the City

5 Years And Counting

2009-01-04T12:09:00.005-06:00

This month marks the fifth anniversary of the landing of NASA's Spirit and Opportunity rovers on Mars - happy birthday.

What if there was an election and no one ran for office?

2008-09-08T22:43:00.008-05:00

Each year, on the first Sunday in October, Baha'is in the United States elect delegates to their National Convention, held in the following April, during which the nine-member National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of the United States is elected.

My niece Niku (sporting her new braces), my nephew Kent and their friend invite their community to their Unit Convention.

A Method Behind a Madness

2008-08-26T20:34:00.006-05:00

I came across this video not too long ago: Joshua Prince-Ramus - of RE X and formerly of OMA - briefly describes his theory of architecture at the 2006 TED Conference.

It's always difficult for me to explain to my friends who are not architects why architecture matters or what makes good architecture. While architecture may seem arbitrary, good architecture is not. And whether or not one agrees with Ramus' theory or thinks that the end result is beautiful, there is a method to his madness and he explains his take well.

The Wyley Theater and the Museum Plaza where done in association with some of my fellow suits at Kendall-Heaton Associates.

The Smell Of Architecture

2008-08-21T16:45:00.019-05:00

One of my architecture professors at the University of Houston is leaving the school and I went by today to pick up a notebook of mine that she had kept. I hadn’t been back in the building for a couple of years. It was eerily quite and void of people one week before the first day of classes - the smell was still there though.

It’s not a bad smell, it’s not a pleasant smell, it’s just its own smell. Maybe it’s the years of chipboard shavings, or the sawdust of bass wood or the mold spewing from the AC grilles that we affectionately called “vent vomit” - whatever it is, you can’t miss it. It was there the day I went for orientation in the Fall of 2002 - making a u-turn of sorts and going back to school, I found myself in an unfamiliar yet familiar place.

I met my new classmates: a stockbroker, a psychologist, an attorney, two interior designers, a civil engineer, a sculptor, an economist, a hydraulic engineer, an architect and a biologist - a motley crew by any stretch of the imagination. We gelled together pretty quickly and dubbed our gang the "12 Angry Architects" - we weren’t angry, it was just that there were twelve of us.

Our first project was to build a partly hollow cube out of foam-core and then out of plaster over Labor Day weekend - labor day weekend indeed. Most of us struggled with our form work, but by Tuesday there were eleven white cubes with varying degrees of precision sitting on the group table in the Level 1 Studio - a thick square table showing its age with cuts, nicks, and the remnants of a myriad spray paints and dried glues.

Our studio space was, in a word, dark. Architect Philip Johnson had alloted us one round window above eye level. Johnson had copied Nicolas Ledoux’s design for the House of Education in the Saltworks and by sheer luck, we had ended up under one of the gables.

The building works in plan - it’s basically an open space on four floors overlooking a generous atrium. But the form is historicist, though not referring to anything in the history of Texas. One of my professors calls it "the lowest point in Postmodern architecture in the world”. It is, however, a conversation piece in any discussion of architectural theory and begs the question: is it better to train architects in great building or a not-so-great building?

It’s only been a few years but the school now has a beautiful, larger and better equipped shop. In one of the gallery spaces on the first floor, I saw the models - crafted with a “freaking laser” cutter - of the DigiFab Studio for an outdoor space of meditation to be built in a green space next to the building. Not bad.

We spent three years getting a Masters degree in architecture; there was laughter, there were tears, there was the agony of defeat and the thrill of victory - I’ll never forget the time when one professor looked at my work at mid-review and said “that is the ugliest building that I have ever seen” (the fact that he was one of the oldest teachers at the school drove in the point only too well) . . . by final review though he said that I had "pulled it out of the fire" and it had become “beautiful”.

There were the X-Acto knife cuts, whose scars I’ll have forever. There were the great teachers - each a bit crazy in his or her own good way. And of course, the many sleepless nights - all-nighters when invariably at about 3:30 in the morning something extremely funny would take place, followed the next day by the question: “is today Wednesday?”

As I walked through the empty building today, that smell brought everything back.

Good times.

Leila

2008-08-13T23:22:00.001-05:00

No one forgets a hug

2008-07-05T16:03:00.000-05:00

This Just In . . .

2008-06-30T19:31:00.002-05:00

Entertainment Scientists Warn Miley Cyrus Will Be Depleted by 2013

I wanna dance

2008-06-30T19:00:00.002-05:00

SuperHero

2008-06-17T20:08:00.004-05:00

Tim Russert passed away on Friday. Alone among his peers, Russert would not let anyone get away with anything but the truth.

I used to watch “Meet the Press” with my dad on weekend visits home - Russert was his favorite interviewer. After my father’s passing a few years ago, Sunday mornings with Tim were a reminder of good times with baba.

I, and indeed the world, will miss Tim.

He was the voice of the “people” in Lincoln’s ethos for America.

I pray that his soul is happy.

Singin' the Blues

2008-06-01T20:30:00.003-05:00

Look a little closer

2008-06-01T20:06:00.003-05:00

The Mars Phoenix Lander with its parachute fully extended as captured by the HiRISE orbiter - ". . . the first time that a spacecraft has actually imaged the descent of another spacecraft onto a planetary body."

Déjà Vu All Over Again

2008-05-17T13:32:00.004-05:00

Baha'i leaders arrested in Iran

Shame

2008-03-27T00:04:00.005-05:00

Brain-damaged woman at center of Walmart suit.

The Up Side of Global Warming

2008-02-11T15:31:00.000-06:00

The high today in Houston was 77°F.

the Bab (1819-1850)

2008-01-29T12:20:00.000-06:00

Siyyid Ali Muhammad Shirazi
Orphaned, too wise for school, merchant by trade
At 25: "I am, I am, I am the Promised One"
Conquered the first 18 in silence, captured the next hundred thousand with His words
Insulted, imprisoned, beaten, banished - martyred at 30 in Tabriz
Blew the Trumpet for "Him Whom God shall make manifest"
Pure, Audacious, Triumphant - the Bab

Stairway to Heaven

2007-12-12T21:29:00.000-06:00

West 14th, New York

Architecture For Humanity

2007-10-14T14:56:00.000-05:00

I saw Cameron Sinclair speak at the Rice Design Alliance's lecture series last week - his organization, Architecture for Humanity, has made a huge impact on the lives of many unfortunate people around the world.

Beautiful Iran

2007-10-14T08:34:00.001-05:00

"Then They Came for the Baha'is"

2007-09-27T22:20:00.000-05:00

"Never again would the international community stay silent about laws banning one group from attending school. Never again would we ignore orders to register with the government and report on your family’s whereabouts. Never again would we welcome a leader who has ordered a religious minority to be subject to secret police monitors and nightly round-ups."

- From an article written by Congressman Mark Steven Kirk, of the 10th District of the State of Illinois.

More on the treatment of Baha'is by the government of Iran.

Watch President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's response on the situation of Baha'is in Iran.

Learning from Barcelona

2007-09-17T22:54:00.000-05:00

I was out of town on Labor Day. Driving on West Gray a few days ago, I noticed something was missing - half of the River Oaks Shopping Center was practically gone. I’d known for a while that this is what was to happen, still it made me sad. Soon there will be yet another big box retailer, housed in all likelihood in its respective corporate standard building - the McDonaldization of architecture at work.

The River Oaks Shopping Center was a gateway from the exclusive River Oaks neighborhood to downtown Houston. Flanked by palm trees, it provided one of only a few pleasant outdoor pedestrian shopping experiences in the city - the complex was built before the advent of air conditioning, when sidewalks where not a commodity, and when Houstonians, no doubt, were not known for being among the fattest people in the United States, if not the world. The Art Deco-ish buildings had their Houston flavor - setting back from the street to allow for a reasonable amount of parking, as opposed to today’s shopping centers where parking and the car are what drive any project.

In 1972 architects Robert Venturi, Denis Scott Brown and Steven Izenour wrote a book entitled “Learning from Las Vegas”. They analyzed the “Strip” in Las Vegas and argued for an architecture based on symbol and signs as a counterpoint to what was seen as the stark and “bor[ing]” Modernism of the earlier decades. While the merits of that proposition could be, and have been, discussed at length, we seem to have learned much more from Las Vegas - a city where large hotels and casinos are torn down only a few years after their completion to make room for newer and more lavish ones. Where, as Michael Sorkin might observe, you can be anywhere in the world and yet nowhere at all. They have perfected the art of destroying to the extent that no trace of a past is present. They have re-created a world where context has no meaning. What’s wrong with that? Everything.

A friend of mine recently put a bid on a house that was built in 1938 near Rice University - a beautiful, small, cottage, “Spec” home constructed by craftsman of the last century, having hardly moved an inch in Houston’s expansive soil after seventy years. He lost out to a builder who will tear it down and build yet another monster that will take up most of the land, fall apart a few months before the end of its one year warranty, and be just another ordinary house.

Sometime ago I saw a sign that one developer had on a 1950’s office building that was going to be torn down - his intention was to “redefine Village living” - was there anything wrong with the old definition?

Our psyche seems to moving towards different directions - at a time when for more than three decades computer memory has doubled every eighteen months, we are rapidly destroying not only what has been on earth for millions of years, but our own handiwork of a not too distant past.

So what that we throwing away architecture just like paper plates - does it matter? Architecture is a visible timeline of our collective memory and when it is lost, we lose part of our culture and part of societal soul. And what matters is that this disposable thinking permeates the rest of our lives - from our relationships with our friends, with our spouses, with our children and with our neighbors to how we see ourselves, how we see other cultures and, of course, how others see us.

We seem to be obsessed with staying young and resort to extreme surgery and toxins to give ourselves and others the impression of youth, but as I watch on the myriad home improvement shows, we are also drawn towards the “rustic” look, so much so that we “fake” the age of our furniture. I saw one program where the host built a new table and then whipped out a heavy chain and started beating the hapless four-legged object she just created - to give it that “distressed” look, I suppose. She then painted it, but took out a blow-dryer to crackle the paint . . . I wonder if her diamond rings are real.

Who are we and where do we come from - obviously we can’t handle the truth.

I lived in Barcelona for several months in 2005 - the coolest city in the world. What makes that city special for me, is that fact I could walk by two thousand year old Roman ruins, cramped medieval streets, early 20th century Modernismo buildings and just completed contemporary structures, all within a few minutes. There is a sense of identity and pride whose buzz one cannot help but feel - maybe that is what kept the Catalan people and their culture alive during the dark times in their history when they were oppressed and not even allowed to speak their native tongue.

We can do better.

Love at First Site

2007-09-15T17:59:00.000-05:00

I went to my first major construction site a few days ago - it was awesome. Cement dust in the air, the smell of mortar and tar, the sounds of jackhammers. Our firm is the Architect of Record for the Comcast Center in Philadelphia - the project on which I have been working for the past ten months. We are getting very close to completion and I was fortunate to go to the site with my manager to do the “Punch List” - making sure that certain rooms have been completed as designed.

People ask me from time to time what I do and I think I finally found a way to describe it that might make sense to those who are not familiar with architecture. Our firm does *not *do the original design - that task is performed by the Design Architect. We do the technical design - not the engineering, that is done by Civil, Structural, Electrical and Mechanical Engineers. We prepare drawings to a level of detail sufficient for the contractor to construct the building - it’s like playing Tetris in three dimensions all day long. The Design Architect draws their intention, we figure out the nuts and bolts and make everything fit with everything else in the building - we are like the backstage crew of a theatre production.

I had waited for this moment for a long time - ever since I was a little boy, my father would take me to construction sites. I have vivid memories of the slender, brown, glazed tiles in the stairwell of the seven story office building my father built in Tehran more than thirty years ago. I have vague recollections of him and his architect trying to figure out how to add a second basement after the building was nearly completed - something which they did while everyone held their breath.

I remember going to pick out land with my parents and my sister for a house in a new development west of the city - Tract 103. I remember going to the Design Architect’s office with my dad. I remember when the site was marked for excavation and then playing in the sand that was to be mixed for the concrete of the footings. I remember building cubes with the small pieces of stone that would be used for the base of the walls (I may have even broken a couple of pieces!)

I got sidetracked as I became older and came back to architecture only a few years ago - I had talked myself out of going after my childhood love.

Not too long ago, I met a young lady who is completing her medical internship in Dermatology. We were having lunch with a few people including one of my best friends who is a Radiologist - when she found that out, her eyes began to glow, she talk about how when doing her rotation in Radiology, her heart would throb every time she touched an X-Ray. I pointed out that she was, of course, completely crazy, but I completely understood - majnun crazy. I get the same feeling sometimes when I see the cross-section detail of a curtain wall. She had decided to pursue Dermatology because she thought that she would miss out on the joys of the doctor-patient interaction if she was to become a Radiologist. Then she found out that my friend was an Interventional Radiologist - no, they don’t confront stubborn people and tell them that they have to have an MRI right away . . . they do image assisted procedures. She’ll end up an Interventional Radiologist, sooner or later, I am sure.

I wish I could see my father’s eyes see my eyes now - I miss you Baba.

Find your passion, do great things.

Milestone

2007-05-13T02:14:00.000-05:00

I have not had time to write for a while. . .

It took longer than my 40th birthday, but I am finally able to run around the campus of Rice University once without stopping - it's almost 3 miles.

I have to complete several long-tstanding goals this year - we'll see if I can cross all of them off my list by December.

As Seen On (Iranian) T.V.

2006-09-12T23:20:00.000-05:00

My mom, who lives about 90 miles from me, recently had the satellite that receives the Iranian channels installed. I visit her on some weekends and channel-surfed through the 1001 Persian language stations a couple of weeks ago.

There are the old flicks, the many music videos, the continuous plethora of rug auctions with “unbelievable prices not available anywhere”, and, of course, the myriad call-in talk shows. For all the complaining that Iranians can’t agree on anything, there sure is one thing we do well in unison – almost without exception these talk shows are full of backbiting, slander and verbal assault. After what must be more than two decades of free expression over the airways, we still lack a culture of civil discourse. However these shows do serve as a great source for those trying to follow the Persian saying: “adab raa az be-adabaan yaad begir/learn manners from those without manners”.

We pride ourselves on the 2,500-year heritage of a culture that has produced great art and science and this is what we show the world we can do with freedom?

I will be walking a little taller next week when Anousheh Ansari roars into space on a Russian craft. I lived in Dallas when she and her husband ran Telecom Technologies – one of my friends worked there. In the her interview with "The New Times", she said that “[a] guiding principle of her life . . . is a quotation from Mahatma Gandhi: ‘You must be the change you want to see in the world.’ ”

I guess I’ll just stick to watching the music videos on Iranian T.V. There was one I especially liked, a song performed by the group Arian: “farda maaleh maast/tomorrow is ours” – a hopeful tune with children dancing and playing.

Although, I really wished more of us would seize today – rocket on Anousheh.

Chasing 40

2006-08-06T22:55:00.000-05:00

The headline read “50 at 30” – that’s the number of golf tournaments Tiger Woods has won by the time he’s turned 30. Jack Nicklaus had held the record by winning 50 by the age of 33.

I am almost a year away from turning 40 and I have not won a single golf tournament – I’m still trying to break 130 . . . for one round . . . hitting from the amateur tee . . . which is the closest starting point to the hole. O.K. so golf is not my game. A couple months ago I tried to play soccer after having been practically inactive for four years – I was basically booed off the pitch. What the hell is happening?

It reminded me of the opening of “City Slickers” where Billy Crystal’s character turns 40 (if memory serves . . .) and he thinks that this is as good as it’s going to get – he won’t get any better looking or be in better shape, etc., etc.

I sort of started noticing things were changing when I turned 30 but now that I am reaching middle age, it’s just not funny any more. I mean I had already accepted the fact that the small tropical storm with its eye on top my head was going to be upgraded to a category 2 or 3 hurricane overtime and so I started keeping the remaining hair on my head much shorter, but lately, there seems to be a noticeable belly forming where my flat stomach used to be.

So I have started running. I hate running when there is no ball to distract me from the fact that I am running, but I am running. Maybe I am running away – running away from all the things that I wanted to do and haven’t, away from the thought that I miss my father deeply, away from the fact that the whole world seems to be heading towards hell in a hand basket and people in positions of responsibility aren’t doing responsible things.

But I want to think that I am running towards something better. The great Negro League baseball pitcher Satchel Paige once said: “. . . don't look back — something might be gaining on you”.

So there - I’m chasing 40 and maybe I can save Norman the calf along the way.

The Promise of World Peace

2006-08-01T00:34:00.001-05:00

Almost twenty one years ago, in October of 1985, the Universal House of Justice - the governing body of the Baha'i Faith - published an essay entitled "The Promise of World Peace".

In these dark, dark days, I thought that it might be a source of hope.

Freedom Tower

2006-06-28T23:03:00.000-05:00

The latest design of the Freedom Tower to be built at New York’s “ground zero” was unveiled today. The original plan, created by Daniel Libeskind, called for a series of angular buildings with one rising significantly above the rest, its spire reaching 1776 feet – the height, a gesture to the date of the signing of the US Declaration of Independence. In his plan, the lone tower and spire evoked the Statue of Liberty, freedom conquering tragedy.

Libeskind belongs to the school of Post-Modern architects that are collectively referred to as Deconstructivists – a group whose movement was in part based on the philosophies of the Frenchman Derida. These architects looked back at the Modernism of the 1930-50’s and saw it too bland – they experimented with a collage of often angular fragments, at times with no relationship to the context in which they were being built. The word Deconstructivist itself is a counterpoint to the Russian Constructivist movement of the early 20th century, which ran almost parallel to the German Bauhaus, the latter being the source of architects like Gropius and Mies van der Rohe. These two architects moved to the US to escape Nazism and led the evolution of Modernism in architecture.

Libeskind became known to the world outside of academia when he won the competition to build the Jewish Museum in Berlin in 1989. There he “deconstructed” a Star of David, clad it in zinc and pierced it with irregular cuts as openings for light - an abstraction of the suffering of the Jews in the Holocaust. I visited the museum in 2004 and while my own architectural tastes lie outside of deconstructivism as "the" guiding principle, here I think Libeskind’s ideas worked – especially as one views the building from the outside. Inside there are some quite powerful spaces but, for me, there was too much, and mostly artificial, light for a place that I thought needed to be subdued. The best space is a variation of a grove of trees adjacent to the structure.

Libeskind’s design for the World Trade Center site was chosen among several entries submitted by some of today’s most renowned architects. My favorite was by the team called Think, comprised of Rafael Vinoli, Shegiru Ban, Ken Smith and Fredric Schwartz. They proposed two “transparent” steel frame towers (structured not unlike the Eiffel Tower), using the same height and proportions as the WTC Towers, within which several public spaces were “suspended”. Having said that, Libeskind’s original design was very strong – his angular language bringing new life to the site.

Libeskind wanted to leave the retaining wall, which holds back the water, exposed as a visible symbol of strength. He had some idea about the light of the sun on September 11th illuminating the memorial garden a certain way every year (unfortunately his team assumed that there were no surrounding buildings!). And, as I mentioned before, he wanted to establish a dialogue between the new Tower and the Statue of Liberty seen across the water. He was trying to make an architecture that had a meaning beyond just providing unnecessary office space - trying to tap into the ideals that made America, while at the same time, respecting the life of the thousands that perished. Architecture that is poetic can be transformative not only on a physical but a metaphysical level.

And now for something completely different: most large-scale projects often get bogged down in politics and money. It’s a complicated story but even though Libeskind is still the Master Planner for the project, the developer of the site had his own architect and the building, as it will be built, will not look anything like the winning scheme – with exceptions of the height, 1776 feet, and the spire. The new Tower, designed by Skidmore, Owings and Merrill, is much more conservative and its spire rises from the center of the roof: however, the overall shape has now been refined and is no longer a plane box that SOM had proposed earlier.

The other major factor in this project was the concern for security which resulted in a 187-feet high bomb-proof concrete base that will now be clad in prismatic glass to soften its effect for the people in the plaza.

Many of the other planed structures for the site have also run into problems not the least of which being the rising cost estimates. The memorial, which consists of two pools where the two Towers were, will be built, but some of its elements have been deleted. The only project for the general area which is on schedule and has gone forward without much debate is the simply beautiful PATH station designed by Santiago Calatrava – having seen some of his bridges and buildings in Spain, I think this will be his best work to date by far.

In sum the new Freedom Tower will be a static yet handsome building that could be anywhere - it could have, and perhaps should have, been much more.

The Beautiful Game

2006-06-25T10:36:00.000-05:00

I grew up playing football, or soccer, as it is referred to in the U.S. We played it mostly with a plastic red and white ball that was smaller than a regular football – I don’t really know why. It may have had to do with the fact that a real leather ball was expensive or thought to be dangerous if kicked aound in narrow streets and in between cars.

At Mehran School, my elementary, we were not even allowed to use the red and white ball and had to settle for playing with a tennis ball. Our school did not have a field – we had a large paved courtyard that was used for all outdoor activities.

My favorite team was Perspolis, its arch-rival was Taj. Every boy in school was either on one side or the other. After the 1978-79 revolution, Perspolis, the name given by the Greeks to the capital of the Persian Empire in Pasargade, was changed to Pirouzi, meaning Victory. Taj, which literally means Crown, was changed to Esteghlal, or Independence. Some years later Pirouzi reverted to Perspolis.

At that time, in the mid 1970’s, the Iranian football league was a semi-professional one. All the players had regular jobs and also played football. In Iranian culture there is an understood rule that one must not pursue his passion in full if it involves something other than what is considered a “real” job – “first you must become a doctor and then you can play the violin”. Paradoxically, those who are quite accomplished in the arts or in sports are revered as heroes.

I actually don’t remember watching any of the club games in Iran but I must have kept up somehow. My favorite player was number 7 on Perspolis, Hussein Kalani – he was an architect in real life, I think. I had the kid’s version of his red jersey, white shorts and socks, which I remember wearing around the house – I don’t know what happened to it.

In 1978 Iran was the lone representative of Asia in the World Cup held in Argentina. The team of Nasser Hejazi in goal, Ali Parvin in midfiled, the speedy Hasan Roshan as striker, and the teenager Behtash Fariba headed to South America. Back then there were only 16 teams in the final stage of the tournament. Iran lost to the Netherlands, surprisingly tied Scotland and had to beat Peru by 3 goals to advance – Iran lost 4-1 in the face of the powerful shots of Cubillas who had three goals all by himself. I remember watching those games on our new color television – color technology having arrived in Iran in that year.

For the world, the World Cup is “the” event – nothing comes close. People get up in the middle of the night to watch the games live. In the 1970’s watching something live from abroad was a big deal. Some years earlier, we had gone to the Caspian Sea for summer vacation. I remember my father getting up after midnight to watch World Cup games in Munich. That’s why I thought it was weird that during the last World Cup in 2002, the U.S. networks would show the games tape-delayed because of the time difference. I think they got that from NBC’s decision to show the Olympics in Australia taped-delayed – real dumb in my view. Watching the games as they happen is part of the experience – in some ways sharing in a joyous event with the rest of the world. Some of my friends and I watched everything on the Spanish channel live – even though I don’t understand a lot Spanish, I got the feel of the game with their announcers where the ones on ABC or ESPN have no idea about how to call a football game.

It took Iran twenty years to make it back to the World Cup in 1998. They clinched their spot by dramatic tie against Australia in Sydney. They lost to Germany and Yugoslavia and beat the U.S. - Iran's greatest achievement in football to date. For 2002, Iran had to play a home and away playoff against Ireland and were not able to qualify.

In 2006, Iran made it to the World Cup and was eliminated in the first round – losses to Mexico and Portugal and a tie with Angola put them in last place in their group.

Football is the beautiful game. Brazil at its best is a thing to watch – some say that the ball moves like a stone skidding across the water. That is the level to which every team aspires. Having watched only a few games this year, I like what the Ghanaians are doing – their game against the Czech Republic was almost perfect.

I think one thing that people unfamiliar with football do not understand is how the game could have been interesting if the final score was 1-0, or worse yet 0-0. What they miss is the fact that a near goal is the second most exciting event in all of sports – agony for some, desperate relief for others.

What makes football incredibly exciting, for me, is the near constant feeling of almost certainty that the opposing team is going to score at any moment, spliced with the improbability of my team ever scoring - when the latter does happen, it’s euphoria.

I have picked Argentina to beat the Netherlands in the championship game this year – the two met in the 1978 and Argentina won the World Cup.

I hope Iran fairs better in South Africa in 2010 when, hopefully, I will be there to cheer - but "beh peer, beh phayghambar", PASS THE BALL!

Simply Cool

2006-05-19T23:48:00.000-05:00

Apple does architecture.

Randy at the Bat

2006-04-28T22:23:00.000-05:00

In classical Persian poetry, there is a practice called "taqlid" - literally "immitation". One takes either the rhyme or the meter or an actual verse of a great poem and uses it as a point of departure for a poem of his own.

The firm for whom I work just finished their softball season in the American Institute of Architects league in Houston. I went to one of their games a couple of weeks ago and it turned out to be quite an exciting episode. As things turned and given the name of the last player involved, I was reminded of the famous poem Casey at the Bat.

So here is my "immitation":

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Stars of KHA
They were down by five to FKP, one inning more to play

But then a rally was afoot; three hits, bases loaded up
Before the Partners could catch their breath, the fourth hit cleaned them up

Then two outs, but no despair, OBP* was in the house
One swing, his screaming liner had them scurry like a mouse

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell

It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat
For Randy, mighty Randy, was advancing to the bat

There was ease in Randy's manner as he stepped into his place
There was pride in Randy's bearing and a smile on Randy's face

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Randy at the bat

Ten thousand eyes, or just six, saw him rub his hands with dirt
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip
Defiance gleamed in Randy's eye, a sneer curled Randy's lip

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air
Randy jumped on this very pitch, it flew to who knows where

OBP was rounding second base, a fielder made a throw
One cutoff man missed by miles, for another the ball too low

One run across and now it seemed it was all in Randy’s feet
A mad scramble for the ball ensued as Randy would not be beat

He rounded third, now Randy’s eyes were set squarely on home plate
The ball came in and could there be just one more twist of fate?

The catcher tried to make the play as dust began to fly
The umpire made the final call, “He’s safe!”, my Oh my!

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout
Alas, there’s joy in Mudville - mighty Randy pulled it out.

_______

* OBP is On Base Percentage - in baseball lingo it is a combination of one's batting average and one's number of walks. This is Chris's nickname because at the time he had yet to make an out the entire season.

CTRL+ALT+DEL

2006-03-01T16:56:00.000-06:00

It was about 10 AM on Thursday March 29, 2001. The night before was my first really late day at the office - I had to help one of the new employees install XSS on his computer. Microsoft Outlook alerted an incoming email: “Emergency GIS on Third Floor”.

***

In the year 2000, near the bursting point of what would later be refered to as the stock market bubble, I was ready for a change. I had been working as an environmental engineer for four years. It was fine but it was not something for which I had a passion. Several of my good friends had recently moved to a startup. They had left their jobs at Fujitsu, DSET and EDS to work at Xybridge, a telecom company in Richardson, Texas – better known as Telecom Corridor. They told me to come along. We all knew the number two person in the company – he had left a directorship position at Nortel the previous year to join Xybridge at its start.

I thought; why not? It would be something new and it might be quite rewarding financially. They hired me as a technical writer – while I knew nothing about the telecommunication industry, I had spent a good portion of the previous several years writing reports.

Wednesday, November 29, 2000 was my first day at Xybridge. I had gotten a call a few days earlier inquiring as to whether or not I would be going to the Christmas party that Friday night – I said yes.

I got a corner cube – the first (and hopefully last time) that I had (will) worked in one. I started the day getting to know some of the folks in the office. I got the company coffee mug and pen. I went by the break room – we had every imaginable kind of bagel, fruit, soft drink, soup, etc. I saw one of my buddies here, another there.

Everybody was moving around with intent. There was a buz in the office.

I met the CEO and co-founder, Jawad Ayaz – a young man in his early thirties who had left Nortel to start this SoftSwitch company. The idea was to develop a new class of software that would do the job of circuit switches to control telephone calls, hence the name. Xybridge had a considerable amount of venture capital money and was testing its software in Japan for the country’s largest mobile phone company, DoCoMo. At the time, Xybridge was the only SoftSwitch maker that was developing a mobile component.

I had a great manager. She had come over from Nortel and been there since the early days of the company. I got settled in. They other person in the writing team was nice as well – he started me on going through the software manuals. I got a seating chart – there were about 115 people in the company when I joined.

That Friday we had catered lunch at work and everybody got an official Xybridge jacket. The rumor was that we were about to be acquired by another company. And that night was, of course, the Christmas party on the top floor of the Galleria Wyndham.

I began to learn what seemed to be an infinite list of acronyms: SIP, H.232 (or was it H.323?), ATM, UBR, etc. I also had to learn FrameMaker, an Adobe desktop publishing product. I started reading up the telephone industry from its beginnings to VoIP - Voice over Internet Protocol.

Several days went by and it became official: we had a GIS – a General Information Session – on the third floor. According to Jawad, when a company is as good as ours, there are many “suitors”. I don’t remember if he said this but Motorola, whose seed money was behind the company, was one interested party. The Xybridge management team, however, had decided to accept a pure stock deal from Zhone – another startup headquartered in Oakland. Zhone was co-founded by Morteza “Mory” Ejabat and Jeannette Symons soon after they sold Ascend Communications. In 1999 Ejabat had masterminded the sale of Ascend to Lucent for $24 billion. . . “The Street likes Mory”, is what Jawad said.

Zhone would be going public not long after acquiring Xybridge and our stock options would be worth a great deal. As the days went by, there was some rumbling among the masses about what would happen; would they lay people off, what were their plans for our product, etc.

In January several executives of Zhone came for another GIS on the third floor. We saw a slick corporate video about Zhone set to Van Halen’s “Right Now”. They told us how the city of Oakland had named a street for them and now it appeared as an exit sign off of the highway. They told us how their current customers were saying that all Zhone was missing was a SoftSwitch component in their solution to the “last mile”. In telecom lingo the “last mile” is the distance from a telephone to a central telephone office – the bottle neck, beyond which, one is connected to high speed fiber optic, T1, T2, etc. lines.

They told us about their new buildings in Oakland and their corporate standard for office equipment in all their offices. They told us about their growth, organically and through acquisitions. They told us how Xybridge was the best in the class of SoftSwitch makers and the fact that Zhone was not just acquiring a company, they were investing in the people that made the company.

It was a great song and dance.

It snowed in Dallas that year. So much so that the office was closed for a couple of days. Actually it doesn’t take much snow in Texas for everything to come to a halt – no one really knows how to drive in icy conditions.

I was chugging along on picking up the edits on our user manuals. Everyday I would have raspberry bagels and herb tea in my black Xybridge mug. And then I broke my elbow. I had been playing indoor soccer with my friends for several years. One night, in trying to break my fall, I put my hand on the ground to brace myself; my radius hit my humerus and both bones fractured slightly at the joint – I hate when that happens. That’s a story for another day but I found out while these bones heal pretty fast, the elbow joint will lock relatively quickly because of scar tissue build-up unless exercised. I also learned that 800 mg ibuprofin, hydrocodone, and Vioxx do nothing for me. I was typing in the mornings with one arm in a sling and going to physical therapy in the afternoons every other day.

Mory and his people came in on a Friday for another GIS/lunch. I felt proud that day. Some twenty years after leaving Iran, I was working for an Iranian whom Americans, Indians, Chinese and others practically worshipped. He had made others millionaires and we could be next. It made me think of eighth grade at A&M Consolidated Junior High. It was 1980 and in the midst of the American hostage crisis in Iran. We had just moved to College Station, Texas from Houston – my sister wanted to go to college at Texas A&M and my parents decided to settled there after emigrating to the US in late 1978. One of my classmate used the term “sand-ni**er” to refer to Iranians not knowing that I was an Iranian – I did not fit the stereotype, I suppose. I spent most of my teenage years to myself and probably seemed antisocial to others. Seeing Mory being treated like a Rock Star closed a circle for me.

The deal went through on February 16th, 2001 – 16 people got the axe that day. I put an X through each of their names on my seating chart. We all knew that the marketing folks would be gone, but Zhone took out a few more, including one of my buddies and my new friend on the technical writing team.

We had catered lunch that day at the Castle to celebrate the takeover. One of the executives, in from the Boston office, made the welcome speech at lunch. He started by saying that he knew that people might be concerned with what had just happened to our friends and former colleagues but it was something that needed to be done. We all dug in . . . into the food.

The Human Resources (HR) folks would come in from time to time to talk about our stock options, etc. We all had our original Xybridge options and were then given more when Zhone took over. Our Xybridge option plan had a provision by which the period of vesture would accelerate by one year if the company was taken over and the employee was laid off – for some of our options, what that meant was that if I worked for Xybridge for four months, and I was laid off, I would be vested one year and four months. Then Zhone pulled its IPO application.

Every few days, someone would leave. One of my friends left to work for another telecom company. A few took voluntary layoff packages. There were some organizational shakeups. Everyone was a bit paranoid. More whispers, fewer smiles. The break room was not stocked as before – Zhone had suggested Pizzas on Fridays instead.

The buz, and the bagels, were gone.

We’d get frequent visits from the executive in Boston. He was taking turns having breakfast with small groups of employees – donuts and orange juice. He wanted to know what we were up to and told us what Mory was up to: Mory had just bought a private jet – one in which “one could stand up straight”. Mory had a pilot but Jeannette flew her own plane down to the airport in Addison on her visits.

In early March, our writing team was eliminated. My manager and I were moved to software testing. I don’t know all the details, but she decided to take a layoff package. I left one cube for another – one closer to the front door.

One day, we all got an email from HR; it was Zhone’s Employee Manual and Agreement. It had all the rules of the company plus some words to the effect that Zhone could change anyone’s work description at any time without notice – it was a little puzzling. I asked my boss about it but he thought it was standard stuff.

A few days later, we were told the HR folks would be in to take pictures for our new Zhone identification cards – then their trip was cancelled. On Thursday, March 29th, 2001, I saw the HR lady and the executive from Boston as I walked into the office in the morning. I thought cool, their plans have changed and it must be picture day - I hoped I was wearing enough cologne.

Two weeks earlier, we had taken a Xybridge company photo and went out for lunch on Jawad’s last day. Everybody knew that once the deal became final, Jawad would leave. He wanted to go back to Banglore and work in the other company in which he was an executive. Somehow I ended up sitting across from him.

The text of the email did not explain the reason for the "Emergency GIS". As we headed out to the hallway and towards the elevator, a rumor was spreading – our office was going to be closed.

There was a hush in the third floor conference room - there would be no joy in Mudville that day and Casey was no where to be found. And, yes, no catered lunch this time. The Boston executive started to explain how the market had gone sour and things that they had not expected had occurred. The gist of it was that each of us would be getting an email in a few minutes; some would be offered to move and take a position in Boston, the rest would be given a severance package – “two months” salary, the same compensation given to the previous laid offs.

One of my buddies walked in late – he had the stomach flu but his manager had called and told him that he’d probably want to be here for this. When I saw him walk in the room, I almost shouted, “We’re going public!”

People scattered waiting for “the email”. Each ethnic group reverting to its native tongue. The documents actually stated it was “one month and four weeks” – there is a difference. We could hang around for a couple of weeks in the office and use the facilities for our job search. In fairness, that was better than some other places – DSET gave its employees a basic “two week notice”.

Zhone had offered the software designers to move to Boston. Most were from India and on work visas, which meant that, if laid off, they had only one month to find another job. Otherwise, they would have to return to India. Most of them took the offer, moved to Boston in June and got laid off there in August.

The first person I called was my friend who got laid off in February – he was not surprised.

CTRL+ALT+DEL

This was my warm reboot; I got to thinking, what the hell was I doing? I changed careers mainly for the promise of money, which was there one day and gone the next.

At first, being laid off by an Iranian stung, in part because Mory did not come to Texas to do it himself - that closed circle cracked a little. But in retrospect another, and perhaps more important, circle is now closed. I grew up to be what I always wanted to be; an architect. I have to thank you Mory, really, thanks, no “taarof” – that’s a Persian word for saying something other than one means out of deference to politeness.

Epilogue

Zhone, having purchased three or so firms before Xybridge, and four or five after, became public when it acquired Tellium and trades on the NASDAQ under the symbol ZHNE. I bought my vested options – I still think I was vested more than Zhone thinks I was but that’s history now. As of today, my $1000 investment in 2002 is worth about $50.

19 Years Ago . . .

2005-11-25T02:14:00.000-06:00

I wrote the following in 1997 on the anniversary of leaving Iran. I still have not been back and don't know when I will - my feelings remain the same. Happy Thanksgiving.
_______

19 years ago, on November 25, 1978, my family left Iran.

My memories of that night are still vivid - it's as if it was only a few days ago. I was 11. They had closed our school because of its vicinity to University of Tehran and the student demonstrations. Marshal law was in effect. Everyone was a bit tense though I did not realize the full weight of the situation. My parents were planning to leave the country after the school year so they were already prepared to leave for the most part. We were lucky to be able to leave with very short notice - many of our family and friends wanted to leave but could not.

I remember watching the movie "Looti" the night before we left - I still remember some of the plot. Some guy entrusted his wife to his friend's care while he went on a trip. His friend pulled a hair from his mustache and wrapped it in a scarf and promised that nothing would happen to the wife. Something did (don't remember what) and everyone in the town was shouting "Lootiyeh, Lootiyeh, Lootiyeh NAlootiyeh".

1978 was the year Iran made it to the World Cup in Argentina. We had just gotten a color t.v. and I remember watching some of the games.

A lot has happened in the world in the past 19 years. I've lost several family members, gained a few and watched the remainder scatter across the world with some still in Iran.

I miss eating chelo kabob on Fridays noons - we used get a take-out order from "chelo kababiyeh melli" on the former Pahlavi boulevard. My sister and I used to fight over who'd get the last loghmeh of rice from the bottom of the pot wrapped in fresh sangak.

I miss going hiking near the karaj dam and eating ghoorooti (a khorasani dish) with wild onions and cold water from a nearby spring.

I miss going ayd didani to all the relatives' homes (I don't miss the homework they used to give us over the no-rooz break!).

I miss going to the parks.

I miss the Caspian sea - collecting rocks near the beach, eating fAloodeh with lemon juice, driving on harAz road through the tunnels, eating fried liver at AbshAreh poloor, seeing those greener than green hills of Mazandaran.

I miss my friends at Madreseye Mehran, I miss our principal Mr. Maafi, my teachers (some of them!), Mr. Barzegar the doorman.

I miss . . .

The Persian term for missing something is truly a wonder: "delam tang shodeh" -- my heart has grown small.

So much of Iranian poetry has to do with unrequited love and for those of us far from our birthplace, those verses take on a different meaning and ring true in a different sense. Like Hafiz says in one of his poems:

** I said: I ache for you, she said: your pain will end
** I said: become my moon, she said: if it comes to pass

** I said: I shall close the road to thoughts of you
** She said: I am a thief - I will find another path

** I said: did you see how the days of joy came to an end
** She said: hush Hafiz, this ache will also end

Someday I hope I can go back and see all those places that I never got a chance to see.

MISSION: Impossible

2005-11-23T07:06:00.000-06:00

This following is a summary of my visa ordeal.

On or about May 18, 2005, I, Saman Ahmadi, went to the Spanish Consulate in Houston and spoke with Official A.

I showed Official A a letter, which stated that I would be doing a six-month internship, funded by the University of Houston, in Barcelona, and inquired about the visa requirements. She said that I needed several things, including a physical exam, a police background letter and a "certificate from the Spanish Labor Authorities" stating that the activity in which I would be engaged was exempt from requiring a work permit.

I told her that I was being paid in the US in dollars. She said that it did not matter. I said I ache for you, she said your pain will end. I said become my moon, she said if it comes to pass. . . Sorry about that, I sort of broke into verses of the great Iranian poet Hafiz, but I've tried to keep my sense of humor in all this, and as you will see, it's been tested up to near its limit.

According to Official A, the law had recently changed and the office that I would be working for in Spain would need to get the exemption form from the Spanish Department of Labor. As Official A explained it, my position was categorized as "Trabajadores en Practica" - something like "Work in Practice".

I sent an email to the office Oscar Tusquets Blanca Arquitecturas stating what the Spanish Consulate required. I also emailed Ms. Trang Phan, at the University of Houston, the director of Study Abroad programs at the College of Architecture. She told me that I did not need a visa and I would just be traveling with my passport as students in previous years had done. However, Ms.Phan forwarded my note to the office in Spain, to another email address that she had for them.

A couple of days passed and I did not hear anything back, so I asked my sister, Susan, who is fluent in Spanish, to call the office the Barcelona and explain what I needed. It is important to note that there is a seven (7) hour time difference between Houston and Barcelona - Barcelona's time being ahead of Houston's. Susan called and was told that they had not heard of this item before, it was not required and my position was more like a student intern rather than "Trabajadores en Practica".

I went to the Spanish Consulate in Houston and explained what the office in Spain had told my sister. Official A told me that Tusquets' office was wrong and gave me copies of the recent law and said that it explained everything and if there were any questions, Tusquets' office could call Official A in Houston. I faxed the copies to Spain.

A couple of more days went by and I did not hear anything. I asked Susan to call Tusquets' office again to see if they had received the fax. Susan called and was told that the pages did not make any sense and if Official A wished, she could call them and explain what needed to be done. I also faxed the pages to my sister and she could not make heads or tails out of it either.

On or about June 3rd, 2005, I went back to Spanish Consulate in Houston and asked if Official A could call Spain and explain what needed to be done. After a few minutes of persuasion, Official A called Tusquets' office and spoke with Ms. Amparo Sayes. Official A also gave Ms. Sayes a number at the Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores - the Ministry of Foreign Affairs - who would be able to explain everything and the procedure that needed to be followed.

A couple of days went by and I did not hear anything back. I asked Susan to call Spain again and see what the Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores had told Ms. Sayes. Ms. Sayes said that the number that she was given was constantly busy and I should try to take care of the matter after I arrived in Spain.

By now, I was getting just a little annoyed . . . July was approaching, my internship was supposed to start, I needed to buy a ticket, if my visa did not work out I had to start looking for a job, etc., etc.

On or about June 8, 2005, I went to the Spanish Consulate in Houston and spoke with Official A. I explained that Ms. Sayes was not able to reach the person at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I asked whether I could enter Spain and then try to resolve the issue there. She asked of my citizenship and I said that I was an American Citizen. Official A said: "With an American passport you can enter Spain without a visa and stay for 90 days. You can then settle the matter there. Good luck."

I bought my ticket and arrived in Barcelona on July 12th - you've already read of my initial reaction of seeing the city, WOW! My friend Aaron met me at the airport. He is also doing an internship here but at another office. He did his final semester in Austria so he applied for his visa from there. However, his visa was not ready by July 12th and he had to go back in two weeks to pick it up in person and then entered the country with the visa in his passport. The Spanish Consulate in Austria granted him a student visa, even though he had the same paper work as I did - remember this point because it will come back toward the end of the indictment.

We looked for an apartment for a couple of days and ended up renting the vacant home of the brother of the wife of one of my cousins in a nearby suburb for a few weeks - my housing adventures in Barcelona are a whole other story to be told later.

I went to work on Monday July 18, 2005. After a few days, I asked Ms. Sayes about the visa issue and she did not know what I needed to do. One of the architects, who is originally from Germany, said that he thought I needed a letter from the office of Tusquets stating the nature of my position, which I could then take to the authorities to obtain the work permit exemption.

They wrote a letter for me, signed by the two principals of the firm, Oscar Tusquets and Carlos Diaz. Now the question became where I needed to go. I thought that I should probably go to the Ministry of Immigration first. I went to the Tourist Information office in Plaça Catalunya - they gave a map and directions.

I got off at the right metro station but took a wrong turn and walked around for about an hour before I found the Ministry of Immigration complete with a long line in front of it. I went to the information table and showed them the letter; the person directed me to the building next door. Even though there was another line there, when I showed the receptionist my letter, she motioned me to bypass the line and go up to the second floor where student visas were handled. As David Burn might say "I thought to myself" this seemed promising.

I entered the waiting area for this office, took a number and sat down. When my number was called, I walked up, and showed the person the letter. He spoke a little English and gave me a photocopy of a map to the "Ministerio de Trabajo y Asuntos Sociales" - the Ministry of Work and Social Affairs. I thought to myself, O.K., "Trabajadores en Practica", "Ministerio de Trabajo" . . . this was good.

I took the metro to the Ministerio and luckily did not take any wrong turns when I got out of the station. I entered the building, showed the receptionist my letter and was told: "ultima puerta", last door. It was about 1:00 PM, or as it is normally notated here 13:00. Government offices are open from 9:00 to about 13:00 or 14:00 daily - keep this point in mind, because it will return toward the end of the indictment. I waited in line for a few minutes, wondering if they would get to me before they closed. I got in and spoke with a lady who knew a bit of English. I showed her my letter and she asked for my passport. She flipped through it and shockingly asked me: "Where is your visa?!" Hmm..., I said, "I was told I needed an exemption from getting a work permit before I can get a visa." She said no, that I needed a visa first. She did not know what I needed to do next but gave me her telephone number anyway for future reference.

The next day I went back to the office and explained what happened. Someone suggested that maybe I should go to the American Consulate and see if they could help me.

It was now the last week in July. As I have mentioned before, all of Spain takes its vacation during the month of August. Our office would be off the first three weeks of the month.

On or about July 28, 2005, I went to the American Consulate in Barcelona. As it turned out, it was not far from my office. But, of course, I made another wrong turn when I got out of the metro station and spent an hour before I found the Consulate - a quite beautiful villa of which one cannot take any pictures. I arrived at the Guard House and slipped my passport under the bullet-proof glass. They let me in and I walked to the main building. There, I gave the short version of the story to a lady at the desk. I also showed her the printed list from the Spanish Consulate in Houston, which indicated that I needed an exemption from getting a work permit. She was very understanding, waited until I finished and told me, "I realize that the list states that you need this exemption but this exemption form probably does not exist." Before I could say, O.K., they are requiring something that does not exist, she said: "That's how the system is set up".

I said that some people have told me that all I need to do is to leave Spain near the end of three months and enter again. She said that that would be illegal. I told her that my friend had to go back to Austria and pick up his visa in person. She said that if and when I got the visa, I would probably have to the same - go back to the US and enter Spain with the visa.

I had been to three different official places, spread all over Barcelona and I was back at square one.

I thought, why not try and search for this "exemption" form on the Internet. It took about fifteen minutes before I found some other university listing instructions on what needed to be done for some kind of visa that required what seemed to be the same kind of exemption. It also included a link to the exemption form - I clicked but the link had expired.

It took a few more minutes and the help of an online Spanish-English dictionary, but I found the live link to the form on the website of the "Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores" - back to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, cool. I tried to read through the one page form. It listed a bunch of categories none of which was "Trabajadores en Practica". But it did look like the right form.

I printed it out and showed it to Ms. Sayes the next day at work, Friday, July 29, 2005 - the last day before August vacation. Ms. Sayes thought it looked liked the right form too, but she also wondered why there was no option for "Trabajadores en Practica".

I called the Spanish Consulate in Houston and tried to talk to Official A. She was busy so I talked to Official B. I wanted to know if this was in fact the correct form so I asked whether I could email it to Official A. Official B said that I could email it but it is their policy not to answer emails because an email does not constitute a legal means of communication. And, by the way, the email address that was listed for them on the website of the Spanish Embassy in the United States was wrong - she gave me the correct address though, bless her heart.

I sent a long email to Official A, explaining what had happened to date and asking whether the attached form was the correct one. I also wrote that I realized she would not respond via email, and therefore asked whether she could send a fax with her response to Tusquets' office since we would be closed for three weeks. I went on vacation thinking that by the time I got back, there would definitely be a response from Official A. I was wrong.

On August 22, 2005, I returned to the office and there was no fax for me. I thought to myself that maybe something was being lost in translation between me and Official A. I emailed the form to Susan and asked her to call and speak with Official A to see if I had found the correct form. My sister also wondered that while the form looked right, why it did not include an option for "Trabajadores en Practica".

Susan either talked to Official B or Official C - in any event, at first she was not allowed to talk to Official A. Finally Official A came online and wondered why I had gone to Spain without a visa?! My sister reminded her that it was Official A that had told me that I could go and resolve the issue in person in Spain. Susan asked if the form was the correct one and Official A said yes. With regards to what option I needed to choose, Official A said, "Check the first option and write in 'Trabajadores en Practica' in parentheses". This reminds me of something: for those of you old enough to have watched M*A*S*H during its first run or caught it in reruns, there is an episode in which the doctors are having a hard time getting an incubator. Finally an official (sound familiar?) from ICORE shows up and tells them that while it seems quite logical for a field hospital to have an incubator, they are not allowed one because it would be a luxury. Protesting that it is not like they are asking for a pizza oven, the official responds that they can have a pizza oven, "Just use the standard requisition form, cross out howitzer and write in 'pizza oven'".

So I had the right form, now the question became to whom do I submit it. While there were some colorful ideas as to where to submit the form (perhaps in triplicate), I remembered that I had the number of the lady at the Ministerio de Trabajo y Asuntos Sociales. I asked Ms. Sayes to see whether someone there knew what I needed to do.

Ms. Sayes called and was told that I needed a visa first before the exemption can be processed. I asked Ms. Sayes if she could call Official A and tell her what the Ministry of Work and Social Affairs said. She called Official A and was told that I needed the exemption first before my visa can be processed.

It was then that I felt the pain that the chicken and the egg must be going through for all these many years.

Official A also told Ms. Sayes that she would fax some papers that would explain everything. A couple of days went by and no fax. Meanwhile, hurricane Katrina was reeking havoc in the in the U.S., especially in New Orleans.

Ms. Sayes called Official A again - she apologized for not faxing the papers, stating that they have been very busy because of "hurricane Katrina". . . one can only imagine how much worse the situation of the folks in New Orleans would have been had it not been for the work of the staff of the Spanish Consulate in Houston - they did a hecuva of job.

Official A again gave the number and name of a person at the Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores who could explain everything. She also assured Ms. Sayes that I could take care of the matter in Spain. Ms. Sayes tried and tried and finally reached the assistant of the person at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and was told that, in fact, for my type of position, I did not need an exemption - I should have been granted a visa in Houston, in May, with the letter that I had from the University of Houston.

I asked Ms. Sayes whether the person at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs could give us something in writing that the Spanish Consulate in Houston would accept as authoritative - no luck.

This back and forth took us through the third week of September. Along the way, I learned the details of the Schengen Treaty - named for a town in Luxemburg where the agreement was originally signed in 1995. Basically some seventeen European nations tried to make it easy for their citizens to travel among these countries without a visa. As part of the treaty, some non-Schengen citizens, like those of the United States, can travel for six months in the Schengen countries without a visa, but can only stay in any one country a cumulative of ninety (90) days within that period - that is, once I arrived in Spain, I could leave and come back to Spain, but the total time in Spain could not exceed 90 days in a six-month period. My 90 days would be up on October 9th.

At this point I gave up and started making plans for returning to America. I wrote Ms. Phan, of the University of Houston, an email stating that I would be coming back - I found out later that the campus had closed in preparation for hurricane Rita.

Ms. Sayes asked whether I could resolve this issue when I got back to the U.S. for the benefit of future students who would be serving as interns in their office. One idea that came to my mind at that moment was that Ms. Sayes could contact the Spanish Embassy in Washington D.C. and ask, in general, what their office needed to do for American student interns - when I had called the Spanish Embassy in D.C. in May, they had refused to talk to me and referred me to the Consulate in Houston.

The person at the Spanish Embassy in Washington D.C., Official D, told Ms. Sayes the same thing as the Ministry of Foreign Affairs - the letter that I had was sufficient and I should have been granted a visa in Houston, in May.

Now, there seemed to be a glimmer of hope - a Spanish official in the U.S. thought I should have gotten a visa.

Meanwhile, hurricane Rita had arrived in Houston. I thought to myself, if Official A was overwhelmed by Katrina and the Waves during its recent tour of Louisiana, she must be completely paralyzed by a storm that actaully hit Houston itself.

I called Susan, yet again, and asked whether she could call the Spanish Consulate in D.C. and see if they would process my visa - by now, I had resigned myself to the fact that I needed to return to the U.S. to the get the visa in person. I thought may be the extenuating circumstances of the hurricane and the fact that Official A was working from her own version of Spanish law, would be sufficient. But no luck - because my residence in the U.S. fell within the jurisdiction of the Spanish Consulate in Houston, there was the only place where a visa could be issued for me.

It was now Thursday, September 29, 2005. I thought, O.K., one more try; I would send Official A a fax, explaining that both the Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores and the Spanish Embassy/Consulate in the D.C. were telling us the same thing - something different than Official A. I also wrote Official A that due to the time difference, the Consulate in Houston and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Spain were never open at the same time. Therefore, I asked whether Official A could call D.C., which would be open when Houston was open, and see why there was a difference of opinion between them.

On Friday, September 30, about 6:00 PM, 18:00, in Barcelona, 11:00 AM in Houston, I called Official A. I asked whether she had received my fax and she said yes. She also told me, "From the first day I told you that you need the exemption and the bottom line is that without it you can not get a visa." I again explained that the office to which Official A referred us at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Spain said something different, and that the Consulate in D.C. agreed with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I told her that my friend got his visa in Austria with the same papers, to which she responded, "The Spanish Consulate in Austria does not have the authority to grant him a visa" and that she had been working at the Consulate for "twenty seven (27) years" and "knew the law". I told Official A, "I have seen the visa in his passport". I said, "Can't you call D.C. since the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is closed now and see what the problem is?" She said, " You call Washington and put us on a three-way call". I said, "Ma'am, I am on a mobile phone and I don't think I have that feature."

Finally she said, "To satisfy my own sense of curiosity, I will call Washington and see why they are giving you the wrong information" - I think I heard a couple pigs squeal as they flew by.

An hour later, I called back. I asked Official A what happened - lo and behold, she said, "Yes, you can get a visa. But you know, it takes four to five weeks to process, so you need to give me all the papers as soon as possible" - at this point, I thought to myself that I needed one those barb wire thigh rings that Dan Brown's character wears in the Da Vinci Code to keep on the straight and narrow path. She began to tell me that I needed to do it in person and how whenever they needed something at the American Consulate, their calls were never returned, etc., etc. - now frustration was showing through my voice and I said that if she wanted I could call the American Consulate for her, in response to which, she hung up - she hung up.

I called her back and said, "Fine, I will come back and apply in person". She said that she was trying to tell me that because of the uniqueness of this situation, I could send her the papers and then pick up the visa in person. She was starting to tell me the list of the things that I needed to send her, when a voice came on the phone and said "Your credit is about to expire" - a few seconds later, my phone went dead.

It was about 7:30 PM now, but I was not worried. There was a Vodofone store - whose mobile service I have - along Diagonal, the major boulevard that was about a ten minute walk from the office, close to my metro station. I knew that they were open until 20:30, 8:30 PM, because I was there the other day when they had just closed.

I walked down the hill - those of you who know me, know that my normal walking speed is actually rather quick and I have been told quite a few times to "slow down" while walking with others around the world from Haifa, Israel to Berlin, Germany to College Station, Texas.

I got to the store and there was sign on the door in Catalan that I did not understand but one that had the time 16:30 on it - for some reason, they had closed at 4:30 PM.

That's O.K. I walked next door to El Corte Engles - an upscale Walmart that has everything from groceries to high-end bathroom fixtures, plus vacation packages. I bought some credit for my phone and rushed outside to get a better signal.

By the way, the Spanish Consulate in Houston is also only open from 9:00 AM to 1:00 PM - that is, they close at 8:00 PM Barcelona time.

I called and luckily Official A was still in the office. She told me all the items I needed to send her: four photographs, check; medical report, check; police background report, check; the exemption form . . . I told her, "Isn't this the form for which I need a visa first?" Official A said, "Yes, when you were here in May, it was processed in Spain, now we process it here." As they say in Persian, I let that one pass under my mustache as well.

Official A also said that I needed to send her a notarized copy of my passport. I asked, "Where do I get that?" and she said she did not know - that seemed like a minor inconvenience though. On Monday, October 3rd, 2005, I called the American Consulate and luckily they could provide a notarized copy of my passport, for ¤25.00 - about $30.00.

I got all the papers together and sent them via UPS Express Mail to the Spanish Consulate in Houston on Tuesday, October 4, 2005 - a day that shall live in infamy. It was received in on October 6, 2005. I arrived back in the U.S. on October 8, 2005. My visa was ready on October 31, 2005 - some five and a half months after my first visit to the Spanish Consulate in Houston in order to get a visa for a six-month internship. I picked it up from Official A on Friday, November 4, 2005, with not even a hint of an apology.

In the end I was granted a student visa valid for six months. I came back to Barcelona on November 8, 2005.

The funniest thing is what I found out only a couple of days ago: the Washington Post's Bob Woodward knew exactly what I needed to do back in May but kept quite - it'd better be some book.

Episode Two

2005-11-08T12:28:00.000-06:00

I made it back to Barcelona - this time with visa in hand.

It's a balmy 66 degrees at 8:00 PM on a Tuesday night. More to come soon on the visa, etc.

I'm coming back but I'm coming back

2005-09-30T13:27:00.000-05:00

Well, it's a very, very long story with almost as many twists and turns as Pulp Fiction, but because of an issue with my visa, I will be coming back to Houston in mid-October for a couple of weeks and then hopefully return to Barcelona until the end of the year.

I'll explain what has happened later - it has taken more than five months to resolve. I have learned a lot about the Schengen Treaty, various ministeries in Spain, work permits and exemption from work permits as well visiting the American Consulate in Barcelona.

Chaos - theory and practice

2005-09-06T13:31:00.000-05:00

When I was a student at Texas A&M, I was fortunate to see a lecture by MIT Meteorologist Dr. Edward Lorenz, an early pioneer of Chaos Theory. From what I remember, the basic idea of the theory is that while some phenomena are random, there are limits to their randomness. However, knowing the limits does not help one in making an accurate prediction of certain systems beyond a particular point. In the case of Meteorology, the limit is somewhere around fourteen days, after which, as one example goes, the flight of a butterfly in South America may affect the weather patterns of the United States.

Given this fourteen-day window, in recent years much work has gone into developing better measurement equipment, like Doppler Radar, and more reliable numerical models to help forecasters warn of inclement conditions as soon as possible. With regard to hurricanes, Meteorologists have a pretty good idea of the probable strength and path of a system, especially as the time of its contact with shore nears.

I’ve been reading with horror of the events in New Orleans and elsewhere in Katrina’s path. Given the fact that everyone knew that Katrina was coming, it is mind-boggling that no reasonable plan was put in place for evacuation of the potential affected areas.

Two additional facts: one, with regard to New Orleans, the city is built, in most parts, below sea level. Any tourist who has passed through the city knows that, as soon as he wonders out loud why they “bury” their dead above ground. Therefore, it is mind-boggling that some are surprised that when a hurricane comes through, there would be flooding – water does not flow upstream.

And two, certain things in the field of Civil Engineering are pretty well understood – how levees work and fail and what happens to a watershed given a particular inflow hydrograph is not a matter of dispute. Since everyone in a position of authority should have known the sinking condition of what was protecting – or rather not protecting – New Orleans, it is mind-boggling that there is shock at what is happening.

What was needed was a swift response – one not unlike the reaction of the FCC Chairman to the exposure of Janet Jackson’s breast during the nationally televised 2004 Super Bowl halftime show.

From a distance, the situation is in utter chaos and here I doubt that there are any limits to its randomness.

Donations to Katrina’s victims can be made through the American Red Cross. Also, there is an excellent article by New York Times' Jason DeParle on the tragic consequences of the divides along race and class.

¿De dónde eres?

2005-09-06T08:02:00.000-05:00

Where are you from? I’m from Texas. However, as Texans know, you should never ask anyone where he’s from – if he is from Texas, he will tell you without being asked and if he’s not from Texas, well . . . you’ll just make him feel bad.

I am an American born in Iran. That makes me an Iranian-American, I suppose. Though I’m neither and both at the same time. I realize that that sounds crazy but I think folks who emigrated as children (I was eleven) may identify with my quandary. I was just beginning to understand the world – the fact that there was a life beyond riding my bicycle, playing soccer, building mud ovens with my cousins Arash and Afshin at my uncle Siavash’s weekend garden, hiking the foothills of the Alborz range with my father and drinking Tehran’s cold snow-melted water from a spring that he and his cousin, Rabee, had found, or savoring my mom’s mouth-watering ghormeh sabzi, when . . . a Revolution happened. We left Iran for Houston, Texas, USA.

Once we got there, I joined the 5th grade class of Mrs. Dolahan at Horn Elementary, in Bellaire, Texas. The class was studying the metric system to which the United States would transition in a few years – that was 1978. My problem; I lost whatever sense I had of the metric system and have never gotten comfortable with the Imperial Units, even though I was named after a king – the progenitor of the Samanian Dynasty, the Rodney Dangerfield of Iranian dynasties, notwithstanding the fact that Ferdowsi, author of the great epic poem the Shahnameh/Chronicle of the Kings, was its court’s poet. If you look up Sassanian, there is whole bunch of stuff on them but try Samanian and . . . I’m digressing.

My point is that I never really understood what it meant to be Iranian – a rich culture of unwritten rules, great historical achievements and incredible food, but tinged with a propensity for reveling in melancholy. And I still don’t completely understand America – a young nation of laws, where one can do anything and must do it absolutely, positively over-night, yet whose ethos is not tempered by the lessons of history.

I know for a fact, however, that to begin to understand America, one has to know the game of baseball – it has everything; dreams (the wish of every kid to be a baseball player, including George Will who is a failed second baseman, and George Bush who is a failed first baseman – the father, not the son – W owned the Texas Rangers for awhile though), corruption (the Black Socks), bigotry to integration (from Satchel Page to Brooks Robinson), heartbreaking defeat (Bill Bucker let the ball go through his legs?!), amazing victories (Kirk Gibson hobbles to the plate and hits a walk-off homer, Outta Here!), hot dogs and apple pie (now both, as well as the tickets, way overpriced), the curse (of the Bambino), the curse excised (by a “rag tag”? group of overpaid millionaires), the underdog (Cubs – Holy Cow! Don’t touch the ball while it’s still in play!), denial (Congressman, I have never taken steroids, and, by the way, I also don’t think that nicotine is addictive), riots (the phoenix Washington Senators to Nationals – better tie that turf down tightly), over-commercialization (the Seventh Inning Stretch is being brought to you by Gallery Furniture), a mine for American idioms (he balked, from left field, three strikes and you’re out, etc.), movies (“if you build it, they will come”), volumes of statistics, a mountain of rules, the fact that sometimes life is a game of inches and it ain’t over till it’s over. . . I’m digressing again, I know.

So where am I from? From what I hear, I could be from several different places; the Spaniards think I look Spanish, Italians think I look Italian, my friend Shahram told me that while he and his wife Jean where in France, they saw “a hundred guys that looked just like you”. My sister tells me that when I was born, I was so dark that no one could believe it and then I suddenly turned so white that no one could believe that either. In Iran they used to tell me I looked German – may be that’s why when I was a very young boy I was quite fond of the West German Premier at the time, Willy Brandt. I think I must have just liked saying his name, but as fate would have it, he turned out to be a reasoned statesman as well. I hope the producers of the next installment of the “Bourne Identity” are taking this down – I’d be perfect. Somebody told me that I look a little like Jeff Goldbloom – I’m not sure if he would be flattered if he hears that. I personally wouldn’t mind being compared to Jean Reno, “the Professional” – although I would be a shorter, slimmer version. He is a great quirky character actor and has a great nose.

As for being from Texas; I was late for a Spanish class field trip to the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya and ended up going there with three Canadian ladies who were also late. They said I couldn’t be from Texas because I have the wrong accent . . . awh shocks.

I guess my best answer is: confundido, I’m confused.

The Firm

2005-09-01T15:25:00.000-05:00

I’m doing my internship at the firm of Oscar Tusquets Blanca. The office is located on the hills in the northwest part of city, where most of the development seems to be from the 1970’s and later. There are some older structures however – a large piece of land, now a park, owned by Antoni Gaudi’s most prominent (and wealthy) patron, Count Eusebi Guell, was donated by the latter to the University of Catalunya. It includes a pavilion designed by Gaudi with its famous “dragon” gate. There is also a large monastery further up on the hill.

I finally know the city, bus, metro and tram routes well enough to walk less, especially in circles – in fact now that I go back to a few places, I realize the enormity of the circles that I had traversed. I found that I can take one bus from close to where I live now and get dropped off a couple of blocks from work.

The office’s layout is, ironically, similar in part to that of the University of Houston’s College of Architecture. One enters the front half of the building, off axis, up a set of stairs and into the first floor. There is a small foyer that ends at the reception desk. Several large tables, that serve as the space for making models, occupy a double-height atrium in the center of the building. Around this space are niches used by the various architects, two of which serve as conference areas. The second floor is laid out in the same manner, overlooks the atrium, and includes the offices of Tusquets and his partner in the firm, Carlos Diaz. There are some additional offices, as well as a kitchen and dinning area, in two basement levels. The whole space is lit naturally, with task lighting used as needed.

Office hours are from 10:00 AM to 2:00 PM, followed by a two-hour lunch and then from 4:00 PM to 8:00 PM. Some folks come in a bit earlier, while others take a shorter lunch, therefore leaving earlier. These hours are the norm for all of Spain. Dinner is quite late, usually after 10:00 PM. It’s taken me some time to adjust to eating a meal so late on a regular basis; though going through architecture school was good training.

Oscar Tusquets was trained as an architect and spent many years focused on industrial design. He now does both as well as run a small publishing company and an architectural foundation, all from this location. The residence of his family constitutes the other half of the building. Completed in 1992, he has named the entire complex Villa Andrea, after his adopted daughter.

His industrial designs can be found around Barcelona and elsewhere. He has designed kitchen-ware (manufactured by Alessi), china, various chairs as well as bus and train station lounge benches, to name a few. My favorite is a chair that he designed in honor of Gaudi.

Since 2001, Tusquets’ foundation has recognized several projects with a “10 Year Award” – each year one critic (including Robert Venturi and Cesar Pelli in the past) chooses a few projects in Barcelona for achievement ten years after completion – a measure of success of the work, and how it relates to the city, over time.

Tusquets, who is in his early 60’s, defines himself as a “Post-Modernist” – though, in my view, his definition is a bit different than what we see as Post-Modern architecture in the US. Borrowing Roman forms for buildings in the former Roman territory of Spain is different that using the same forms in Houston, for example. I personally don’t think that he is a Post-Modernist regardless of definition. If I were to categorize his work, I would say that he is a Spanish Expressionist. I don’t know if such a classification exists, but from what I see it is rooted in Gaudi, of whom Tusquets is quite fond. In Spain, the architecture of Gaudi’s time, in the early 20th century – usually referred to as Art Nouveau – is called Modernista; there is a walking tour marked by special pavers in the sidewalks that takes one along the major buildings of the movement. Modernista involves a great amount of decoration with organic elements in different materials – be it wrought iron, ceramics, stone or wood. Antoni Gaudi is the most famous architect associated with this style and he is distinct in that the forms of his structures are organic as well – more on him in an upcoming article.

Tusquets’ best known work in Barcelona, as far I as know so far, is an addition to the famous Palau de la Musica Catalana, a 1905-1908 Modernista structure designed by Lluis Domenech Montaner. Here, Tusquets stays within the same reddish clay color palett of the original building – and all of Barcelona for that matter – along with glass and steel for a new entry, restaurant and additional space for the existing program. The 2001 extension is quite reserved when compared to Montaner’s work, with a rather beautiful curved façade with an organic form carved out of the brick.

The people in the office are quite nice and are helping me along with my as yet broken Spanish. By my count there are twenty-four people in building – most speak a bit of English with a few completely fluent. At the moment, I am building two physical models: one is of a 1920’s University structure, for which the firm is entering a competition to remodel two of its wings and its centerpiece entrance into a convention center. The other is a vacation house near the sea that is in the construction permitting stage. I’ll put up some photos of the finished models in a few weeks.

You can see some examples of the firm's work on its website, www.tusquets.com, and from my images under the link “Beautiful Barcelona”. This collection of photos got randomized when I posted them – if I have the time, I’ll put some captions and reorder them so they can be better understood.

Houston, We have a Problem

2005-08-17T10:08:00.000-05:00

I just got back from a nine-day excursion through Spain with a brief visit to Morocco. It was a wonderful trip and I will write in more detail about the cities that we visited in a few days. Aaron and I left Barcelona on a night train to Madrid. We then went to Segovia, Cordoba, Granada, Algeciras, Tarifa, Tangers and Seville. We also stopped in Cadiz to transfer from a bus to a train; by the standard that my friend Richarch Buxbaum and I established last year – stepping off of the station constituting a visit – Cadiz counts and therefore we went to nine cities. We had to go back through Madrid to Barcelona, because there were no tickets left for a direct return from Seville. August means vacation for all Spaniards and every mode of transportation is quite busy.

On the last night train from Madrid to Barcelona, I met some young Englishmen who were traveling through Europe for a month. I mentioned that I was from Houston. The one from Essex (a suburb of London) said, “Oh yah, I’ve read some things about Houston – it’s a fattest city in the world!”

I had to smile and nod in agreement. They did observe, however, that I personally seemed to be doing all I could to pull the weight average toward a more reasonable number – a task for which I expect to be justly compensated by the Houston Chamber of Commerce or the Office of Tourism (if the latter entity actually exists) upon my return.

It’s no wonder that we were not chosen by the US Olympic Committee as a candidate for the 2012 Olympics, even though they admitted that we have the best sports facilities of any of the cities in contention.

It’s made me think about the relationship between architecture, urban planning and public health. Earlier, when I was writing about Barcelona, I commented on the amount of space dedicated for pedestrians in a climate that is not unlike Houston’s.

Having said that, just more sidewalks is not the answer. As my friend Kamran Mouzoon, also an architect, observes, Houston lacks “places”. There are no, or very little, public “places” – places where one can go for free and simply enjoy the space. It’s the existence of those “places” that makes people walk from one to the other. In Rome, one walks from one plaza to the next, from one monument to the next, from one “event” to the next and so on. The same holds for many cities in Europe, including, of course, Barcelona. What Houston does have are some beautiful skyscrapers, which, unfortunately, are not accessible to the public due to security reasons – quite a shame in my view. One Saturday last Spring, we couldn’t get into the lobby of Houston's Penzoil Place, perhaps Philip Johnson’s greatest Modern masterpiece, even though we were accompanied by Dr. Joe Colaco, the engineer who designed its structure!

Along those walks in Barcelona and elsewhere, there are shops, restaurants, etc. These walks also allow for pleasant exercise – from my, albeit limited, experience traveling in Europe, one hardly sees any morbidly obese people; unfortunately the folks who are overweight are more likely than not American tourists.

So what to do in Houston, which lacks several-hundred-old monuments and ruins? To start, my suggestion is to put more parks in downtown. I am working on an idea that I hope to develop into an article for submission to Cite Magazine (a Houston-based Architecture and Design publication). Basically, I would turn many of the parking lots in downtown into parks – a scheme not unlike Bernard Tschumi’s Parc de la Villette in Paris. Here, the “follies” would be the 250 feet by 250 feet city blocks. Once the sites are selected, there would be an international competition where only one lot would be granted to any particular architect. Of course this would mean that the public transportation system would have to be developed to a degree whereby there would be less need for parking in downtown.

Clearly an active downtown needs more than parks. My cousin, Hormoz Bastani, who has been an architect for more than thirty years and lived in Houston for almost the same time, thinks that schools are the key. As long as families don’t live in downtown, he thinks that there will be no “life”. The thesis of one of my classmates at the University of Houston, Aldolfo, was a scheme for a downtown elementary school on a 250 feet by 250 feet block, in accordance with the standards of the Houston Independent School District – proving that it can be done.

More suggestions for Houston: stop tearing down what have become historic buildings, like the old CRS headquarters, even if it means finding another location for the Toyota Center (too late now), and for the love of God, stop building “Renaissance” skyscrapers like the new Civil Court Building. But I digress . . .

A series of interesting parks would make living in, and visiting, downtown – an effort that has started and is being encouraged by the City – healthier and more pleasant. The shops, restaurants, clubs, etc. will naturally follow.

Fish out of Water

2005-07-31T07:29:00.000-05:00

I've been able to see some of the interesting architecture of Barcelona so far. For the 1992 Olympics, the area along the beach went through an extensive development. One piece was a fish sculpture by American architect Frank Gehry - he is known for his "blob" buildings, with the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain being his most famous.

The sculpture looks great from a distance. However when one gets underneath it, it's quite disappointing. It is a shading structure over the plaza of a shopping center. The frame that holds the fish is a very rational space frame - a system of trusses in three dimensions. The fish, on the other hand, is an undulating brass(?) lattice through which light filters. The structure and fish are at complete odds with each other.

Compare the fish to Antoni Gaudi's La Pedrera (Stone Quarry). Built in the early part of the 20th century, it is an apartment building sculpted out of stone (hence the name). While I have not been to many places, the attic of the building is probably the most incredible space that I have seen. The best way I can describe it is being in the belly of a dinosaur - he uses numerous catenary arches (almost parabolic) made from thin bricks to create an undulating form that is understood from within the space. This form in turn creates a spectacular roof top terrace that is even harder to describe. Once I figure out how to put pictures on the weblog, I'll post some. Gaudi has many projects in Barcelona and I'll try to write more about him later after visiting some those places.

One could also compare the Gehry's fish to the Mercat de Santa Caterina by Enric Miralles and Bernedeta Tagliabue (at whose firm my friend Aaron is doing his internship). Completed in 2005, here the undulating form of the roof is supported by a complicated system of concrete columns, curving steel trusses, steel cables and glue-laminated arches. Again the form is felt from the underside as well as being visible from the top. The roof of the market is clad with hexagonal ceramic tiles in a pixilated pattern of an image of a fruit table - it can be seen from the various six- or so storey surrounding buildings.

I'm planning to go to Bilbao to see Gehry's museum - I hope it fairs better than his fish.

Sidewalks

2005-07-27T07:42:00.000-05:00

Barcelona is on the coast of the Mediterranean and extends away from the shore on gently rolling hills that turn into small green mountains further out. The city dates back to the 3rd century BC and was conquered by the Romans in 218 BC and is located in the area known as Catalan. It has quite a rich history but I will skip to the 20th century.

After the Spanish civil war of the 1930’s, the Fascist forces of Franco took over the area and began a campaign of repression, which included banning the Catalan language. Catalan is a cross between Spanish and French but sounds like neither – to my ear it sometimes sounds like Russian.

In 1975, Franco died though not before reinstituting the monarchy and selecting Juan Carlos as king. To everyone’s surprise King Carlos began the process of democratizing the country and gave Catalan autonomy. Since then, there has been a revival in the language and arts of the region’s people.

Today, Catalan is first language when it comes to signs, train announcements, etc. I’ve picked up a few words so far: buenos dias is bon dia in Catalan. Exit/Salida is Sortida – I figured this one out on my own. Those of you familiar with my 45-minute pursuit for an exit in the Paris subway may remember that I learned that Sortie meant exit. Sortida is almost a perfect average of Sortie and Salida.

The first thing that I noticed in Barcelona was the width of the streets and the sidewalks. The old town is just like any medieval city with a rambling set of alleys – here however, unlike Rome, the alleys are wider. The orthogonal grid that came later maintained this “wide” flavor. The new city grid is characterized by chamfered corners that result in octagonal blocks – this creates a sort of meeting point at every corner, which is usually taken up by a sidewalk restaurant.

The major happening street is La Rambla – it’s a boulevard with the middle section, which is normally a green space, turned into about a 50-foot wide pedestrian mall. I have seen this type “boulevard” in other parts of town as well. There is one lane of traffic on either side followed by another set of sidewalks. Basically the focus is walking. It’s interesting to see so much space in the city dedicated to the public. One reason may be Spain’s socialist thinking but however they came up with the idea, it works. It’s something that Houston definitely lacks, even though temperature and humidity wise, Barcelona is not that different.

Along La Rambla you can find every sort of entertainment. From street non-performers – dressed up characters holding a pose for hours – to part-time street performers – who will wiggle a little when someone puts a coin in their cups – to outright performers who juggle, perform magic, do acrobatics and con you with the shell game. There are also restaurants, street vendors and whole hell of a lot of tourists. La Rambla connects Placa Catalunya, the city city’s main roundabout, to the beach – one passes three Metro stops from one end to the other. The great Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca (who was killed in during the civil war and was portrayed badly by Andy Garcia in a forgettable movie called “The Disappearance of Garcia Lorca, which I paid regular price to see some years ago) has written that La Rambla is only street in the world that should not end – and there are times when one thinks that it will never end.

My Father

2005-07-21T05:53:00.000-05:00

Baba passed away last August. The flight to Europe was the first time in a long time that I had nothing do for hours - the weight of his void hit me. I’ll always wonder if he knew that I knew of all the things he did for me. I want to think that somehow he’s aware that I am doing something that makes me happy.

Late in the Fall of 2004, the night before I found out that I would go to Spain, I had a quite a surreal dream; I was ironing some clothes when I heard a door knock. I opened the door and there was my father dressed in a dark blue shirt and dark blue pants. He stood at the door in what seemed to be a flood of white light. He had white wings on his back and gave me the biggest hug that I ever got from him in real life. He then told me to shave my beard. That's when I woke up. Whether it was just my random thoughts or some kind of connection to his spirit, it was an awesome encounter.

I found out a few days later that my sister, Susan, also had a dream where our father embraced her tightly.

Susan and her husband, Ben, put together a slide show for his memorial service. I wrote the following for the funeral, which I’ve edited slightly for content and style since then.

______________

Hesameddin Ahmadi Nameghi, but some of you know him as Sam.

And if you knew him more than five minutes, he would tell you the whole story behind his name.

On behalf of the Ahmadi, Khazei, Hansen, Ghadami, Bastani, Maani and Vijjeh families, I would like to thank you for being here.

Today [August 15, 2004] we mark the first day of the rest of the journey of a soul that came into being in 1926. A journey of a boy born in the village of Namagh, in the northeastern Iranian province of Khorasan, that would end his earthly life in the city of College Station in the heart of Texas. A life of a boy who grew up playing only with a two-headed pencil but would live to see the wonders of the internet. A story of a man who constantly adapted and left his mark on the hearts of those who came to know him.

The youngest of seven children, Hesam Ahmadi was heir to the legacy of his great maternal grandfather, Mulla Ahmad-i-Hisari, known to Baha'i history as Jinab-i-Muallim, a teacher of Mulla Husayn-i-Bushrui, and among the early believers of the Herald-Prophet, the Bab. My father was proud to be a Baha'i and used every chance to tell people about the richness of the Faith of Baha'u'llah – by word and by deed.

His mother was Bibi Dorri and his father Shokrollah Bayk, the elder of the village. Both Baha'is, their family suffered from religious persecution. Soon after my father was born, his mother was shot and was unable to breast-feed him. Some years later, his older brother, Ziauddin, was killed because of his Faith – my father became the godfather of his nephews Mehbrab and the as yet unborn Sohrab.

My father spent his early years in Namagh. Later, his father sent him to Kashmar, then Torbat Heidariyeh and finally to Mashhad to complete his primary and secondary education. Every town spoke a different dialect of Persian and my father always reminisced about how, from an early age to recent years, he had to adjust to new surroundings and new languages.

From Mashhad my father moved to the capital and entered the University of Teheran, where he earned his Masters Degree in Civil Engineering. His first job was with Point Four, an American/Iranian consortium created under the Marshall Plan for the development of the country after the Second World War. He moved to Tabriz, a city in northwest Iran, and worked on public building projects. Here, he learned Turkish – he always wanted to make friends with the local people of where he lived and be able to talk to them in their own language.

He came to the United States in the early 1950's on a six-month government program to tour engineering projects and always wanted to return someday.

In Iran he settled in Teheran. He began a career as an appraiser in the Rahni Bank of Iran and rose to the head the division in the 1970's. Throughout his life, he served in many capacities in the Baha'i community, including as a teacher of children and youth – an honor he cherished and practiced in College Station as well. The Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of Teheran appointed him to serve on one of twelve committees that was responsible for specific administrative tasks of the Baha'i community in the city.

In 1961 he married Golrokh Khazei and they had two children, Susan and Saman. I will always cherish the stories that he would create for us as children; the never ending adventures of Jiki, Piki and Liki – three brothers with different tastes, one who loved everything big, one who loved everything small and one living happily in the middle – a life lesson for us all. Susan married Ben Hansen in 1981 and they have four children, Miranda, Saffa, Niku and Kent.

In 1977, my parents decided to immigrate to the United States. In November of 1978, during the beginning of the turmoil that would lead to the Iranian revolution, we left Iran and moved to Houston, where my cousin Hormoz Bastani lived. My father stayed with us for a short time and returned to Iran to finalize his retirement and attend to their finances. During the early days of the revolution, he was offered the position of Chief Executive of his bank due to his reputation as an honest and fair man – throughout his life he took Baha'u'llah's worlds of "justice" being "the best-beloved of all things in [God's] sight" to heart. However, my father knew that individuals would exploit the religion of Islam for their selfish desires and that the tide would turn to fundamentalism. He secured his retirement and qualified for his pension, although the government of Iran never honored her promise.

During the early 1980's, the persecution of Baha'is by the government of Iran turned from bad to worse. The government had begun arresting members of the National and Local Spiritual Assemblies. Some of my fathers's relatives, including, my maternal uncle, Manuchihr Khazei, who served on the Tabriz Spiritual Assembly, and many of my father's friends were arrested for being Baha'is. Later, imprisonment for many, including for my uncle, ended in execution.

We moved to College Station in 1980. My father became a real estate agent and then a broker, and worked in the same field until his death. He served on the Spiritual Assembly of the Baha’is of College Station for fifteen years and as its treasurer for more than a decade.

Once in the US, he had to speak another language. While my father knew some English, he began an endless process of learning – even in his last days he was rereading a book by Al Frankin, having looked up and written down the definition of its unfamiliar words during his first read.

This brings us to one his loves, that of comedy. Everyone knows my father's sense of humor. In the last few years, he had performed at Baha'i conferences and summer schools: he saw humor in his experience as an immigrant, in his battles with various companies and in the simple things of everyday life.

He loved fruit. His home province of Khorasan produced the best fruits in Iran - a fact that my father would defend against anyone claiming otherwise, especially those from Esfehan. And he is famous for picking the best fruit – even if it meant rearranging an entire grocery store's watermelon display to find the sweetest one, which usually lay at the bottom of the pyramid.

He loved backgammon and saw the game as an analogue of life – a mixture of fate and skill. He had almost completed writing a book on the philosophy behind the game.

He also loved to dance and, thankfully, God granted his wish to perform a folk dance from Khorasan with the light of my parent’s eyes, their grandchildren, this past No-ruz in Austin.

He was a great husband, father and grandfather. He never stopped. He was always optimistic. Though he, like most, had losses in his life, he never became cynical. He was in the process of organizing an extended travel throughout the US to proclaim the Faith of Baha'u'llah and was waiting for a response from the Regional Baha'i Council as to where he could be of service, when God called. His earthly life ended on the morning of August 14, 2004 with our mother, Goli, at his bedside.

Now, he has to speak yet another language, but one in which he is already fluent.

I want to end by sharing one of his poems. In the mid 1980's he had an angioplasty and his insurance carrier began increasing his premium with the ultimate intent of forcing my father to cancel his policy. Years later, in 1995, the same carrier sent him a solicitation letter asking for his business. True to his form, my father served them a piece of comic, poetic justice:

I had before this policy
you sold that with courtesy

Writing to me with a Dear
raising the fee in every year

As long as my health was O.K.
you were O.K., nothing to say

Suddenly I got some disease
you raised almost all the fees

Raised again, raised again
I lost, but you got the gain

Last raise came out as a shot
I terminated the contract

You ate before my flesh
my bones no longer fresh

Hated blue, hated cross
hated the shield with a plus

Barcelona

2005-07-13T13:44:00.000-05:00

"le me esplain . . . no time, le me sum up": WOW!

ciao

Saman Begins

2005-07-11T13:00:00.000-05:00

This is my first attempt at the phenomenon of web-logging. In the event that someone reads this, I would appreciate a short email to that effect.

To start, a few words about me: I did not have a tragic childhood and have contended myself to study criminal behavior through books, mass media and briefly working for Zhone Technologies, rather than traveling to the Far East. I've never met Katie Holmes so I don't think she can say that Tom Cruise is the "most amazing man in the world" . . . I don't wear a cape and my friends refer to my car as the Yellow School Bus or, more affectionately, as the "shole zard mobile" (the yellow Persian rice pudding mobile).

I've just finished my degree in Architecture and will go to Barcelona, Spain today for a six-month internship - I've never been there, but it sounds like a fascinating place.

The name of my web-log (or is it weblog?) should be obvious to the fans of "samad" movies. Parviz Sayyad, the great Iranian comedic actor, created the character of "samad" (the "a's" are pronounced just like the ones in Batman). Samad was a not-so-simple country boy whose adventures made for funny stories. One of the characters in the series was "aynollah bagherzadah" - he liked to be called by his last name, "bagherzadah". Aynollah was sent by his father - the village's mayor - to the City to make something of himself. When he returned (not having made anything of himself), regardless of the situation, aynollah would begin his contribution by saying "in the City, some suggestions were made to me . . . ".