COULD YOU SURVIVE THE NEW FINISHING SCHOOL?
If James Bond had a daughter, he'd send her to this modern-day institution in New Zealand, which promises to turn 16-23 year old girls into true women of the world. Forget about table setting! Classes here involve surviving in the wilderness, flying WW2 dive bombers and dangling off 150-foot cliffs. Is this any preparation for the "real world"?
By Georgia Cassimatis

Shuffling off the plane after an 11 hour flight from Los Angeles, I scan the Auckland town airport parking lot for something that looks like a bus. I am, after all, going back to school for three weeks! Instead, a black, bullet-proof Mercedes Benz rolls up and the driver opens the door for me. A minute later, I am whisked off to the "institution" for learning. At this school for the elite, I fast learn, there is little that resembles the yellow bus and starchy uniforms of childhood.
Via, as the New Zealand finishing school is called, isn't exactly cheap: At US $30,000 for 5 weeks students come from an elite social class accustomed to personal drivers, private maids, and gourmet dining. Fortunately, the school offers all that, but it offers something more substantial as well: Sue McCarty, a former Fortune 500 business guru and school's founder, wanted Via to expand on the numerous personal development programs she believes led to her rapid rise up the corporate ladder. With Via, McCarty combines elements of personal development (namely, conquering your fears) with aspects of a wilderness survival camp for the world's most privileged young women. 
At the entrance to Via, I am greeted by three large security guards-men, I later discover, whose previous careers involved soldiering in places like Afghanistan and now spend countless hours protecting the world's young, rich and famous. Why such a fuss over me? I wonder. That's when I am gently informed that some students at the school are from prominent families who fear their daughters could be kidnapped for ransom. Ah, but of course!
I soon see what they mean when I meet the would-be ransom bait in the lobby of the school/resort: Two Russian girls hand-picked by one of President Vladimir Putin's cabinet ministers, a British daughter of a Lord, another British girl whose mother is an Honorary, and two American girls dressed like Madison Avenue fashionistas. These young women are to be my "classmates" for the duration of the program. I find myself wishing I had at least one claim to nobility in my family. Surely, way back in the family tree. Hmmm, come to think of it my Greek great grandfather was a politician. Maybe I, too, could use this to my advantage...
After introductions, I am escorted to my room-nothing like the college dorm room I'm expecting. Rather, a large country-style room overlooking the beautiful Auckland harbour, the sunroom attached giving this place the feeling of a four-star hotel. I check in my information brochure. Living with us is world-famous Russian ballerina Ana Plisetskaya, who will lecture us on culture and dance-apparently two things every woman of the world should know about. Also inhouse is our very own life coach, at my disposal 24/7 for three weeks even though he is normally available only to the rich and famous (at $415 an hour, I can see why). At least I'm in good company!

SUB: Being a Diva Is Hard Work
The rest of arrival day is relaxed, allowing the eight international travellers time to get acclimated to our new surroundings. First thing the next morning, though, I'm off in a helicopter, flying to North Island (New Zealand is comprised of two islands) to experience a welcoming ceremony by the indigenous Maori people. Our instructor introduces us as the "future leaders of our country," which is met by a surprised looks and dropped-jaws. Future leaders of our countries? How flattering and validating. I wouldn't mind living here for the rest of my life if I was to be anointed this title. The Maori don't laugh. Instead, the spiritual elder of the group, Hone, honors us with a knowing look. We may be privileged girls, he says, but we also have a responsibility to our community. "Make something of your lives," he acknowledges, "so you can influence others to do the same."
Today, the first step toward communal responsibility involves having Jacuzzis, massages, crystal healings, and basket weaving lessons. After a four course dinner overlooking the coastline, the Maori bestow us each with a specially carved green treasure necklace, called a pounamu, as a symbol that our journey has begun.
In the following days, I awake each morning to a different schedule of events-mostly involving activities I've never dreamed I'd be doing, like flying WWII bombers. The more outlandish the experience, the more I see fellow students letting down their guards. Makeup takes a backseat. Clothing is toned down. (Some girls even repeat outfits!) Slowly, the human side of the social elite emerges. Tears start flowing when one of the Russian girls has trouble with certain terminology in our communication course. She loves it, she really loves it, she insists between sobs, while butchering one sentence after the next. Finally, she admits she's afraid of sounding stupid. Then one of the American girls gets dumped (via email!) by her boyfriend, and one of the British bluebloods learns her boyfriend is sick in the hospital. 
Through all the turmoil, it occurs to me that despite a disparity in income (mine and theirs), social classes and cultural upbringings, underneath it all we share the same vulnerabilities and propensity for drama over the little things. 
By day four, I'm ready to test some high drama skills of my own. In at our mandatory morning Whanau (pronounced 'fa-now' and Maori for "family meeting"), I click my fingers and the breakfast waiter appears. "A soy latte," I request, in lieu of the coffee before me. A moment later, one of the American fashionistas beckons her back. "I don't like the look of my scrambled eggs," she tells her. "Could you poach them instead?" Our requests are met without incident, which, really, is perversely satisfying; the freedom of bossing people around with no retort is so not the real world that it becomes quite addictive. I have to admit that I loved bossing people around because I could get away with it. Whereas in the real world this is so not the case. But because the staff at the school is trained to treat you like the celebrity you're bound to become someday; you, in turn, are encouraged to invoke such divadom.
Finishing school isn't just about speaking up for what you want (a concept most of these girls have a strong grasp of). Rather, it's the adrenalin-pumping activities that really test character and get at the fear-conquering element that is so essential to Via's overall message about making it in the world. Take, for instance, extreme mountain biking, which I find on my schedule for Day 14. No matter how rich, beautiful, thin or educated you are, there's nothing easy about riding a five-speeder on muddy narrow mountain roads with an instructor hollering to pick up the pace. As I peddle full steam ahead, I hear a shout behind me: Ana, the Russian ballerina, has fallen into the river while crossing the bridge. The group waits while she gathers herself together-no hand-holding on this ride! It's here that I realize facing your fears is a fundamental skill you need to be a woman of the world. Mountain biking might not be everyone's idea of torture, but sooner or later, we'll all run into an exercise that sends our hearts racing.

SUB: Confronting Fear, One Airplane Jump At a Time
Several days later, Marsha, the Russian diva with communication phobia, has no worries as she dangles off a mountain cliff 150 feet in the air. Staring up at her as she happily swings around on what looks to be a piece of string, I realize she's actually enjoying herself. I, on the other hand, am secretly having a nervous breakdown. My turn is coming; I am terrified. The point of this exercise is a test of willpower, as in "If you can will yourself to hang from a mere thread 150 feet above sheer rocks and live to tell the tale, what can't you do?" It's the live-to-tell part that has me worried.
I strap the harness on and feel myself lowered from the precipice of the rocky overhang, but my fun is only beginning. I hang off the edge of the cliff for what seems to be an eternity, waiting for one of the British 'princesses' to strap up and join me. Turns out, she's frightened too. But instead of accepting her fate (who said finishing school was easy?) she's decided to throw a temper tantrum. She. Won't. Do. It.
Meanwhile, I've found a handhold in the side of the cliff, a rock that I grab onto for dear life while the hissy fit continues. It's at this point that the sky opens up and rain begins to pour, coming down so heavily I can no longer see the ground, 20 stories below me. Panic sets in; I start to hyperventilate. Mascara runs down my face (even an action girl wants to look good!). Finally, some tough reverse psychology by the instructor convinces Miss Britain to join me. Together, we lower ourselves to the mudpit below. I've never been so thrilled to get dirty.
My narrow escape of death-or at least a mental breakdown-convinces me I've got this modern-day finishing school stuff in the bag. But my cockiness catches up with me while in New Zealand's adventure capital, Queenstown, the following weekend. Today's task: Skydiving out of an airplane at 12,000 feet. No problem, I say with a mental thump on the chest. I'm a pro now. 
One after another, I watch my fellow students succumb to major meltdowns as they approach the plane door. Wimps, I think, smiling calmly at our fearless leader. I'm so giddy to test my new self-confidence, I practically saunter up to the hatch, turn around, and backflip out in the blue yonder.
Oh no. I'm not expecting this! Suddenly, I find myself totally disoriented, with icy cold air skyrocketing up my nose and into my mouth-air shooting through my ears and into my head with so much force I'm certain it's going to explode. I'm dying. I'm definitely dying. Sometime later (I couldn't tell you whether it was an hour or a minute) I land with a thump. At least, I think it's a thump because I feel the vibration, but I can't hear a thing my head is so stuffed with atmosphere. Several hours later, I'm still asking people to shout when they talk to me.
To help us recover from the plane jump (which we're told is the ultimate test) we are picked up by helicopter (great, more flying) while onlookers ask us if we're famous (yes, we tell them, we're royalty from Europe). The chopper pilot takes us on a scenic tour of New Zealand's snow-capped mountains while we sip champagne and give each other shaky pats on the back. 
But at dinner that night, I am still disorientated. I can't get over the feeling I think I could be dead. I mean, what if I've died and this is all a dream? Then one of the security guards-he who has fought in countless wars and protected celebrities (who shall remain nameless from stalkers) -gives me the "adrenalin" talk. It's only natural, he says, to feel confused. After the joy of an adrenalin rush like plummeting out of an airplane, people are forced to pay for it with a huge "adrenalin hangover." I mention there wasn't much "joy" in my skydiving feat. He looks at me like I'm crazy.

SUB: Learning To Love Adrenalin
After three weeks, it's time to pack it in and return to the real world. I consider whether my newfound skills make me feel "finished," or more complete. The biggest revelation: Fear can motivate as well as paralyze. I realize that the way I deal with fear while scaling mountains should be similar to how I handle it in other areas of my life, such as racing to meet a writing deadline at work. But at work, fear can freeze me into total inaction; adventure sports has taught me that you can (and have to) work through it. In the end, fear itself becomes an adrenalin rush, something I vow to remember next time I panic while burning the midnight oil. 
Despite the valuable lesson, I decide coming of age as a member of the social elite has certain drawbacks. For one, I'm a good five pounds heavier than when I arrived, thanks to the exotic meals. And, while four-star wilderness survival is fun and challenging, being treated like a princess is making me suffer severe withdrawals already as I ponder re-entering my working-girl life in downtown LA. While I'm not sure how much is ultimately relevant to my "real" life, I am looking forward to slipping back into it. Now, if someone would just do my laundry and get me a soy latte, on the double... 

BOX
3 finishing school lessons modern girls should know:
1. Be present in the moment. My life coach tells me I am disturbingly "unpresent." Whenever you find yourself worrying about the past or future, you're not taking full advantage of the here and now.
 
2. Feeling like you're about to die is really just an "adrenalin rush." Feeling like you're suffering from post-traumatic stress afterwards is merely an "adrenalin hangover."

3. Even hip, hardcore action girls can be feminine, vulnerable and sensitive. Crying is the new "black."