The Blackberry finally claims me as a victim

I’ve done my fair share of travel, most of which came while I hopped from city to city as a management consultant. It was really exciting at first, with the wonder of new places, different time zones, and new friends always promising to make each trip unique. But eventually the flight delays, cramped seats, and horrible airport food became annoyances that I could no longer ignore. Out of all these nuisances, perhaps nothing galled me more than the loud executive on his cell phone.

Keep in mind that this was still back in the day (i.e., late 1990’s) as far as mobile phones were concerned. They were still these ugly, hulking beasts, that weighed 5 pounds, ran on satellite systems, and were owned by a only a few self-important people. And I hated watching these “important” individuals pace around the terminal, obviously showing off the fact that they had a cell phone, and yelling things like, “YEAH HONEY … CAN YOU HEAR ME? YES, I’M CALLING YOU FROM THE AIRPORT ON MY CELL PHONE. YES, MY CELL PHONE. NO, I’M NOT IN THE OFFICE. NO, I’M AT THE AIRPORT. I CAN MAKE CALLS FROM ANYWHERE WITH MY CELL PHONE, AND I’M DOING SO FROM THE AIRPORT. NO HONEY IT’S NOT MAGIC. LISTEN, DO YOU WANT ME TO PICK UP ANY MILK ON MY WAY HOME?”

So I promised myself that I would never be like these idiots, and that I didn’t even need a cell phone. Well, that didn’t get me far, because before I knew it cell phones were everywhere, and my friends were making it a sport to mock me as a luddite. I never understood why a home and work number were not enough – why did I have to be reachable while I was grocery shopping, or at the gym? Still, I eventually caved and bought a clunker of a cell phone. You know, the one that resembled a brick, and which could definitely not be carried in your trouser pocket, unless you wanted to send the wrong message. I held on to my first cell phone for so long that Sprint sales reps would marvel at it whenever I would take it in for servicing at a store. They'd have to dig around for an old timer who remembered how these clunkers worked.

So it should come as no surprise that I swore I would never get a “smartphone”. I would never become slave to a Blackberry, jumping at every ring/ding/vibration to check who just texted me, or what email I just received. I promised that I would reject any offer from my employer to foist one of these devices on me, because I would inevitably just be tying myself down to work. But alas I failed in my quest to keep this promise as well. With this new position in San Fran comes the mandatory requirement to carry around a Blackberry, and I find myself slowly being seduced by this device. But I don’t want to! I don’t want to repeatedly look for a blinking light to see if I have a message, I don’t want to scroll through easily-accessed web pages, and I don’t want to tap out messages on the surprisingly comfortable keypad. Argh, corporate America, why must you turn me into a drone!

The Bay Area - home of the Desi

Ah yes - the adventure continues, but the location changes (as per the title of this blog).

We've been in the Bay Area for a few days now, and already there are a few things that are going to take some time to adjust to. Specifically, this place is teeming with desis. We and our Asian brethren rule Silicon Valley.

One example that made this fact hit home - our rental car. The moment Saeeda got in, she remarked at how it smelled "desi." Now I'll admit, there are times when South Asians eschew the use of deodorant, and instead engage in some sort of macabre contest to see how quickly their body odor can burn through a bystander's olfactory nerves and cause their eyes to tear up. But still, it was unfair of Saeeda to blame the slight whiff of BO to a desi - it really could have been anyone who had used the car previously.

But she was proven right, because the moment I turned on the radio I heard a really old Bollywood movie song come blaring out of the car's tinny speakers. On the AM band no less. Only a desi would preset a rental car's radio station to an AM channel playing ethnic music.

It also turned out that the channel was promoting some sort of "Friendship Day", when friends the world over were supposed to profess their love for each other by calling in with "friendship stories". And desis from across the Bay Area were obliging. One caller wanted to send a shoutout to his friend who was always playing pranks on him, like shoving him out of a whitewater raft while navigating a Class 5 rapid. Ha ha, how funny. This caller loved his friend very much and wanted to dedicate, randomly, a song from a 1950s movie called "Laila Majnoo" (the desi equivalent of Romeo and Juliet).

I'm going to like living here. I'm a FOB (Fresh Off the Boat) at heart, and Saeeda has worked hard over the years to eliminate all traces of my fobbiness. But I see my brothers everywhere - in malls, on the roads, in every office. It's only a matter of time before I start wearing sandals and skinny jeans (they're fashionable again) and eating some good, spicy, ethnic food on a daily basis. Oh, and dancing to Bollywood songs in my car.

Yes, I'm going to like living here very much.

Thank you for the memories Chicago

I'm sitting in my living room, with movers milling around, boxing up our belongings. I'm amazed at how much stuff we've managed to accumulate over our four years here, especially since we live in a two bedroom apartment where space has always been at a premium. I'm also surprised at how sad I am as I see my apartment get emptier by the minute. Perhaps it's the depressing white of the walls as they slowly reveal themselves, or perhaps it's the echo of my voice as it bounces around empty rooms.

A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with my friend Savyon, in which I was expressing frustration at having to start all over again in a new place. Savyon, who is not from the US, remarked at how this nomadic existence was such a quintessentially American experience. In this country individuals are solitary beings with loose ties to community and family, always in search of their fortune. By its very nature, this search constantly takes these residents to new geographies.

On the other hand, in places like the Middle East and Asia (home for me and Savyon), centuries old culture places different demands on an individual, who is never solitary but instead a part of a much larger social whole. Here, familial and cultural ties inhibit movement, and cause entire generations to live out their lives in spacial stasis.

I do not know which is better. Personally, I've lived a nomadic existence, never having spent more than seven years in any one place. But despite the emotional wrenching that occurs with every move, I know that I've found personal enrichment with each new home. And trust me, leaving Chicago has come with its own emotional costs.

After all, this is where my wife and I fell in love with an unparalleled lakefront lapping at the feet of stunning skyscrapers. This is where the midwestern winter made a man out of me. This is where my daughter first opened her eyes. This is also where I was taken kicking and screaming through a master's education at the University of Chicago, to emerge on the other side someone more appreciative of the workings of the world. This is where I watched my nephews born and grow up. This is where I watched Obama stand a field away from me, breaking historic barriers with his accomplishments. This is where I shook Blagoevich's hand, and have since wondered what the hell I was thinking. This is where I entered the world of healthcare, and met mentors against whom I will measure all future business leaders I work for. But probably most importantly, this is where I have met individuals whose kindness and support I will never forget, and whose friendships I will treasure for a lifetime.

If being a nomad is what I have to be ... well then, so be it. Life is only a set of memories, and I leave Chicago knowing that I have amassed some of my most precious memories in this city.

For that, thank you Chicago.

Visa, what visa?

Man what a whirlwind stay it's been . I came with high hopes of exploring two great, summer, European destinations, and instead just saw the inside of the hotel room, and of the office. The work was interesting though, and since medical devices is a field that I know little about, I'm looking forward to the new learning experience in the coming year.


But the regret I feel at not having taken advantage of this travel opportunity has far been overshadowed by the joys of having an American passport. This was my first trip abroad as a US citizen, and the difference in treatment I received from the days when I had to travel with a Pakistani passport has been indescribable. But old habits are seared into my brain – before I left home I went into a panic attack when I wasn't able to find copies of my German visa, as well as a letter from Abbott verifying employment, and a letter from my bank verifying the presence of funds, and a letter (lots of letters) from my manager stating the purpose of my travel, and a copy of my wife’s passport, and a copy my previous US visas (H1-B, student, etc.), and a copy of my travel documents containing numbers and addresses where I could be reached at all times, and a urine sample (ok, not that last, but you get the idea). Then Saeeda would step in when she would see things were getting out of hand, and remind me that I had a US passport, and I would start to calm down.

Still, during this trip I was nervous when I approached German immigration on flight into Europe, and US immigration on flight into Chicago. In both cases I handed over my passport knowing the drill – the harsh questions that would follow, the convincing job that I would have to do, the skeptical looks that I would receive. But these did not come, as the officer just gave a cursory glance at my passport. Nevermind, I told myself. The secret red button under the desk had been pressed, “Code Red” was probably flashing silently across computer screens in a control room somewhere, and Chuck Norris and the Delta Squadron were already en route to ferret me away.

But none of this happened. Instead, I looked like a complete idiot as I stood staring at the immigration officer, while the officer stared back at me with a “what else do you want?” look. The next person in line behind me coughed politely, and I realized that I really truly was being allowed to go through. I clumsily shuffled my way through, mumbling to myself in a daze of confusion, not sure how my world had changed so drastically.

But I wasn’t complaining.

German dining

I met up with the rest of my coworkers yesterday at the car rental counter in Stuttgart airport. Even car renting is an exciting experience in Germany - walking down the garage aisles all you pass are BMWs, Audis and Mercs. Meanwhile, back in the US I'm usually told that I'll be squeezing into a "sporty compact", usually built for a midget and with all the horsepower of a mule-drawn carriage.
From the airport it was off to the small town of Ragindingen, where the hotel was a small, cosy building just off the town river. The hotel is something that I would describe as having "character", but Saeeda would describe as "old." And old it was, since there was no central air conditioning and an elevator straight out of the 60s. Still, I liked the ambience - no two rooms were the same, and all the furnishings had an Old World feel to them.
Our first meal in Germany? Italian food. Excellent Italian food. Which left me really confused at the end of the night, because I had yet to try to typical German food, which in my mind consisted of high calory, saucy, beef/pork boiled in various ways. Why didn't I expect there to be a thriving dining scene in German cities? Ignorance.

To Germany, in style

Although I’ve traveled a lot, and in doing so have racked up airline miles galore, I haven’t had much of an opportunity to fly business class, which is an experience unto itself. I finally got the opportunity to do so for work this week, when I was asked to attend a set of meetings in Germany and Switzerland. Given the distances involved, I was eligible for business class, and so booked my travel with glee. So much glee, in fact, that I think I was more excited about the flight than the fact that I was going to visit two spectacular European vacation destinations.

The experience did not disappoint. I flew Lufthansa, and knew that I was in for some special treatment the moment I sat down in the comfy leather chair. This thing needed its own on-screen instruction manual – with a push of a button I could move it in any direction I wanted, change lumbar support, tilt into “relax” mode, or go fully flat into “sleep” mode. I was served gourmet snacks throughout, provided newspapers and reading material, and practically waited on hand and foot by a flight attendant assigned specifically to me. My only slight disappointment was dinner – appetizers and dessert were delicious, but I was forced to eat my pre-ordered Muslim meal, which was nothing more than a spicy, greasy chicken dish, tasting like it had come straight from a bad desi wedding. Meanwhile, my fellow business class passengers got to dine on steak and fish. The price I pay for eternal salvation, I guess.

The travel was so pleasant, in fact, that it never felt like the long flight that it truly was. Part of me felt guilty. What right had I to such luxury, when my fellow passengers were squeezed into cattle class a few feet behind me? Ordinarily, my 6’ 3’’ frame would be scrunched into a tiny seat with my surgically repaired knees pushing into the seat in front of me, praying fervently that the passenger in front would not tilt their seat too far back. Sleeping would be out of the question, and even going to the bathroom would require asking permission of the five passengers seated between me and the aisle.

But I bet airlines do this on purpose. They give you a taste of what air travel should be like (and was, at one point in time), then warn you by saying that you better continue to buy the more expensive ticket, otherwise look what could happen to you. Nefarious, I tell you.

Nuha turns 1

The party was grand, and held true to the LA tradition of big productions. We had a theme (an Enchanted Garden), delicious food (Persian catering), specialty ballons (in the shape of butterflies and dragonflies), grooving music (a desi-Western mix), a candy buffet (all in pink and green colors – the colors of the theme), a specialty cake (in the shape of a towering garden), and entertainment for the kids (Tinkerbell showed up to play games, tell stories, and paint faces).

However, our daughter wasn’t very interested in the hard work that her mother and father (mostly her mother – father isn’t so creative), put in to organize everything. Instead, she was happiest crawling around on all fours, alternating between picking up things to eat from the floor and trying to eat the flowers embossed on her dress. It was only after the party was over, when I had a brief moment to sit and observe my wired daughter - she had just had taken her first ever bite of cake frosting that evening and was zooming from end of the party room to another - that I marveled at how quickly time had flown by.

First, I had not screwed up. I had made it to Nuha’s first birthday without making major mistakes that would scar the girl for life. Much of the credit for that goes to my patient wife, who has made sure to gently but forcefully set me straight when I start acting irresponsibly around my daughter. As in when I let Nuha run around the house without a diaper on because she should be allowed to “air out” all body parts.

Second, seeing how quickly Nuha has progressed from a helpless baby that fit in the crook of my elbow to a toddler who knows how to aggressively demand what she wants – this makes me marvel at the mysteries of God and my intellect’s puny inability to comprehend the magnitude of what is occurring right before my eyes.

My evolution as a father continues, and so does my gratitude towards my own parents and the sacrifices they made to ensure the successes that I enjoy today. In this evolution I also gain increasing confidence in my abilities as a parent, and I wryly think back to pre-Nuha days, which I spent reading parenting books and browsing websites, all in the quest to try to be a good father. Although I stopped that practice a long time ago, Saeeda has not, and occasionally encourages me to read postings by hyperactive mothers who worry about the smallest development needs of their precocious babies. One mother posts on her blog about how important it is that we position babies facing us while they lie in their strollers - studies show they develop faster when they are able to observe a parent’s facial expressions. Or my favorite, this same mother encourages parents to point out landmarks in descriptive, adult language to our babies when we walk around with them: “Look baby, a big, black building. Look there – a red stop sign. A yellow bus moving by.” And so on. Meanwhile my drooly baby is more interested in her pacifier than anything. I imagine showing this "advice" to those of my parent's generation, and imagine how long it would take before they laugh me out of the room.

Nope, Nuha is turning one, and so far I think we’ve done a decent job. We’re watching her grow, and in her own way, she’s making us grow as well. I’m excited about the years ahead and the adventures they promise to bring. More immediately, I'm excited about tonight, when I get to take care of the baby while my wife runs errands. I sense another opportunity to let Nuha "air herself out” ...