But instead of me being wired with a microphone or taken to a stage, my audience was brought in to me. They left me to drink coffee and prepare in what I figured was serving as my green room. The next morning, two men in matching Patagonia fleeces came for me in a golf cart and conveyed me through rocks and underbrush to a meeting hall. On a parallel path next to the highway, as if racing against us, a small jet was coming in for a landing on a private airfield. What sort of wealthy hedge-fund types would drive this far from the airport for a conference? Then I saw it.
As the sun began to dip over the horizon, I realised I had been in the car for three hours. A limo was waiting for me at the airport.
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