I believe almost everything I read in newspapers, especially this paper. Especially the columnists. One remarkable columnist in particular.
Anyway, I just read in USA Today that conventions were seeking a “lower profile,” in “modest host cities,” as opposed to flying off to Las Vegas and flirting with showgirls and stuff.
If that’s true (see above), I think that Hartford has to get very busy, in its modest, low-profile kind of way. The conventioneers are looking for somnolent fun that won’t embarrass them when the shareholders see the bar bill. Welcome to Hartford.
The bars don’t stay open late, the liquor stores close at 8 p.m., you can’t buy wine in grocery stores, and most of the barbershops are closed on Mondays. How much expensive fun do you think you could have in a city such as this?
Ever since a national survey labeled Hartford the “quietest” city in America (it was meant as a compliment), travel and tourism officials have been trolling for contemplative orders of Monks to hold their annual meetings here.
Now, we can go after everyone, with the promise that the most embarrassing thing they might run into is a slightly inebriated actuary, wondering how he is going to price health insurance, when President Obama forbids him from asking customers whether they’re actually sick.
This city rocks. The U.S. Census Bureau says Connecticut is home to the third-oldest non-Hispanic white population in the nation. You don’t have to send your convention to Florida if what you’re looking for is a really great shuffleboard tournament.
We’re proud of our colonial heritage and the fact that everything (and, apparently, everyone) is very, very old. Hartford has the oldest public art museum and the oldest newspaper of continuous publication and the oldest potholes that never get fixed. You’ll age five years just by checking in at the convention hotel. That’s what you want, right?
There is always a fear among the families of conventioneers that the boys will get all tanked up one night, flag down a cab, and ask to be taken “somewhere fun.” Not to worry. This is Hartford. The cabs aren’t allowed to prowl the streets, conveniently looking for fares. Your spouse is safe with us.
You can tell the corporate internal auditors that Hartford reeks of the kind of decorum you want in a convention city. Men’s Health magazine just named us as one of the healthiest-eating cities in the nation. No staggering from fun, all-you-can-eat buffet to fried chicken joint to hamburger haven. Nope. You come here, you eat sprouts. Yum.
This is all going to be tricky business, though. Should Hartford actually promote the fact that it is respectable and low-key enough to host a convention that promises not be too much fun? Do you have to actually point out the dull stuff, or is the label “Insurance Capital of the World” sufficient warning that the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders won’t be available for morale-building workshops?
Las Vegas and Palm Springs and such places are losing conventions, as image-conscious organizations seek out locales that have no downtown casinos, no all-night bars, and a really nice new science museum that closes at dinnertime. We can make this work.
Of course, if all else fails, Hartford can fall back on its favorite marketing message: “conveniently located between Boston and New York City – two very expensive, loud places that your shareowners would really wonder about, if you decided to hold a convention there.”
The gloomy economic times are an opportunity for the low-profile and the modest. Come to Hartford. Property-casualty insurance is really fun. Really.
Laurence D. Cohen is a freelance writer.
