For much of my time at Microsoft, I wore two hats. As head of the eXtreme Computing Group (XCG), I oversaw research and advanced technology prototyping. Simultaneously, I also headed the Technology Strategy and Policy Group (TSPG), navigating the interplay between business and global regulation. This duality kept me in a state of near-constant motion. I was living a bilingual life, one of technology and of policy – hoping for fluency in both. (See Being Bilingual: Speaking Technology and Policy and Reluctant Revolutionaries, the Trolley Paradox, and Ender’s Game.)
My calendar was a blur of cross-country trips from Seattle to Washington, DC, of course, but also to Mexico City, Rio de Janeiro, London, Paris, Brussels, Geneva, Tokyo, Singapore, Taipei, Beijing, Delhi, and many other international cities, for research and policy meetings. (As an aside, Microsoft security once assured me they would pay ransom to extract me from an international hostage situation, if needed. Grateful, I fervently hoped that would never be necessary.) In addition, Microsoft regularly held research reviews at its international laboratories, notably Microsoft Research Asia (Beijing) and Microsoft Research India (Bangalore), and I was expected to attend.
Good Morning, Mr. Reed!
On trips to Europe and India, I typically flew from SeaTac on KLM. On one of my many trips through Amsterdam Schiphol, dazed and trudging toward the airport lounge after an overnight flight, I was startled by a cheery, “Good morning, Mr. Reed!” As my addled brain processed this unexpected salutation, I scanned the crowd, wondering who might know me here in a European airport. If it were a friend, they would undoubtedly have used my first name.
Finally, I spotted the source – it was a KLM flight attendant walking down the concourse toward me. I quickly mumbled a “good morning” in response, while realizing with some horror that I must be traveling far too much if a KLM flight attendant knew me by face and name!
If I had any doubt about my “frequent flyer” status, it was solidified on another Atlantic crossing when a border official for the Schengen Area of Schiphol took my passport, rifled the pages, looked back at me, rifled the pages again, and finally asked, “You are obviously an American, traveling on a United States passport.” But, waving at the extra passport pages filled with visa stamps, in weary disbelief, he continued, “Where do you live?” I was tempted to say, “An aisle seat,” but thought better of it.
Nor were the trans-Pacific flights much different. On the Sunday afternoon Northwest Airlines flight from SeaTac to Tokyo, the purser and I had a standing arrangement. After I read the Sunday New York Times, I handed the paper to her, because she loved the Sunday crossword puzzle. I saw even more seasoned road warriors, but not many.
The irony was my wife, Andrea, was living the same life, traveling for international business while working at IBM. We have travel photographs from cities around the world, posing in front of statues, museums, and cultural artifacts – all taken separately. It was both exhilarating and exhausting.
The Price of Karma
On one of these many trips, I found myself in Bangaluru (Bangalore), participating in a review of Microsoft Research India, with Rick Rashid and the other Microsoft Research leaders. While in Bangaluru, an opportunity materialized for me to speak with the Indian government about digital privacy, transnational data flows, and cloud technology. In response, I quickly emailed my wise and wonderful executive assistant, Rebecca Phipps, and, in turn, she asked Microsoft’s travel office to book a last-minute flight to New Delhi, along with a hotel room.
When I landed in Delhi the next day and arrived at the front desk, I was surprised to find myself booked in the international hotel’s Presidential Suite.
“There must be a mistake,” I insisted. “No mistake, Mr. Reed. This is your reservation.” “Are there any other rooms? Perhaps something smaller?” “We are fully booked.”
Nonplussed, I reluctantly accepted my key, and declined the inevitable offer of luggage assistance associated with such a suite.
As soon as I reached my multiroom suite, I sat down and emailed Rebecca, asking what had happened. With the thirteen-hour time difference, my evening was her morning, and she quickly responded, explaining that (a) she had chosen the hotel for its proximity to government offices, seeking to avoid traffic delays, (b) it truly was the only room available, and (c) it was only one night.
Nevertheless, I felt a nagging sense of guilt. Why did I care? After all, it was not my money, though on second thought, maybe it was; I was (and am) a stockholder. Ah, but it is and was about ethics. I have always viewed the stewardship of funds – whether federal, state, university, or corporate – as a moral imperative. One must manage these funds as if they were one’s own, frugally and wisely.
In my mind, I did not see a suite; I saw the equivalent of hundreds of Microsoft Windows licenses. Someone was paying, and I I knew I should never forget that.
That evening, the universe – or at least the furniture – decided to settle the bill.
I unpacked my business suits, hung them in the closet to avoid wrinkles, and went to bed. Being an aging male, at some point during the night, I felt the unavoidable need to go to the bathroom. I successfully navigated a path around the suite’s ornate, carved wooden furniture to reach the bathroom, but on my return to bed, I stubbed the toes of my right foot.
At this point, I uttered several words and phrases from what Rahm Emanuel once called his “extended vocabulary.” These are certainly not words I learned from my mother, though I may have learned a few of them from my father. Nor do I use them in the presence of others. Rather, I reserve them for myself, when I have done something so egregiously stupid that only personal chastisement and abnegation will do. This was one of those times.
Perhaps it was cosmic karma for the price of the room. All I knew was my foot hurt like @#$(&!.
The next day, as I walked through the halls of Indian ministries discussing digital sovereignty, I limped through every meeting, and my foot ached continuously. However, I still had thousands of miles to go—and a speech in Munich—before I could finally head home.
I Don’t Do Chic
When I landed in Munich, I turned on my Windows Phone to read the inevitable flood of waiting messages. I was in town to speak at the Digital Life Design (DLD) conference, and one of the messages stood out: the dress code for the evening reception was “chic.”
Context is everything here. The DLD conference is held in January, and it is a primary stopover for the “beautiful people” on their way to the World Economic Forum meeting at Davos. The reception would be filled with CEOs, billionaires, and government policy wonks. (See DLD: Sprechen Sie Cloud?)
Here’s the problem. I don’t do chic. For the record, I am neither suave nor debonair, nor am I possessing of savoir faire. I do geek, and when required, business.
My natural attire is computer science geek, complete with logoed t-shirt, faded khakis, and worn sneakers. Reflecting the two aspects of my lifelong roles – researcher and policy wonk – I can even “clean up” and do a business suit, power tie, and Oxford shoes. In fact, at the time, I may have been among the vanishingly small fraction of Microsoft employees who owned multiple business suits and a wide variety of ties, while also capable of tying a Windsor knot. On the rare occasion, I have even been known to appear in a tuxedo. I am many things, but I knew chic was a bridge too far.
As I pondered this sartorial conundrum, my car arrived at the conference hotel, the Four Seasons, a site that perfectly mirrored the high-status crowd. To my surprise, there was an Armani boutique across the street. For just a moment, I fantasized about slapping my corporate Amex card on the counter, and asking for a custom suit – rush order – delivered by tomorrow morning, cost be damned.
Then, reality hit, as I realized it would be a profligate and wildly inappropriate use of company funds. More to the point, I still would not be chic, just (expensively) rumpled. I might be in Munich, representing a powerful multinational corporation, but inside, I was still just a poor kid from Arkansas. (See Every Kernel A Banquet.)
I made my choice. The next day, I limped over to the reception in my standard slacks and a blazer; it was the right call. It turned out the room was full of geeks – some extraordinarily rich and powerful, but geeks nonetheless. I caught up with Marc Benioff, CEO of Salesforce, with whom I had served together on the U.S. President’s Information Technology Advisory Committee (PITAC), as well as with my fellow geek, Werner Vogels from Amazon, who was also attending DLD to speak.
On Boots and Suits
Upon returning to Redmond, I visited an urgent care facility, where an X-ray confirmed I had broken at least one toe during that night in Delhi. They sent me home with a crutch, an immobilizer boot, and the classical medical reassurance, “It will be fine, given time.” It’s right up there with the vaudevillian exchange, “Doc, it hurts when I do that!” “Then I suggest you not do that.”
A few weeks later, I am in Boulder, Colorado to participate in a Silicon Flatirons panel on net neutrality and broadband services. (See Network Neutrality: It’s Complicated.) My longtime friend, Vint Cerf, from Google, was one of the other panelists. As we chatted in the green room, Vint was, as always, dapper in his trademark three-piece suit, while I was dressed in a business suit and foot immobilizer. Soon another of our panelists arrived, a college student representing the younger generation.
The kid was wearing – wait for it – a three-piece suit, albeit with hiking boots and a ballpoint pen clipped to his front suit jacket pocket. Granted, it was January in Colorado, and there was snow on the ground. Nevertheless, there are certain sartorial expectations, particularly when a gentleman wears a waistcoat.
I looked at the kid, then at Vint. Vint looked at me, then back at the kid. With a gentle, knowing smile, Vint leaned in and asked quietly,
Son, would you mind if I offered you a bit of advice on how to wear a three-piece suit?
What followed was a brief masterclass, one that could have graced the pages of GQ, on the value of pockets inside the jacket and the importance of quality footwear. With the ice broken, the three of us then had a wonderful time on the panel.
Coda
I have not been everywhere, though there were times when the calendar might suggest otherwise. I do have a lifetime of memories – of places, but more importantly, of people. It really is a small world, even with a broken toe.
Pro tip from Vint and Dan: Hiking boots are never a good match for a suit, with or without a vest.
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