Managing an international exhibiting program probably sounds like a glamorous job, and no doubt, traveling to new countries can be really exciting. But when it comes to exhibiting in those countries, sometimes it's not the kind of excitement you want.

One such instance in Japan almost took a few years off my life. I was planning for my first show there – the Maritime Systems and Technologies show for defense contractors – where I was to serve as the lead for a large joint exhibit with one of our partners. Having exhibited in Singapore several times, I felt like I had at least a little familiarity with the region, so putting together plans for our 560-square-foot booth didn't seem like it would be too daunting.

The show organizer, which was located in the United Kingdom, sent several emails in advance of the show warning that under no circumstances would the official contractor (located in Tokyo) accept any onsite orders. That meant no electricity, no furniture, no additional labor, nothing. To cope with the policy, organizers advised exhibitors to order extra of everything in advance or plan to go without. I'd never heard of a policy like this, so I was skeptical as to whether it was totally true or a ploy to get participants to spend more money.

Even so, once the show-services manual arrived two months before the event, I did my best to pad what we needed – or at least I thought I did. The problem was that there was scarcely any information on the forms, and since electricity is measured differently in Japan, completing the order felt more like taking an algebra quiz. The furniture order form wasn't much better, having just images of items without any scale or dimensions.

The timelines for returning forms were tight, and a string of emails promised that orders not completed prior to the deadline would be ignored. I tried to ask questions, but time zone differences meant sometimes it would be three days before we could complete a circle of communication. So with just 24 hours to go before service orders were due, I sent what I thought was a well-prepared electrical order to the show organizer for a quality check. Hearing nothing back, I contacted the company the following day and was told that all electrical forms submitted by exhibitors had been rejected.

This, of course, prompted complete panic on my part, so with nowhere to turn and little desire to sit in the dark without power in our booth, I enlisted my husband – who has a doctorate in engineering – to help me figure out the amp/volt/watt puzzle. What I learned in the process was that Japanese contractors want the electrical requirements for each source, as in, this spotlight uses 0.5 amps, and that computer uses 3 amps, etc. In any case, we got the form submitted on time and correctly, which felt like a big win at that particular moment.

When I arrived at the show hall for setup a couple of weeks later, I understood why the policies leading up to the show were so rigid. The venue didn't even have a show-services desk, just teams of laborers working meticulously on orders they had been given. But despite the absence of any centralized control center, it was the most precise installation I'd ever seen.

The only thing missing from my perfect display was the furniture, which was scheduled to be delivered 30 minutes before the hall closed on the last day of setup. It arrived on schedule, and as workers carried it into my display, horror washed over me. Every single piece of furniture was about 1 foot tall.

My eyes were like dinner plates as they set the itty-bitty chairs, sofas, and tables in my space. I had apparently ordered a traditional Japanese style of furniture that sits very low to the floor and is designed for people with a slight build. With no dimensions provided, I had assumed the pieces I was ordering were an ordinary size.

My mind went to a couple of our company leaders who were more than 6 feet tall, and I envisioned what it would look like if they were crouching their towering frames into those tiny seats. The image that came to mind was me in the unemployment line.

This exhibit furniture would never do, but I had exactly 25 minutes to come up with something different, and I couldn't help but think of the 185 messages I'd received before the show telling me I couldn't order anything on site. My mind was going a million miles a minute until it screeched to a halt on a fleeting memory of something I'd seen a little while earlier: a bunch of furniture sitting on the loading dock that was being returned to the warehouse.

Tearing through the exhibit hall, I prayed that it was still there, and as I rounded the entry to the docks, I just about wept when I saw it. The furniture, I learned, was all surplus furnishings that belonged to another exhibitor – a U.S.-based company with local offices.

I found the exhibit manager at his booth, and as fast as I could, explained my plight. He was more than happy to help me out of my jam and let me use anything I needed. So with five minutes to spare before the end of the day, a new spread of furniture was set in my space.

When company leaders showed up the next morning, they nodded their approval at how it had all turned out. Of course, they had no idea that they were almost going to be sitting pretty much on the floor in the dark, but I figured maybe I should keep that drama to myself. Even though I was nonchalant, the reality was that I had learned plenty about quick thinking and luck in the process of arranging this display, and by the end, I felt like I had earned a black belt in the art of Japanese exhibiting.