The New Year

After the kids departed, Nazy and I faced New Years Eve alone – for the first time in many, many years. We booked a dinner cruise on Lake Zürich on the Pente Rey, a relatively new boat with a somewhat chequered history. Although it was designed specifically for Lake Zürich, when it was delivered, someone discovered that the engines were not powerful enough to move against the formidable current. This problem had been, we were assured, corrected – although not inexpensively.

Clouds turned to snow and slush as we made our way to the Lake. The dinner was great and although the snow was falling heavily, the cruise was smooth and trouble-free. At 12:15 AM on January 1, 2009, we were perfectly positioned to see the spectacular fireworks. Unfortunately, low clouds were perfected positioned to obscure the fireworks. The most spectacular airbursts took place in the fog of cloud with semi-circles of red, blue, green and gold peaking out at the bottom. Some, in fact, looked like lightening bursts in distant clouds – light, but no color or definition.

We returned home by tram – luckily the snow had stopped. (And, true to Swiss form, the street cleanup had already begun.

We spent the next few days dismantling the holiday decorations - the easy part of the job. Putting things back in boxes and getting the boxes back the narrow spiral staircase was far more complicated. (I wisely delegated that task to Nazy who is the family master of organization.) While she was working her magic, I chopped the gargantuan tree into pieces and carried it down to the kerb. My efforts were, naturally, unappreciated.

“You’ve dropped every single evergreen needle on the carpet, Dan.” Nazy observed.

“Don’t be absurd, my dear,” I replied. “There’s a bunch of needles stuck to me. My hair is a mess.”

“What hair?”

It’s nice to be appreciated.

The Winning Photo

As the family wandered hopelessly in a fruitless search for photographic excellence – there was the first annual MFPCT (Martin Family Photo Contest Trophy) to be won – I serenely worked on award-winning compositions. My experience with the digital camera made me the favourite. There were, of course, a few minor technical issues associated with the equipment used in the contest.

“You have to turn on the flash, Dad.”

“What?”

“It’s a disposable camera, Dad. And you missed the picture of Melika eating a candy bar,” Mitra snickered.

“I probably muffed the photo of Darius brushing his teeth,” I thought – Crestfallen.

Of course, I realized that it was possible to win the contest in two ways. You could take a standard approach – i.e. the winning photo – or you could be the winning photo. In former case, you would be credited with taking the picture, in the latter, you would be the picture. And idea came to mind:

Although the weather was generally cold and murky, I suggested a family stroll along Lake Zürich. We took, as usual, a long time getting ready to leave the house. Someone had to dress the dog and everyone had to decide on seasonably suitable outerwear. I chose:

“My Moroccan cape and my Яussian mink hat.”

“Your cape, Dan?” Nazy asked.

“Of course, my dear. It is red…”

“… brown…

“… and seasonal.”

“Do you believe that the kids will walk with you?”

“This,” I thought, “Will surely lead to the winning shot.” (It might have – if anyone had remembered to bring their cameras.)

On Christmas Day, Parental Martins slept late. Younger family members waited patiently – for a (very) short time. In the end, they established a candlelight vigil outside the door of the master bedroom.

Darius submitted his photo of the candlelight vigil to the contest organizers. A family vote selected this photo as the winner. Darius was the winner! (Contest rules mandate this excessive display.)

I tried to contest the results. “Block voting by the kids.” I said building my case.

“You lost, Dad. Just take your place down on the losers podium,” Melika said condescendingly.

Mitra

Photo Credit: Glen Campbell Photography; http://glenncampbellphoto.com/

Flashback – two years ago:

“And, so, Dad,” Mitra explained. “My job is interfering with my life. They expect me to travel…”

“I’m a platinium elite traveller,” I thought.

“… and, well, five days a week is simply too much. I love my job, but …”

“Hmm…”

“So, anyway, they agreed to let me work four days. And I only have to spend 1 day a week in the office.”

Flashback – one year ago.

“Well, Dad,” Mitra explained. “One entire day in the office – it’s so stressful. It also interferes with my dancing.”

“Hmm…”

“So, anyway, they agreed to let me work 3 days a week. I only have to spend ½ a day every other week in the office. I just love this job.”

Christmas holiday – present time

The family was complete when Mitra arrived with her giant pink suitcase. Unaware of the global financial meltdown, she had quit her job at Hall and Partners in order to concentrate on her passion for tango. Accordingly, the week before her departure had been hectic. She finished up (and handed off) job-related tasks while also defining and structuring passion-related tasks. She hadn’t allocated time for sleep.

“I’ll just take a 15 minute power nap,” Mitra said when we arrived at the apartment. She awoke several hours later.

Last year Mitra decided to establish ‘new traditions.’ (She ignored my comment: “If it’s new, it’s not a tradition.”) As a result, it is now become traditional to do non-traditional things at Christmas. Last year, for example, Darius and I actually prepared a meal the day before The Martin Family holiday scavenger hunt. Mitra, in her role as Family Architect of Mischief, announced the 2008 family photo contest and described the ‘rules’.

“… a disposable camera will be issued to each person. Everyone will take photos and select their five favourites. We’ll use a secret ballot to officially choose the picture that best conveys the spirit of our 2008 Christmas celebration. I will personally certify….”

“What does the winner get?” Darius (economically) asked.

“Family status,” I replied.

“Big Whoop, Dad. I want…”

“… recognition, Dar,” Mitra interrupted. “The winning photo will be prominently displayed on the family blog. The winning photographer will be fully credited.”

Competitive instincts kicked in and family members spent the next few days either “being paparazzi” or “dodging paparazzi”.

Employing my business background, I asked Mitra about her plans.

“Tango, Dad.” She replied. “I teach, DJ, write music, write poetry..”

“Hmm…” I replied. “Poetry?” I thought.

“I have friends who are making a living doing this,” Mitra explained. “And it’s my passion.”

“Doing something you love makes sense to me.” I replied. “But, making money is another thing.” I thought.

“And, I’ve been invited to speak and teach at a festival.”

“Where?”

“Salt Lake City. They’re paying me.”

“Wow!” I replied. “Tango is permitted in Utah?” I thought.

Driving home after we had dropped Mitra off at the airport, I asked Nazy about Mitra’s poetry.

“She gave me a copy of her poems. Would you like to read them?”

“Nazy, my dear. I am a graduate of Georgia Tech. I am an engineer. A ramblin’ gamblin’ helluva an engineer.”

“You could try reading..”

“The Cat in the Hat is my idea of poetry, Nazy.”

“Dan…”

“I think that iambic pentameter is a instrument used for measuring the interior angles of a pentagon.”

“That’s not…”

“Of course, I do like limericks:

There once was an Argentine dancer
Who looked like a reindeer named Prancer…”

“That’s enough, Dan.” Nazy interrupted my creative juices.

"I checked "Tango Mar Vista" - they had something like 150,000 'hits'. What do you think of that?"

"That's Mitra's website, right?" Nazy asked.

"Exactly. I can't even find my blog on google."

"Maybe you should put a link to hers."

"Great idea." http://www.tangomarvista.org/.

... the winning photo will appear in the blog shortly....

Darius

Like the swallows returning to Capistrano , dispersed members of The Martin Family fly to Zürich in December. (Unlike the swallows, they come on different days at different times.) This year, Darius was the first to arrive. We expected a cheery Darius since his doctoral committee had endorsed his work: a complex paper full of integrals, summations and formulas. "Surely," I thought. "This paper could have prevented the entire financial crisis." In any event, he was on the way for a Ph.D. in June. Uncharacteristically, he was concerned about more mundane things:

“I don’t have enough job interviews, Dad”

“Why not?” I replied.

“I spent all my time making my paper perfect. The other candidates simply submitted applications before the deadline.”

“Before the deadline means ‘on-time’, right, Darius?” I replied.

“And now I have only one interview, for a job in Monterrey.”

“California?” I asked.

“Mexico.” Darius replied. “I’ve sent out more than 50 resumes.”

“I guarantee you’ll have five by New Years. Where are you applying?” Nazy asked.

“My top choice is Beruit.”

“Really?” I thought

“China, Egypt, Kazakhstan would also be exciting.”

“Really?” I thought. Over the holiday Darius’ mood improved as universities replied and granted interviews.

When we reached Casa Carmen, Nazy swept into the living room: “This Christmas Tree is 11 meters high, Darius,” she exclaimed.

“Which Christmas Tree?” Darius asked.

“The Martin Family Christmas Tree is 11 meters high.” Nazy repeated.

“If it was 11 meters high, Mom,” Darius responded. “It would be sticking out through the skylight.

“If it was that tall,” I thought. “They would have to change the landing pattern at the Zürich Airport.”

In fact the tree, while gargantuan and (undoubtedly) the very best on the entire planet, was not quite 11 meters high. Nevertheless, it dominated the room and offered a more than adequate number of hanging points for the vast collection of traditional ornaments and lights.

As he settled in, Darius played 3,219 games of chess, downloaded 313 ‘Best of You Tube” videos and parameterized a model of income distribution while checking email for interviews. He got an interview from:

“Lahore, Dad.”

“La Whore? That’s in France, right?” I replied.

“It’s in Pakistan, Dad. Each faculty member has a cook, a gardener and a driver.”

“How about a bodyguard, Dar? Would you have one or two of those?”

“Maybe Pakistan is a little dangerous.”

“A little dangerous?” I replied. “Do you have any opportunities in any normal place?”

“I’ve got an interview with a University in Christchurch, New Zealand.”

“You’ve been there, right? You stopped on the way to somewhere.”

“Christchurch is not on the way to anywhere, Dad.”

“Precisely! That’s why I was sure it had been on one of your itineraries.”

“Why can’t he do something in California or Zürich, Dan?” Nazy asked.

“Did you try Argentina,” Mitra inquired. “Buenos Aires is a wonderful place.”

“He is an economist, Mitra,” I explained. “There is no economy in Argentina.”

“Sounds perfect for someone who moved to Iceland, Dad.”

"Can you make them shut-up, Dad?" Darius asked.

Melika

Perspiring heavily, I was in New York City with Nazy’s Christmas shopping list. “I’m looking at dresses,” I said. “European size 40. I believe that I’ve found one that meets your criteria.”

“What color is it, Dan?” Nazy asked.

“You’re asking me about the color of a dress?” I (color-blindly) thought as I snapped a photo with my iPhone. “I’m sending you a picture,” I replied.

The pressure was on. I had flown to New York to help my banking customer deal with the detritus permeating their books after the global financial tsunami – and that was the easy part of my mission. My wife had assigned a much more stressful task. She wanted me to purchase a Christmas gift for Melika. I had tried to wheedle my way out of the task.

“Melika was 4 years old the last time she liked anything that I selected,”

“Dan…”

“Houston. 1985. We bought a backpack that looked like a teddy bear…”

“Yes,” Nazy interrupted. “Brown Bear. She really liked that.”

“And she hasn’t liked anything since then.”

“You’re exaggerating, Dan.” Nazy replied.

“She has returned or exchanged everything that I’ve ever chosen since then.”

“Dan..”

“Ca$h has been the only popular gift,” I continued. “And even that is exchanged..”

“Exchanged?”

“Spent! Quickly.”

The days passed. Luckily, Melika, utilizing negotiation skills honed at Law School, had convinced “The Firm” to allow her to take a vacation. Unfortunately:

“She’s bringing the dog?” I asked.

“Dolce is a member of the family, Dan.” Nazy intoned.

“Who’s family?” I asked.

“And this year,” Nazy replied, ignoring my question. “This year it will be much easier because the dog is house trained.”

“How delightful.”

Melika, in the middle of her first lawyerly year, had to bill 5 hours every day she was in Switzerland. Exhibiting well-honed multitasking skills, she checked legal documents while simultaneously watching westerns on the movie channel. (She liked John Wayne in Red River.) As jet lag took hold, she even managed to bill time while she was asleep.

The dog, excited by the chance to visit Switzerland, was almost house trained. It bounded and bounced whenever anyone approached the front door.

“That dog…” I observed.

“… has a name, Dan.” Nazy interrupted. “Dolce..”

“… doesn’t walk, he prances.”

In the end, Melika actually liked the dress that I purchased in New York. [That's my story and I'm sticking to it.]

The photo, by the way, was taken when Melika was 4 years old - making her very first long-distance telephone call. AT&T subsequently named a switching station after Melika.

The International Family Martin

Like the swallows returning to Capistrano in March, the International Martin Family converges on Zürich in December. Unlike the swallows, everyone comes at a different time on a different day. Over the next few days, I’ll provide a bit of background for each family member.

Taking a Family Photo during the holiday is a tradition. Bold colors and patterns was the theme for Christmas 2008. Everyone, except ‘the dog’ cooperated in this photo.

The Pumpkin (Crumble) Cake

Nazy was busy preparing for the annual holiday party. Already finished decorating the house, she was cooking. The ensuing discussion was reprise from the year before:

“I’m afraid we won’t have enough food,” Nazy declared.

“Why? Did you invite the Russian Army?” I could barely see Nazy over mountains of food.

“Dan..”

“Or the Chinese masses?”

“My pumpkin cake broke. It pulverized.”

“So? The guests will just have to subsist on the roast beef, potato salad, salmon, chips, ham, crackers, pecans, pistachios, shrimp, grapes, cheese, cookies, candy…”

“I followed the directions explicitly, Dan. The Joy of Cooking said to balance the angel food cake pan on a wine bottle,” Nazy continued, pointing to a picture.

“Hmm..” I replied (thoughtfully). “It looks pretty dangerous to me.”

“I probably shouldn’t have greased and floured the pan,” Nazy said. “I was going to paste it together with cream cheese icing..”

“Don’t’ worry, my dear. We’ll have pumpkin crumble cake.”