our sense of humour without blood being spilt. Albert Donlou is Tom’s European agent whose Dutch upbringing has provided him with the predictable confidence and directness that I associate with this nationality. Reine Dahl on the other hand was a soft spoken American living in Montana and was the owner of a successful country club. We all agreed that the chosen restaurant was a little disappointing on first inspection; being large, noisy and a touch impersonal. I found this to be most noticeable after the quiet and distinctive ambience of the first eating house we had visited the previous night. However, the food did not let us down, with the seafood dishes we all ordered being of the highest quality.
The crack was such that Jim and I happily scurried past the predictably lurid night clubs of Bourbon Street to enjoy a contemplative dram with our new friends at the hotel bar. We were, as Greg Paterson often reminds us, on an adventure and thankfully the chosen company was content to follow our chosen route.
The second day at the show will always be a disappointment and although this is partly due to the ever dwindling free goods, the familiarity of the goods and services lead to a shorter time spent in the great halls. Leaving the show at lunchtime for something more substantial to eat than free cookies, we settled down in the warm sunshine next to the Mississippi for some shrimp Gumbo. All of a sudden, an Australian brogue cut the air ‘its David isn’t it?’ Instantly recognisable was Rex, the Terralift man. Doing great business in Europe with his fertiliser made from chicken manure, he remains grateful for my willingness to spread his product, smells and all, around Linlithgow golf course. Catching up for an hour with Rex in the Louisianan warmth added another subtle pleasure to my already very palatable lunch overlooking the bustling river and it helped us decide that we had seen all that had to be seen at the show.
What certainly did not disappoint was the networking party organised by the good people of New Orleans. The charmless and impersonal Marriott was transformed for one night into a Bourbon Street nightclub with the most impressive cabaret act that I have ever had the joy of experiencing. The preamble to this was an array of southern food, sampled in the company of new friends and casual acquaintances. My resolution was to make an effort to meet new people; foisting my ebullience on unfortunate victims of my inquisitive nature. Like any lucky dip, you are more likely to retrieve a Gonk than a star prize and so it proved with my initial efforts.
My first encounter was with a husband and wife duo who were of the uber-achieving (if you could believe them) social-climbing, nasty new money type. They gushed at hearing my accent and were interested for a nano second that I was at ‘such an old club’ but they quickly moved on to more familiar territory and droned on for an age about how brilliant they were. Relief arrived in the form of genial Jim Singerling, who as the consummate host was moving through the crowd and making contact with as many members as was reasonable. ‘Hey David’ came the salutation, ‘how are you? Is the room ok? Are the treating you well?’ A brief but warm repartee ensued before my now erstwhile new-money friends thrust their eager personalities in front of the big man. Taking my leave and my now restored good humour to the other side of the room, I continued to blindly mingle.
Encountering more Gonks of a variety of sizes, shapes and humours, I ended up on the dance floor and boogied away with a selection of unsuspecting ladies, including the lovely Marisa Reilly. The James Brown tribute act was, as already mentioned, sublime and it was a great sadness for this to come to an end, especially as I had the great fortune to dance with the shapely and beguiling New Orleans party organiser, whose looks and company would command respect in any environment.
Still tapping my feet to the now drifting music and smiling inanely as stupid men are apt to do, I bobbed along to the pudding table for a final piece of cake. It was here that I eventually drew the winning lottery ticket when encountering Rick and Marcia Beymer. My so far dour and often misguided attempts at social engagement had been met with blank looks and it was therefore a pleasure and a surprise to find two people who smiled at my intrusion into their evening.
Forming an instant bond, we resolved to visit the famed Preservation Hall together. The Beymers proved to be the most charming company imaginable and despite having little in common outside our job, we chatted easily through the music all evening.
Saturday saw the commencement of the Education Conference, which never fails to match expectations with great speakers delivering meaningful content to interested audiences. As always, Jim and I retired to the bar to digest the day’s learning’s and the expensive beer in equal measure. Sharing our own company, we ended the evening in a fine eatery in the French quarter and managed an early night.
Sunday brought the International Symposium with its polyglot audience teaching each other that club members are as grumpy and demanding in Columbia as they are in Cowdenbeath. Our choice of decompression after our learning journey was to share an evening with the indomitable Greg Paterson and a small crowd that he had picked up along the way. Meeting in the hotel lobby, we were informed that one of the party knew an excellent French restaurant a short walk from the hotel.
Assembled in a gang, we marched off behind our elected leader to enjoy a well prepared meal beautifully served in charismatic surroundings. As we passed each block, our anticipation as well as our anticipation grew exponentially. Corners were turned, streets traversed and further into New Orleans we explored. ‘It’s just around the corner’ implored our leader for the fourth time until at last, under scaffolding, a darkened, forlorn and obviously closed cafe was espied.
‘Don’t worry’, cried our leader, ‘I know of somewhere else’. Sweating visibly and breathing heavily from his anxiety as much as the exercise, the pathfinder scurried quickly trying to source our elusive grand meal.
‘Aha! I knew it was here’. Sitting proudly in the middle of the block was an unkempt, low-grade diner proclaiming that it was ‘Mother’s Restaurant – World’s Best Home Baked Ham’.
It was somehow far more fitting to the occasion than a plush velveteen Gallic affair and we merrily made our way in. It was a unique offering. The walls were adorned with celebrities who had made a different kind of pilgrimage to ours but could not have had a better time. The ordering system, well known to anyone who has used a ‘sit-in’ service at a British Chippy, was to choose your meal at a stainless steel counter and pay at the till on the end. A notice strictly instructed that tipping would not be tolerated and that there will be no cussing, spitting or fighting. I am quite sure that the notice was all that was required to keep order in such an establishment.
Using a large round table that comfortably accommodated all eight of us, we were effectively, if perfunctorily, served our meals. Pallid beer washed down fresh and well prepared food that as garnished with enlivening company. The plastic tables, chairs, plates and glasses fitted the mood perfectly and proved the point that decent food with good company can be enjoyed in any environment.
Our final day at the Conference provided some moral guidance from the wisdom of Brian Dodge, whose high energy presentation lifted those in the room to an almost spiritual plane. Although not quite in that zone, I found the benefit of his philosophy for many months to come.
The final evening in New Orleans started with a final rendezvous in the hotel bar and a beer with Rick Beymer. Rick had enjoyed his limited time with the Scots to the extent that he had bid an extravagance to win the golf trip to the Home of Golf provided by my friends back home. Such largesse on the part of Mr. Beymer was entitled to be rewarded by a beer, which allowed us time to reflect on our short time spent together and conclude that we should definitely meet again.
Jim and I then made our way to spend the rest of the evening with Pat and Stefan Sheistl, plus assorted others in an establishment of Teutonic proportions, being as it was, a German restaurant. The wine flowed, the crack was sublime and the food was good. Alan Threadgold displayed a uniquely Irish charm, telling anecdotes with an understated wit and cheeky grin. Poor old ? was suffering greatly from the cold but manfully kept up with the pace. It was a grand way to finish off the conference in a social sense and we retired weary but happy.
Jim was convinced that we should spend one last day with Greg and I was persuaded to hang on for one more morning. It was worth it but perhaps not the most uplifting of experiences, being as it was, an hour of Greg’s sweat and angst that went by in a blur of stinging emotion.
With his sermon ringing in our ears, we sloped off to the airport quietly.
The now customary road trip had been arranged with our usual last minute haste and as normal, it turned out to be a cracker.
Looking simply for advice, I had emailed a Crail Golfing Society member who resides 300 miles north of New Orleans and asked if Memphis was worth visiting. Denis Tosh answered by saying that if we were going that far, we were instructed to stay at his house. His guarantee as a Crail member that we would enjoy Oxford, Tennessee was worth saying yes to and we paid far too much for a rental car and sailed north. Dennis had instructed us to find a filling station on Jackson Avenue in his home town and call him from there. A slightly circuitous route through town led us to an appropriately open gas station where we attempted to work a pump whilst waiting for Dennis.
Inserting cards, pulling triggers and pressing buttons had no effect on the machine and I was forced inside to ask for assistance. Standing before me was what could be politely referred to as movie standard redneck material. Stooping slightly, bending his head to one side, he spat some tobacco into a plastic tub and proudly stated ‘You can’t do it, can ya?’ My reply was greeted with another question:
‘where y’all from? Scotland eh? Where it all bega-yan’
As I was wearing a golf sweater I asked if he was referring to my chosen sport of golf:
‘Nope, the Presbytery church’.
He then jabbed at a till and declared that I could fill up. ‘But I thought I had to pay first?’ His chilling response concentrated my mind:
‘You ain’t going nowhere, I got you covered!’
Relieved as we were to get the car filled up, we were more relieved to see Dennis swoosh into the gas station and lead us to sanity.
Dennis and Beth proved to be the perfect hosts to show us around the picture postcard southern town of Oxford. Famed recently for being the home town of John Grisham, Oxford was previously best known for its University, known universally as ‘Ole Miss’. The architecture, the confederate war memorials and the people were as directly lifted from a Grisham movie. Unsurprisingly. Our tour started with a trip for a proper southern breakfast. In complete contrast to our so-called ‘Southern Classic’ at the Convention centre, this was the real deal. Country Ham, biscuit, gravy and grits. It is not a combination that many people would welcome on the same plate but sitting in the cosy cafe, watching the rain batter down, it felt good. We were joined at breakfast by Dennis’s great friend and fellow Crail member, Ron Hipp. Both men display a pride in their town that is highly infectious and a joy to witness.
A short trip was taken to Oxford Country Club and we had the somewhat surreal experience of playing on dormant Bermuda grass. To Jim and me, it was akin to playing on dead grass but the colour was deceptive and the course played beautifully. Jim, as usual, played his brand of immaculate golf and we were joined by Alan, who complimented our little group perfectly as we thrashed about on brown grass. After the game, it was agreed that we would meet Alan and Ron at a gathering arranged at Ron’s house for that evening and so we parted with Dennis taking us to the town square for a souvenir.
Wandering around the small town centre, I felt as if Atticus Finch must have treaded the same pavements or that James Stewart ran the local Savings and Loan Bank. The book shop was as charismatic as you would expect of a university town with the added attraction of plenty of Grisham memorabilia. The souvenir of unique value was duly purchased, being a signed copy of Grisham’s latest offering.
Satisfied with our day so far, we adjourned to a bar to enjoy a dark beer on the balcony. No sooner had we settled when Dennis spotted my friendly gas station attendant ‘Hey Zirk’ (for that was his commonly used moniker) ‘You’re new Scottish friends are up here’.
‘Yeah’ replied the one-toothed character, ‘the ones who can’t work the gas!’
A quick change enabled us to head to Ron’s house for a wee dram with the Oxford golfers who have played Crail and we were astonished to find that this numbered 16!! Their enthusiasm for Scotland was highly touching and it was a treat to spend an hour in their company. Our evening finished with a splendid meal in the University Club with Dennis, Ron, Alan and their wives. It was a great sadness to say goodbye to such good people.
The uneventful trip home was punctuated by the odd moment of interest but ultimately, we were by this stage keen to return as quick as possible. As always, our American adventure provided us with unforgettable experiences and lasting friendships but the bonds that were forged seem stronger than usual. The intoxicating mix of great food, memorable architecture and music was made all the more heady by the pride the southerners show in their land.
Perhaps it was also our willingness to embrace the company and hospitality shown to us by all who we met and spent time with. Whatever was the case, I would not be surprised if we were unable to recreate the magic on the journey but it won’t be for the want of trying!
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