As the bus drove higher and higher into the Swiss Alps, they passed picturesque farms and small mountain villages. She cast a few furtive glances at her bus mates. They looked slightly nerdy, rumpled, and unassuming. Christy couldn’t believe that these were the giants who could move markets, shake up governments, and define modern culture.
As she discovered the next day, they weren’t. Jimmy Carter, at his Life After Leading session, made a joke that you could tell the big shots by the helicopters they rode in on. A man in the back of the room shouted, “Didn’t I see you on the bus?” The former president responded with an ear-to-ear grin.
Christy’s bus sped past the Royalton Hotel, where the A-list CEOs and heads of state stayed, giving them the advantage of only having to crawl upstairs after the evening drinkfest instead of braving icy streets at the far edge of town. Christy debarked at a hotel that looked like it should be called the Earth Shoe and Granola Lodge. She overheard a famous German Nobel Prize winner cursing his secretary under his breath for forgetting to register him early enough at a more impressive venue. Christy chuckled to herself as he tried to cover his less-than-remarkable status among the world-renowned attendees. Oh well, she thought, at least Davos made me feel important back home.
After checking in, Christy walked over to the conference center in the middle of town. It was a beautiful concrete-and-glass structure that seemed to have been dropped in the midst of old churches, elegant storefronts, and beautiful townhomes that looked like they belonged to the local aristocracy. Davos was centuries old, sitting quietly under a blanket of snow. On one side, the mountains hovered over the town. A gracious alpine valley stretched out below on the other side. Four college-age male snowboarders sporting various facial piercings walked by, giving Christy “the look.” Okay, she thought. I haven’t lost it yet. That’s good news.
Ahead were the tightest security checkpoints she had ever seen. She realized that a person unhappy with the state of the world could wipe out half of its leadership during one coffee break here. As she approached the conference center, two hunky six-foot Swiss guards in full army gear moved together to slow her down. Actually stammering, she told them she was here to register for the World Forum and showed her papers. Wordlessly, they parted again. She had a fleeting image involving black military boots and ripped fishnet stockings. Okay, back to work. Maybe she had kept herself on a short leash a little too long.
Glancing around, she noticed swarms of new arrivals brandishing name badges and official shoulder bags as they darted in and out of small espresso bars, the bookstore where every single book was written by one of the participants, and the VIP section for special members. That was weird. She thought everyone here was special. She was fast learning that Davos was a very good imitation of life at her old high school. There were concentric layers of coolness so that only a couple of people in the world could enjoy being in the truly last inner circle with no one to envy or try to displace. They just had to worry about losing their place to the guys coming up the ranks.
At the registration counter, a petite Swiss beauty wearing a Prada-like uniform looked over Christy’s choices for sessions, all the while clucking and shaking her head. “Sorry, all full. Sold out. And this, too—no space.” She explained patiently, as though to a child, that everyone who knows Davos sends their assistants in a day early to register for the hot speakers. Christy had hoped to attend discussions on currency flows, international markets, manufacturing plants in Asia, but she would have to content herself with more esoteric fare.
Christy was directed to the next counter, which held a huge pile of BlackBerries. The young gentleman who was hosting the booth handed her one, and turned it on to demonstrate. He told her that if she wanted to meet any Davos participant, invite them to a party, or have an e-mail conversation, all she had to do was click on his picture. He suggested that she check her mailbox, as she probably had a slew of messages already. She checked. Empty. The ongoing humiliation of being the lowest of the high continued.
For the official opening-night party, she made the trek again, this time navigating the icy sidewalk in spiky heels and a classic black Chanel cocktail dress with a vintage lynx shrug. She thought she made a pretty cool entrance, only to find that none of the bigwigs whose last names need not be mentioned were there—no Warren, no Bill and Melinda, no Hillary. They were all at private parties with their fellow heavyweights.
Still, Christy had an enjoyable evening hobnobbing with first-year CEOs, inventors, musicians, and scientists. She learned something about molecular biology, contemplative strands of Islam, brain activity, and perpendicular data-recording technology. The evening was only slightly marred by the A-list whose absence sent an unspoken message to the party: You may be important in your own little world, but here at Davos, you are toe jam.
That’s not to say things didn’t improve. Christy had been invited to be a panelist during one of the lunch sessions, Building New Brands. She was asked
