Think of synonyms for the following phrases (see the text, if need be)

to lay off sb

a phased lay-off

he thrived on people

problems were worth listening to

customers aren’t conscious of it

the problems will show in their work

to work on conked-out cars

tension-ridden industries

to drop by some place

frustrations and issues of the program

a toll-free consultation service

to be positive about sth

to lend a hand to sb

to have scores of long-time associates

to be owed a response

to possess the people skills

2. Look at the nouns and adjectives below. Combine them meaningfully (see the text):

times tight

measures tough

episodes wrenching

opportunity daunting

standards poignant

task exacting

decisions austere

market rough

test toughest

3. The narrator used some words uncommonly, if unexpectedly, for us, foreigners. After we have scanned the dictionary and analysed the context, we’ll be able to translate them:

- On the flip side, if employees are happy, their positive attitude will be felt (somewhat unstable, unprepared, unstudied – or what?)

- All of our managers were trained to flip hamburgers (is it a long procedure?)

- Compared to other companies that have “downsized”, “right – sized” themselves, Marriott’s lay-off of 1 000 employees might not seem like a big deal (they changed their structures, didn’t they? But how?).

- Social workers field questions and find solutions to any problem (in plenty, eh?)

4. We also stumbled upon some words hardly detectable in the dictionaries we possess. Here they are:

- A special team helps the new staff debug systems, put on the finishing touches (to unpack, install and make ready for work).

- Many of our associates must cope with interpersonal cultural clashes (between two persons).

- A terrific consultant helped us with setting up an off-site outplacement center near our headquarters (the process of dismissal from office).

5. ”Big money, big talk, big deal, etc.” – you know these combinations. By analogy with this idea you can understand the phrase “to be big on sth.” in no time (see in the text: “We are big on providing safety nets for our associates”). Think of other situations.

6. Write your well-considered translations of the sentences below and compare them with your classmates’ (special attention to the underlined words):

- The company had been on a roll in the 1980’s – building hotels, selling them, and negotiating contracts.

- We had hit upon a formula for expansion that was tailor-made for the go-go times.

- With real estate dead in the water, we did not need to keep idle staff.

- My father listened to the family problems of an associate while managers cooled theirheels waiting for him to return to the office.

- Relations between management and labor required a continuous courting ritual to sort out respective interests.

- Sometimes the assistance is as simple as covering for each other on the job to make sure everyone gets time off.

- I’d like to think that we put our money where our mouth is.

- I want our associates to think of the company more than as a clock-in – clock-out job.

- A manager without the people skills is going against the grain of the organization.

- I soon saw and heard enough to convince me that the whole staff was walking on eggshells.

7. Part 3 provides you with a new collection of lexical units for the profession:

human resources department

no-pay internship

hourly workforce (positions, employees, internship etc.)

welfare recipients

substance abuse

turnover

absenteeism

tardiness

profit sharing

phasing-down process

tenure

job leads.

Tacks for Debate on Part 3:

1) Why is Mr. Marriott proud of Marriott’s concept of teamwork? Doesn’t he write about it just to look popular?

2) Should an executive know of the personal problems of associates?

3) Training employees for jobs is indispensable for a company, isn’t it?

4) SOP.s and training programs are not sufficient for Marriott. They boast safety nets. What are these? Social work?

5) Mr. Marriott relishes the idea of hands-on management. Isn’t it the foundation of relations between management and labor?

6) Hands-on management and safety nets – are they not inventions of Marriott?

PART 4. LISTENING WELL

Many years ago, a group of Marriott executives was waiting in our boardroom to update me on a hotel project I was particularly excited about. Senior-level representatives from all the key functions were there: feasibility, finance, design, construction, operations, etc. The group apparently killed time by talking about what an absolutely terrible idea the project was.

A few minutes later, I walked in the door, clapped my hands together enthusiastically, and asked, "So, how's my project looking?" Everybody responded, "Well, Bill, it's looking good, really good." Everybody except one fellow, a junior executive who had not opened his mouth.

Turning to him, I commented: "You haven't said anything. What do you think?"

He proceeded to rattle off all the reasons why the project was a disaster in the making—the same reasons that everyone around the table had been airing just minutes before I came in.

I paused a moment and then replied: "You know, you're absolutely right. Kill it."

I walked out. Jaws dropped around the table and that was the end of the project.

The episode was also an excellent reminder that I

needed to keep working on my listening skills.

After more than forty years in business, I've concluded that listening is the single most important on-the-job skill that a good manager can cultivate. A leader who doesn't listen well risks missing critical information, losing (or never winning) the confidence of staff and peers, and forfeiting the opportunity to be a proactive, hands-on manager.

I'm convinced that there are few natural-born good listeners. Somewhere along the way, good listeners learned to be good listeners. I suspect they discovered that there are rewards for keeping your ears open.

One key to effective listening lies in recognizing what kind of listening works best in different situations. For example, sometimes good listening simply requires keeping your mouth closed. Whenever I make this point, I think of a prescription a pundit once suggested: "To say the right thing at the right time, keep still most of the time."

Keeping still isn't always easy. In fact, it can be torture to hold your tongue and let someone else talk, especially if the talker is slow about getting to the point. Still, it's a vital skill to learn. So is mastering the body language that shows that you're interested in what's being said. Keeping quiet won't get you very far if the speaker can see by the glazed look in your eyes or impatient tapping of a pencil that you'd rather be somewhere else.

In working on my own listening skills, I've found it useful to watch and adopt the body language of people whose listening skills I admire, people whom I enjoy talking to precisely because they listen to me so well. Folks like that have a knack for making you feel like you're the only person in the world they want to talk to at that particular moment. Sometimes, simply by mimicking their alert posture and eye contact, you'll find yourself slipping into being genuinely interested in a conversation you thought you were too tired or impatient to pay attention to. Better yet, you soon learn that you don't have to act the part. You've reaped enough benefits from keeping still that you do it automatically.

When you open your ears, open your mind, too. Listening should be an opportunity to learn. You won't learn much if you make up your mind before you've had a chance to hear anything. In my case—as I found out in that revealing boardroom session—it's especially important not to signal that I've come to my own conclusions too early in a meeting. The less I say, the less I sway the discussion. I'd rather have people feel comfortable suggesting wild-eyed arguments or pie-in-the-sky concepts than take the chance that someone is holding back a good idea because they're picking up signals that I've already come to a decision. I especially want people to feel comfortable about raising red flags. If ever I need to be reminded of this point, all I have to do is think about how much money might have been wasted on a bad idea if that young executive had not spoken his mind that day.

Another former Marriott executive—now a CEO himself—said recently that one of the things he most appreciated about working at Marriott was the fact that he could promote and try to win support for his ideas up to the very end, the final vote. No one cut him off or shut him out before he'd had his chance to make his best case, no matter how off the wall the idea.

I've also found it's a good idea to be conscious of subtle, potentially negative signals that your listening habits might be sending out. Managers in particular need to be alert to how they divvy up their listening time. Occasionally, I've heard the criticism that I listen to too many people and seem to give equal weight to what each has to say, regardless of how knowledgeable or senior they are.

Let me turn that criticism on its head. What kind of message would I be sending to the organization if I gave an hour to finance, but only ten hurried minutes to human resources? Or if I never gave anyone under the senior vice presidential level more than thirty seconds of my time? I'd rather err on the side of hearing more than I might need to make a good decision and in the process keep all the troops in the loop.

Along those same lines, I believe strongly in the practice of listening to the organization's heartbeat myself, instead of relying exclusively on my direct reports and senior staff for information. I make a habit of calling directly into our various divisions and levels to hear straight talk from associates. In part, this is simply a reflection of being a hands-on manager, but it's also due to the fact that I think the organization benefits from knowing that I'm accessible to more than my senior staff. And I benefit from having multiple points of contact in the organization.

Sometimes good listening means not keeping still. It calls for action, to combat the natural tendency of staff to avoid telling the boss bad news or rocking the boat. This more active version of listening requires asking questions in order to break through someone's hesitancy and get to the heart of a problem. It's a particularly important skill for high-level leaders (presidents, CEOs) who, by their lofty positions, often intimidate junior staff. I'm a great believer in the phrase, "What do you think?" It works wonders.

On a recent visit to a hotel managed by one of our franchisees, I noticed that guest scores on the attitude of the dining room hostess were below Marriott's standard. I asked the manager what he thought the problem was, and he said he wasn't sure. But I could tell by his uneasy body language that there was more to the story.

Then I asked what the hostess's pay was. When he told me, I realized she was being paid at least $2 per hour less than market rate. The manager proceeded to explain that headquarters needed to okay her increase and that he was reluctant to ask.

In a thirty-second conversation, I had discovered three serious problems. One, the home office was exerting too much control; the manager should have been able to raise the hostess's wages to market level without seeking permission. Two, senior management was obviously placing more emphasis on profits than on customer satisfaction. Three, the fact that the manager was afraid even to ask about a raise suggested that the attitude of senior management was not a friendly one. In essence, his superiors had shown themselves to be inferior listeners.

All three problems were solved in short order, and soon the hostess's score on guest satisfaction climbed to where it should have been in the first place. All it took was breaking through the manager's reticence and showing him that someone was willing to hear him out—something his senior managers had apparently signaled they were not willing to do.

Listening certainly should not be limited to the heart of the house. At Marriott, we count on our guests to tell us what we're doing right and wrong. It's the only way we can know for sure whether we're giving them what they want. Over the years, our guests have suggested many incidentals and small touches. Today, most of our guest rooms have irons, ironing boards, blow-dryers, brighter lightbulbs, hand cream, and one item that our female guests uniformly clamored for: hangers with skirt-friendly clips.

One of our newest innovations—The Room That Works—grew out of a listening-to-the-customer exercise. A couple of years ago, we set out to design a better guest room for business travelers. We pulled together some focus groups and quickly discovered that high on their wish list was a change in the placement of electrical outlets in our rooms. Guests wanted them to be visible and accessible.

At first glance, the request seemed odd. After all, for more than thirty years, our interior designers had gone out of their way to hide electrical outlets. Holes in the wall weren't exactly considered an attractive design element.

That was fine in the days before laptop computers. Today, business travelers bring their laptops with them and want to be able to plug in quickly and easily to work on documents, check e-mail, etc. They were sick and tired of crawling around under desks and moving furniture to find a free outlet.

If we had not asked the question and been willing to listen to the answer, we might never have known how much this one simple change meant to the comfort of our business guests.

Valuable as they are, focus groups are not the only time or place for listening to customers. Part of the attention to detail and bias for action that Marriott's associates strive for includes picking up on a guest's needs or desires—even anticipating them, if possible.

During a stay at a Marriott hotel a few years ago, one of our senior executives came down to the dining room one morning and ordered a bowl of cereal with fresh fruit for breakfast. He selected strawberries from the menu choices. The waitress, who had no idea who her customer was, delivered the bad news that there were no strawberries to be had that day. Would he like a sliced banana instead? she asked. He hesitated, said okay, and went back to reading his newspaper.

A few minutes later, the waitress materialized with his bowl of cereal, complete with bananas and strawberries on the side. She had found strawberries in the kitchen after all, and, since he had sounded unsure about settling for a banana, she'd brought him some of each so he could choose or enjoy both as he wished.

He beamed as she walked away. Thanks to that single, simple gesture of listening to the customer's uncertainty, the waitress got that guest's day off to a terrific start.

Unfortunately, not everyone listens as well as that waitress did. I can think of at least one longtime executive who gained a reputation for being a poor listener toward the end of his career with Marriott. He never liked anything that anybody had to say. If someone offered a new idea, he would shoot it down with the same repetitive set of reasons. Too much money, waste of time, too risky, whatever. Soon, no one wanted to tell him anything, because they knew what his response would be. He lost his credibility as a listener and, as a result, found himself cut out of substantive discussions and decisions. He forfeited the support of his people and finally lost his job.

Selective listening is almost as bad as not listening at all. You don't do yourself—or anyone else—any favors when you filter out bad news. We learned that lesson the hard way at the end of the 1980s when we chose to downplay signals that the hotel industry was on the verge of being seriously overbuilt. We wanted so much to believe in our own invincibility that we focused only on positive news and turned a deaf ear to anything that we didn't want to hear. The price for that kind of half-listening was high.

Our "it-won't-happen-to-us" attitude was exacerbated by the persuasiveness of one executive whose reassuring eloquence overcame my gut feeling that the company ought to have exercised more caution. His arguments for continuing to build hotels in spite of signs of recession were so smooth, so reasonable, so apparently logical that I let myself believe everything would be fine. What I learned, of course, was that just because someone is a polished speaker or presenter doesn't mean that his or her ideas are always right. Conversely, someone who is a bit shy or awkward about speaking up might well be worth listening to. For me, the episode provided an excellent if unwelcome lesson in not judging the substance of a message by the appealing style of its delivery.

Ultimately, even the most skilled listening has limits. At some point, debate and fact gathering must come to an end. A decision must be made based upon what's been learned. This is the juncture at which the true mettle of an organization's overall listening skills is put to the test. If the environment for discussion has been an open one in which people know that their ideas, insights, and concerns are treated with respect, the result will be well-informed choices. Not every decision will be perfect, of course, but when a decision does turn out to be wrong, there will be comfort in knowing that it wasn't wrong because someone forgot to ask the $64,000 question: "What do you think?".

Linguistic Survey of Part 4:

Read the following combinations. Assess the role of infinitives. Make up sentences with them: an opportunity to be a manager; a chance to hear anything, an idea to be conscious of signals, a tendency to avoid telling.

2. Translate the Russian sentences below into English, using gerund after the underlined verbs:

- Они убивали время, беседуя о проекте.

- Он никого не слушает и рискует потерять важную информацию.

- Умение слушать требует навыков молчания.

- Я наслаждаюсь беседой с теми, кто меня слушает.

- Фирма выгадывает от знания того, что я могу выслушать всех.

- Служащие имеют тенденцию избегать правды.

Gerund was also used after some prepositions in complex predicates. Find the structures in the text and make up analogous sentences: to be slow about, to have a knack for, to feel comfortable about, to be tired of, to be unsure about, to be awkward about.

4. Translate the sentences(consult the text):

- The project was a disaster in the making (the latter is meant as a noun).

- I’d rather have people feel comfortable suggesting pie-in-the-sky concepts.

- Managers need to be alert to how they divvy up their listening time.

- I could tell by his uneasy body language that there was more to the story.

- Headquarters needed to okay her increase.

- Our guests have suggested many incidentals and small touches.

- Our female guests clamored for hangers with skirt-friendly clips.

- Our interior designers had gone out of their way to hide electrical outlets.

- We turned a deaf ear to anything that we didn’t want to hear.

- Because someone is a polished speaker or presenter doesn’t mean that his or her ideas are right.

5. Some more professional phrases are offered to you for your database:

feasibility function

guest scores on somebody

business travelers

a focus group

a wish list

Tacks for Debate on Part 4:

1) Should a leader listen to all viewpoints of his subordinates?

2) Do associates always think they are welcome to express their opinions?

3) A hotel is going to lose money if guests are listened to with ready attention, isn’t it?

PART 5. ORDER AND CHANGE

Building a business can be boring.

Heresy? Ask anyone who has been at the top of a company for more than a few years. The daily grind of business consists largely of taking care of thousands of tiny, laborious details. Very little of what a company does ever sees the light of day, much less the camera lights of press conferences, photo shoots, or commercials.

No grunt work = no growth. No growth = no future.

Let me give you an example of the kind of no-frills work that comes with my job. Each month I join a team of Marriott executives in reviewing "red" and "yellow" hotels that are experiencing guest-service problems. The idea is to figure out how to—you guessed it—move them back into the all-systems-go "green" category.

The kind of nitty-gritty work I just described is vital to the growth of our lodging business. It's also a reflection of another kind of growth that is equally important to our health and well-being: the growth of Marriott as an organization

In the past few years, the topic of "growing" a business organization has been a hot one. In spite of the wave of attention, when companies talk about growth, they are still generally referring to the process of adding units, increasing sales, improving margins, and bolstering stock prices. We're no exception. We've always been driven to make our numbers.

Twenty percent, in fact, became a magic number for us. We began using the shorthand 20/20 to sum up our annual growth goal: 20 percent growth in sales and 20 percent return on equity. Among, other things, the catchy phrase gave our large, far-flung organization an easy-to-remember mission. One former Marriott executive—now at the helm of another major company— was always impressed that our frontline employees, located thousands of miles from corporate headquarters, could reply "20/20" when asked what their goal was for the year. He tells me that his new organization has no comparable battle cry.

I was particularly pleased to hear that our 20/20 mission spread so readily to the field. Like our monthly red-yellow-green hotel review sessions, it tells me that Marriott has succeeded in putting into place key organizational mechanisms that support and sustain the growth of our businesses. Even as we've been hammering away at making our numbers, we've been growing our organization.

|To grow successfully, you must stay true to who you are, even while working feverishly to change who you are.

Businesses that hope to be around for the long haul need to find a balance between these two inherently conflicting processes. The ability to maintain order and embrace change simultaneously is no small feat. It's a little like ballet. Executed well, it looks effortless. Only when there's a misstep does it become clear that something's out of kilter.

Back in the late 1950s, one of our competitors in the lodging industry broke out of the gate fast and furiously with a terrific new product. The interstate highway system was just beginning to boom, and the company moved quickly to take advantage of the new travel market. When it came to saturating the landscape, the chain displayed a positive, go-go growth mentality and a knack for picking locations. But the company soon discovered that its internal structure wasn't sufficiently developed to handle the avalanche of growth. The organization was not able to find the critical balance between order and change. Without strong organizational systems to manage and adapt to fast-paced growth, the company tripped, lost its early lead to competitors, and never completely recovered.

Our initial experience with hotel franchising in the 1960s was a similar case of order-change imbalance. In 1968, we announced that we would begin franchising Marriott hotels on a limited basis. The fact that we were franchising at all was itself a major change for Marriott's "order."

For a company that is as systems-oriented as we are, we really fell down on developing the systems we needed to make our initial foray into franchising work. First, we jumped in too fast and had to beat a hasty retreat when we found that we had far too many unqualified applicants trying to give us a check in exchange for a Marriott franchise.

No sooner did we get a handle on the application process and narrow the field than we inadvertently tripped ourselves up by deciding that the franchised Marriott hotels—to be called Marriott Inns—would be specially designed to distinguish them from the company's own hotels. From today's standpoint, the decision is a strange one; one of the strengths of franchising is to have all properties appear to be part of one seamless system. Our choice also flies in the face of one of our most cherished goals: consistency.

The long and the short of it is that we soon backtracked a bit along what had been proudly touted as a new avenue of growth for Marriott. We scaled back our ambitions, opened fewer franchised hotels, and, in general, moved far more slowly than originally planned.

On the surface, it might appear that the problem stemmed from a lack of organizational capability. But I don't think know-how was the real issue. The management systems of Marriott's "order" are so strong that we'd have found the right answers and gotten ourselves well-organized before too long. After all, franchising was new to us, but running hotels was not. The real problem was one of mind-set. As an organization, we simply didn't embrace franchising as wholeheartedly as we needed to make it a success. Even as we jumped into "change" enthusiastically, a key component of our "order" resisted adapting to and supporting the change. The very fact that we didn't want to risk having the franchised hotels be confused with "real" Marriott hotels by looking too much alike probably says it all.

Today, we've thoroughly embraced hotel franchising. It's one of our major growth platforms. In fact, the number of franchised hotels under our various flags now exceeds the number of hotels owned or managed by Marriott itself. Some of the change has to do with the fact that we now have products in the Marriott family of brands that lend themselves to franchising. But the most important shift has been in our attitude. Once we decided to think of ourselves as a franchiser—as a franchise organization—the rest fell into place.

Our experience with franchising wasn't limited to the lodging side of the business. We gave it a try on the restaurant side, too, with our Roy Rogers and Big Boy chains. We acquired Big Boy in 1967 and Roy Rogers (originally Robee's) in 1968. I won't go into the details of the acquisitions, but both purchases took us into the unfamiliar territory of restaurant franchising. We stayed with the businesses for the better part of twenty years, but we frankly did not embrace franchising any more fervently on the food side of the business than we did in lodging. In part, we were hampered by certain provisions in the original Big Boy purchase agreements. But mainly, it was another instance of not being ready to think of ourselves as a committed franchiser. The result was that we really didn't grow the businesses as aggressively as someone else might have. We got out of both in the late 1980s.

One of the biggest changes to have an impact on our growth both as an organization and as a business occurred in the late 1970s when we overhauled our corporate financing philosophy. This one modification alone has reverberated throughout the company for the last two decades.

For the first fifty years of our existence, we had what could be called a "bean-counter" mentality toward finance. Property leases and traditional mortgages were pretty much the extent of our financial universe.

As long as we were leasing and building small facilities like restaurants, our simple financing approach worked very well. But by the mid-1970s, when we were trying to move into the big leagues, the formula was holding us back. We were especially hampered on the lodging side of the business, where the price tag for a single full-service convention hotel could easily run into the tens of millions of dollars. Huge mortgages not only limited the number of hotels we could build, but put a real strain on what we could show in the way of returns to our shareholders.

Beginning in 1978, with the help of a couple of very talented financial minds—Gary Wilson and Al Checchi (now major stakeholders in Northwest Airlines, among other things)—Marriott revolutionized its entire approach to the lodging business. The most important element of the change in the philosophy is one I mentioned earlier: our decision not to be a hotel ownership company, but to focus instead on being a hotel management company.

The most visible impact of the decision was seen on the company balance sheet almost immediately. We began by selling to investors several of the hotels that we had built before 1978. As part of the deals, we signed long-term management contracts and kept a significant part of the cash flow from the properties. No longer held down by heavy mortgages, we gained more flexibility.

The next revolutionary change took the form of turning ourselves into a major real estate developer, but with a firm commitment not to retain the real estate. Why wait around for others to build hotels and ask us to manage them when we could construct them, sell them, and keep long-term management contracts? Why wait to be invited to the dance when we could build the ballroom and hire the orchestra ourselves?

Marriott's order responded to the call for development capacity by setting up a huge construction pipeline. The company had long had an architecture and construction team, but the scale of building was going to be bigger than anything we'd ever done in the past. Feeding the pipeline would also require much more complex financing resources than Marriott had been accustomed to dealing with.

Creative financing ideas soon bounced around our boardroom, helped along by major changes in the federal tax code in 1981 that fueled real estate development. To grow as planned, we had to transform ourselves into a deal-savvy organization. Once again, the order adapted. We found ourselves easing into the let's-make-a-deal mind-set that characterized much of 1980s business. Our legal department quickly mastered the intricacies of syndications, limited partnerships, and other real estate investment vehicles.

Deal-making meant debt. My father had always viewed debt as an evil to be avoided at all costs. He had lived through the Great Depression and never shook his fear of borrowing money. But to achieve the magnitude of growth that would move Marriott to the next level, debt financing was vital. I talked, he listened; he grimaced, I borrowed. The order adjusted yet again to fit our new needs.

The three D's I've just described—development, deals, and debt—came as a package and brought fundamental, institution-wide change to Marriott's order in the 1980s. The organization largely dealt well with the growing pains that came with change (we eventually sold more than $6 billion in hotels in the 1980s), but not without a bit of stumbling toward the end of the day.

One of the most worrisome aspects of the kind of sweeping institutional change and growth I've talked about above has been its potential for endangering a key aspect of our order: our corporate culture. Our evolution from a handful of local restaurants into a huge multifaceted, global enterprise has made the pare and feeding of our original culture a tremendous challenge. We've been determined not to lose the essential qualities and priorities that have defined Marriott as an organization from the very beginning.

One of our most crucial tasks is to try to maintain a family feeling in a company that now has 225,000 employees. Size alone makes it a challenge to communicate effectively with associates working at hundreds of locations around the world. Like other large companies, we also must grapple with rapid employee turnover and the negative effects of social forces that seem to fracture lives more readily than ever.

If I had to pick one facet of our corporate order that I maintain is absolutely vital to our future well-being, it would be hands-on management. In the fight to preserve the family atmosphere at Marriott, it's probably our best weapon. Every increase in the number of properties in our system means that my own visits to individual sites will be spaced farther apart, making it more difficult for me to be visible as often as I'd like. The organization will be more dependent than ever on hands-on managers in the field who can carry on the tradition that my dad started and that I've tried to continue.

Another challenge that organizational growth presents to our corporate values is in the area of quality control. Rapid changes in size and scope can cause a company to lose command of its processes and products. On this score, our long history of systems and SOPs, plus our huge internal training program, will ensure success. That doesn't mean that change won't figure in the picture; our programs will continue to evolve to stay in step with guests' and associates' needs. How we achieve consistency might change, but the drive for consistency itself won't.

The third point of our corporate culture—taking care of our associates—will also continue to be a top priority for us. Like hands-on management, it's a key factor in maintaining the company's family spirit. The programs and attitudes that I talked about earlier aren't apt to change anytime soon. They more likely will grow over time. In fact, a large part of the order of Marriott is and will continue to be devoted specifically to counterbalancing negative change that we think would ruin the good thing we've got going.

Underlying these challenges is something we should never lose sight of, no matter how large or prosperous the company becomes: our core values. One episode brought this point home to me in a way I'll never forget.

My father was a devoted fan of AstroTurf. He loved the fresh green color and the texture and wanted us to use it every chance we could, to cover bare concrete sidewalks, swimming pool decks, room balconies, and virtually anything else that didn't move. Dad was constantly after me to use large quantities. He even checked AstroTurf prices on a near-weekly basis at the country hardware store not far from the family farm in Virginia. He would walk into the office on Monday morning, quote the latest price, and wait expectantly for me to jump at the chance to buy in bulk at the store's low rate, which was about half our procurement price. If we bought it in the country, he pointed out; we could use twice as much.

The AstroTurf update became a predictable part of our weekly ritual. But it wasn't until May 1982 that I really appreciated its true significance. That month, I was confronted with the task of making the biggest financial decision of my career. For several months, we had been working feverishly to finalize development plans for a new hotel in Times Square at Broadway and 45th Street in New York City. I had to decide, whether to commit Marriott to build a $500 million hotel in a run-down, seedy area that might or might not come back to life. It was a huge risk.

On the afternoon of the final day that we had to make up our minds, I was in my office mulling over last-minute details of the deal. The phone rang. The landowner in New York City was calling to remind me that this was the last day of our option. If we didn't buy the land by the end of the day, the price would go up. Before I could take his call, another telephone line lit up. This one was the general contractor reporting that he could not get a "no-strike" clause accepted in the construction contract. Did we want to take a strike risk? Just then another light on my telephone lit up. The New York City mayor's office was calling to get confirmation of our decision to go forward (they hoped) so the project could be announced at a big press conference. Last, but not least, the fourth light came on. My father was on the line. My secretary wanted to know whom I wanted to talk to first.

I took my father's call. In an angry voice, he demanded: "When are you going to put AstroTurf on the balconies of the Twin Bridges hotel?"

Just when you might think I would have been most dismayed to have to listen to yet another lecture on the merits of AstroTurf, I was in fact relieved. My father's simple, down-to-earth question about fake grass had the effect of bringing me down to earth, too, reminding me of the company's real priorities: attention to detail and looking after our customers' comfort. A new $500 million hotel wasn't going to mean much if in the process of building it we left behind the fundamental values that had helped us become successful enough to be able to build it.

Our decision about whether or not to build the hotel? The 1,900-room Marriott Marquis opened on Times Square in 1985. But not before I made sure that we had plenty of AstroTurf on hand. ...

Given the head-spinning speed of change nowadays, there might not seem to be much to say about the need to preserve it. After all, aren't we awash in change? In the seventy years since Marriott opened its doors, the world has been altered almost beyond recognition. My parents went into business the day Charles Lindbergh began his legendary transatlantic solo flight—May 20, 1927. My mother, now in her nineties, has lived to see the sound barrier broken, men walk on the moon, and space shuttles orbit the globe. That's just a razor-thin slice of life in the realm of science; changes in politics and society have been revolutionary, too. And the pace of change just keeps getting faster.

Marriott, of course, has neither caused nor endured the kind of dramatic upheavals that make headlines and history books. On the other hand, we've evolved in our own way over the years. The majority of businesses that we're in today didn't exist in the company's portfolio twenty years ago.

A critical ingredient in our evolution has been a willingness to experiment. During the past seven decades, we've tried our hand at many new lines of business, always in search of fresh avenues for growth. Sometimes we've struck gold. Sometimes we've stumbled. Either way, we've tried to keep in mind one simple truth: Change is to business what oxygen is to life. In a word, vital.

Change can also be frightening and even paralyzing. It brings with it the potential for error and embarrassment. One of the best lessons we've taken to heart over the years is that of not letting ourselves be crippled by mistakes. Instead, we've tried to learn something from them and move on.

This is where businesses can run into trouble in the preserving-change-amid-order area: allowing setbacks to make them too cautious, fearful, or just plain suspicious of experimentation and innovation. "Order" gets the upper hand, and before you know it, the only "change" being experienced is that of going out of business.

Change, naturally, is easier to take if you're the one initiating it. But in business—as in life—you're not always in control. Competitors can be coming at you from all sides, forcing you to run to stay ahead. Or you're the one going after somebody else who's gotten out in front of you.

Both of those scenarios have certainly been true for us. We've had another compelling impetus for change as well. As a public company, Marriott has had to be responsive to our shareholders. Our efforts to diversify and grow have been driven to an important (although not exclusive) degree by the need to show shareholders that we can produce results.

Actually, the company's earliest diversification came sixteen years before going public. The In-Flite airline catering division was launched in 1937 when my father noticed customers taking hot coffee and food "to go" from one of our Hot Shoppes near Washington's airport. During the next fifty years, we built the division from the original contract with Rickenbacker's Eastern Air Transport into a more than $1 billion business before selling it in 1989. Along the way, we grew In-Flite by building flight kitchens ourselves and acquiring a number of independently owned kitchens and small catering companies. One of the most important things that In-Flite did for us was diversify Marriott in international terms. Our first overseas operation was a flight kitchen in

Caracas, Venezuela, acquired in 1966. At its height, In-Flite had kitchens in twenty countries.

The next diversification effort was more dramatic, because it took us beyond restaurants and catering. After nearly thirty years in the food business—Hot Shoppes, In-Flite airline catering, and food service management—Marriott launched into the lodging business with what we proudly dubbed the "world's largest motor hotel" in January 1957, four years after the company went public.

It would be nice to claim that our first major diversification as a public company was no accident. In truth, our Twin Bridges motor hotel was mostly a stroke of good luck.

The site for Twin Bridges (now torn down) was just south of Washington, D.C., on Route 1, close to National Airport, the Pentagon, a bridge across the Potomac River, and other major transportation arteries. The location we selected was not by chance; my father loved to put his Hot Shoppes at busy intersections and—when possible—near bridges. He reasoned that highways might be relocated, but bridges never move.

The groundwork for Twin Bridges was laid when my dad opened a Hot Shoppe on Route 1 at the entrance to the 14th Street Bridge in 1936. In 1950, he purchased a large piece of land just across the highway, with an eye toward building a new central office, food preparation facility, and warehouse for the Hot Shoppes. But our executive vice president Milt Barlow told Dad that he thought the site had great commercial potential. Why not build a big motel? he suggested. After all, 125,000 cars passed by the spot every day, the airport was close, the Pentagon was next door, and downtown Washington was only five minutes away. In short order, plans for a 365-room hotel were drawn up, and we entered the lodging business in 1957.

Success, of course, did not come immediately. In the 1950s, the hotel business tended to be seasonal: Twin Bridges would fill up with tourists in the spring and summer and empty out in the fall and winter. The same with Key Bridge, which we opened in 1959. It took us a little while to develop enough marketing muscle to bring in a steady stream of commercial business and small conventions to keep our rooms filled year-round.

Part of our good luck with Twin Bridges and Key Bridge was pure timing. Our lodging business was launched when the American hotel industry was still recovering from World War II. Lodging options for travelers consisted mainly of old city hotels built in the financial heyday of the 1920s or hundreds of tiny mom-and-pop motel operations. When we appeared on the landscape with Twin Bridges in 1957, we were just smart enough to know we had something fresh to offer and just naive enough to go at it with the wide-eyed enthusiasm and energy of a bunch of kids who knew nothing about the business.

One thing our good timing brought us was a little breathing room to figure out just what the devil we were doing. (Remember room service and ice buckets?) When I look back, I have to laugh at how little we knew when we were starting out in lodging. In today's competitive environment, we'd have been eaten alive!

Had I had my way, we would have plowed our energy into building the hotel division faster and sooner than we did. I felt confident that the future promised to be a bright one for new, aggressive hotel companies. The interstate highway system was growing, new office buildings dotted the suburbs, airports were popping up, and general postwar prosperity was kicking up a tidal wave of business and leisure travel.

But Dad and Wall Street had other things in mind. At the time, my father was still dead-set against taking on the scale of debt required to build a lot of big hotels. Wall Street was crazy about conglomerates; analysts constantly wanted to know what new business we were getting into next. So in the early 1970s, we began looking around for additional avenues of growth.

Our next diversification effort was Marriott World Travel, a travel agency launched in 1971. The business played to several of Marriott's strengths and seemed to be a natural outgrowth of our existing businesses. We had a dozen hotels and would soon have three cruise ships and two theme parks. With leisure travel on the upswing, a travel agency seemed perfect for Marriott.

So what was the problem? Probably the most important sticking point was the displeasure of established travel agencies—many of whom could (and did) quickly stop sending clients to anything related to Marriott. In retrospect, we should have seen the potential for conflict. The original team in Marriott World Travel was also a bit too gung-ho for our own good; they committed Marriott to various initiatives and weren't able to follow through. The change they were trying to implement was a little too precocious for the order to absorb. We gave the travel agency business a good effort, but exited in 1979.

The next diversification opportunity came in the shape of cruise ships, a business we got into in 1972. Sun Line provided our first major lesson about the dangers of getting into a completely unfamiliar business. Having diversified successfully and relatively painlessly into hotels fifteen years earlier, we felt confident that we could pull it off. After all, cruise ships were essentially just floating hotels, right? Wrong! Not only were they more complicated than we realized, but we made the error of letting ourselves get into a partnership in which we didn't have the controlling interest. Given our corporate culture based on systems and attention to detail, it drove us crazy not to be calling the shots. It certainly didn't help matters that the Greek islands—the main destination of our ships—were plagued by the Cypriot War our second season! For obvious reasons, people do not generally enjoy cruising in a war zone. Before the war started, our ships were full; after the shooting began, cancellations poured in and we had to tie the ships up ... at the peak of the cruise season. Someone who is more superstitious than I am might say that the war was a bad omen for Sun Line. I will give us credit (or take the blame) for being persistent; we spent fifteen years trying to make a go of it before finally getting out.

At the same moment that we took on the Sun Line challenge, Marriott decided to get into the theme park business. Unlike cruise ships, our foray into theme parks was to be a "ground up" effort. We planned from the start to build them ourselves and not partner with anyone.

Theme parks took advantage of several of our strengths. We grew up in the food service business, were fanatical housekeepers, and were definitely family-oriented. For our two Great America theme parks, we picked high-traffic locations in the San Francisco Bay Area and midway between Milwaukee and Chicago. We slated openings to take advantage of the Bicentennial fervor of 1976.

Our first hard lesson came during construction. Building a park from scratch without any previous experience turned out to be both tricky and expensive. We had become experts in designing and constructing big buildings, but small one-of-a-kind structures that had to conform to another category of building code temporarily threw us for a loop. We had never built a roller coaster, for example; eventually, we constructed six. As soon as they got the hang of it, Marriott's architecture and construction division did a terrific job. The buildings and rides at both parks were wonderful.

Our big mistake about theme parks was not recognizing the amount of money and imagination required on the entertainment side of the picture. Adding new rides is extremely capital-intensive; a single ride costs several million dollars. Really good rides—the kind that bring people in by the droves—also require an edgier kind of creative thinking than we had. After several years of doing well, but never feeling entirely comfortable with the business, we sold the properties at a profit and bowed out.

Cruise ships and theme parks were our biggest and most expensive diversification efforts of the 1970s, but not the only ones. One venture that I would gladly forget is our foray into home security systems. It only lasted three years—from 1973 to 1976,—and, fortunately, was little more than a blip on Marriott's radar screen. The business simply did not fit us.

You've probably noticed that in all of the diversification efforts mentioned so far—with the exception of hotels—I've made the point that we discovered major, ultimately insurmountable, difficulties only after getting into the business.

Why have I highlighted that common thread? One of the most valuable lessons we learned in all those ventures—aside from the importance of taking risks and bouncing back—is that when problems arise in a business, you need to know enough about the business to be able to fix them. It's that simple. If you don't understand the business in the first place, you can't fix it when it goes wrong. In fact, you might not even be able to figure out what the problem is!

In each of the cases I've described, we were guilty to varying degrees of not having done enough homework before plunging in. As a result, we were surprised by problems that might have been avoided or that would have alerted us to steer clear of the business altogether.

What we were experiencing was a growing pain common to businesses trying to extend beyond their original ideas. Our enthusiasm for innovation occasionally got ahead of our organization's ability to absorb and promote healthy experimentation. Among other things, we were trying too many unfamiliar businesses simultaneously.

What was missing at Marriott in the 1960s and 1970s was an organizational structure for analyzing and managing change. Until the late 1970s, my father and I looked at opportunities on a case-by-case basis. If something came up that I thought was worth taking a look at, I would bring it to Dad's attention for a little ad hoc investigation and often heated discussion.

Our informal decision-making methods were in keeping with the company's traditional approach to growth. For the first thirty-odd years of our history, the primary strategic question that came up again and again was by and large limited to picking the right location for a new Hot Shoppe. After we got into airline catering in 1937, the strategy again revolved around location: up-and-coming airports for our flight kitchens. When we got into hotels in the mid-1950s, we were still focused on pretty much the same basic question: Which suburban markets, convention cities, and major transportation hubs did we want to target?

The "location, location, location" planning mindset was great for building our food and lodging divisions, but fell short of what we needed to analyze new, unfamiliar businesses. Looking back, I see now that the case-by-case approach was parity a reflection of our long-standing orientation (some would say bias) toward operations. It's human nature to favor what you know you can do well and shy away from what you don't like or haven't mastered. In our case, it was our internal inclination to downplay nonoperations activities in favor of the familiar task of making a restaurant or hotel work. We couldn't relate to abstract strategic planning exercises as well as we could to the tangible satisfaction of getting a facility built and filled with customers.

Because of our bias toward operations, we assumed too confidently that there wasn't anything that the company's first-class operators couldn't ultimately figure out how to run. What we learned, of course, is that even the very best operators can't fix a decision that wasn't right in the first place.

By the late 1970s, the moment had arrived to acknowledge that Marriott needed to be more disciplined about analyzing potential business ventures. We established a strategic-planning department. To some degree, we were merely following the trend of the times. But for Marriott, it was also an important step along the road to organizational maturity. We liked change, but had not adapted our order to manage change for our benefit. By harnessing change, the strategic-planning department simultaneously protected—or preserved—it. We took a leap toward achieving the all-important balance between order and change.

Marriott soon learned—maybe in the nick of time— that one of the most valuable roles of a strategic-planning department is to keep a company out of businesses it shouldn't be in. This one benefit alone turned out to be very important for us. As our hotel business grew by leaps and bounds in the late 1970s and 1980s, our cash flow suddenly grew like crazy, too. We were faced with the enviable problem of having to find constructive uses for money. It would have been a snap to throw cash at lots of different businesses. Many companies have gotten themselves into trouble that way— acquiring for the sake of acquiring, launching new enterprises simply because they've got the money to give them a whirl. Before we established our formal strategic-planning department, we were guilty of this. Fortunately, Marriott's groups of planners were terrific at sorting out our options and supplying excellent reasons not to get into various businesses.

On the other hand, we didn't suddenly stop diversifying in 1980 just because we got our planning act together. If that had been the case, we would have done little more than churn out full-service hotels while keeping our restaurant and airline catering divisions humming along. We did not sit still; we simply became more thoughtful and studious about analyzing what we got into. Nor did the planners suddenly take control and call the shots. Then as now, I still ultimately make decisions based on intuition and experience, not merely numbers.

Some of what we chose to do in the 1980s was what has been called "sticking to one's knitting." We took a closer look at close-to-home opportunities. On the contract services side of our business (restaurants, food service, etc.)—a full one-half of the company—the decade brought major change, much of it in terms of scale. Among other things, as I mentioned earlier, we lit a fire under our distribution services and turned what had been mostly an internal supply function into a major growth business. We also focused our energies on growing our contract food services management operation. My dad had launched the division in the late 1930s, when he began catering meals at the U.S. Treasury building in downtown Washington. Over the years, the business had grown in terms of clients, locations, and numbers of customers served, but we had not really focused on it to the degree that we could have. Our new strategic planning mind-set in the 1980s helped us home in on the potential to grow the business. Three key acquisitions (Gladieux, Saga, anil Service Systems) during the decade transformed us into one of the biggest players in the industry. By 1989, we had expanded the business more than tenfold in just five years, with accounts in places as close to home as the Lockheed Martin corporate cafeteria in Bethesda, Maryland and as far-flung as the oil rigs on Alaska's Northern Slope»

We didn't stop there. Next, we built on sixty years of experience in managing clients' cafeterias and dining rooms to expand our portfolio to include a whole range of facilities management services. Marriott Management Services (MMS) provides not only food service but plant operation, laundry, housekeeping, and energy management to hundreds of clients in business, health care, education, and other sectors.

The late 1980s brought other pivotal decisions on the nonlodging side of the company. Specifically, our longest-lived divisions: airline catering and restaurants. After sixty years, we knew a lot about both businesses. And because we knew them so intimately, we came to the difficult, but correct, conclusion in 1989 that both had run their courses for us.

From the standpoint of the balance sheet, the decision to put our restaurants and In-Flite on the block was easy. From the standpoint of the company's corporate culture, it was anything but. Marriott's can-do attitude had been born in the hustle of restaurant life during the Great Depression. A decision to exit our original businesses seemed to cut at the very roots of the company. On another level, however, it was a healthy sign that we recognized the dangers of allowing order to win out over change at the expense of progress. We sold the businesses and moved on.

On the lodging side of Marriott, the 1980s likewise brought incredible changes, led by one development that was perhaps more revolutionary than anything else we've done as an organization. I'm referring to our decision in 1981 to move into other market tiers in the hotel industry. Moderate-priced entry Courtyard by Marriott was the first fruit of that strategic decision.

What's the big deal about a hotel company going into the hotel business? How can that be labeled revolutionary?

For Marriott, Courtyard was a very big deal. We had defined ourselves for a quarter of a century as a full-service hotel company. We were known for our expertise in building big boxes loaded with lots of bells and whistles. And we liked being known for our big boxes. Little boxes were what other companies did. Not Marriott, no, never!

Given how entrenched that attitude was within our corporate culture, it's perhaps a little amazing that Courtyard happened at all. The fact that it did is a tribute to two things: one, the dedicated people who worked like crazy to pull it off, and two, the company's maturity as a manager of change. Courtyard was a severe test of our organizational ability to foster innovation—preserve it—at the risk of our cherished core identity.

Courtyard disturbed our status quo the most, because it was a clear case of messing with success. Our other diversification efforts—cruise ships, the travel agency, theme parks, home security—had all been somewhat removed from our bigger and better-known business. In those cases, if we didn't make a stellar showing or if we failed, the damage to our reputation as a hotelier was minimal. Courtyard, on the other hand, had the power to strike right at the heart of the organization. If we blew it, so the arguments ran, we'd lose more than just our investment in Courtyard. We risked twenty-five years of hard work establishing our name in the industry.

The point was a valid one, but not the only one. Balancing the worries about rocking the boat—risking the order—were a couple of very compelling arguments. One was our perennial urge to grow. Tackling other segments of the lodging market would open up vast new territory for increasing our bottom line. The market could only support a certain number of full-service Marriott hotels. The second was the fact that the idea for Courtyard came straight out of our new strategic-planning function. Unlike our earlier diversification efforts, we could bring to bear on Courtyard the kind of discipline and study that would minimize risk and maximize potential. Courtyard was the perfect opportunity to take our new planning function for a spin.

The arguments in favor of change won out. For three years, Courtyard incubated in almost complete secrecy. Those who were involved in its planning went into overdrive putting together focus groups, competitor profiles, mock room layouts, and just about anything and everything that would help to make Courtyard a textbook case of product planning. The hard work paid off. When our small-sized, medium-priced, high-style Courtyard by Marriott was finally unveiled in 1983, it really flew!

Part of Courtyard's successful debut was a reflection of the state of the market. The moderate-priced lodging segment had been in need of a fresh product for some time. But it was also the happy culmination of a thousand battles big and small that had raged inside Marriott for three years between the forces of fear and confidence, the known and unknown, order and change.

Of the myriad issues we wrestled with, naming the product was one of the most interesting and revealing. Choosing "Courtyard" was easy; a survey of customer preference settled the question. The hard part was deciding whether or not to include the word "Marriott" in the name. Skeptics and worriers expressed concern that attaching the Marriott tag to a moderate-priced product would tarnish the full-service brand name. Courtyard devotees argued that the Marriott name was vital to boost the product's profile and enhance its chances of success.

Was this a case of silly semantics or was it a pivotal point in our history? To my mind, it was very much the latter. By adding "by Marriott" to the Courtyard brand, the organization crossed a philosophical line. We demonstrated a willingness to throw the weight of the organization behind an innovation that promised—one way or the other, for good or ill—-to redefine the core of Marriott. In doing so, we held our breath. We also affirmed a critical organizational truth: We were quite capable of preserving change amid order.

The confidence and momentum generated by Courtyard's success in the marketplace quickly led us to the next logical step: diversification into almost every segment of the lodging industry. In 1984, we announced plans for Marriott Suites; two years later, we unveiled another entry, economy-priced Fairfield Inn by Marriott. Extended-stay brand Residence Inn was acquired in 1987 and tagged with the Ma