Traditional golden Tango with Tarantulas in Geneva
Nazy was eloquent: “The North American Tango Championship is in San Francisco and Shahriar has moved to a new house in San Francisco. We must go to San Francisco.”
Forty years of marriage have taught me that when your wife underlines a ‘must’..
“Resistance is futile,” I thought. Borg-like. “Great idea,” I replied. In fact, I wanted to see Mitra and Stefan in the championship and I also wanted to visit with Nazy’s brother.
The drive to San Francisco was accompanied by the constant cacophony of Madeline, the navigation computer. Every 18 seconds she interrupted the music with a useless declaration:
“Due to traffic conditions, your route is being recalculated.”
In response to my polite verbal admonishment (“Shut up, Madeline!&rdquo
as well as my technical virtuosity (the mute button), Madeline entered a quiescent state. Unfortunately, we needed her help to get through the city. (Shari lives in Tiburon, across the Golden Gate Bridge.) We didn’t realize that Madeline’s algorithmic search for the perfect route and optimal traffic conditions was flawed. In short, she kept changing her mind - nanoseconds before turns, entrances or exits.
“This is just like old times,” I thought. “When Nazy had the map.”
We enjoyed Shari’s hospitality and his beautiful house. Later that evening, Shari joined us at the Tango Championship. We watched Mitra and Stefan reach the finals. It is a very difficult competition; they don’t announce music until seconds before the competition begins.
Nazy, Shahriar and I all agreed that Mitra and Stefan were the best of the couples to make the finals. However..
“What did you think of the competition?” I asked Nazy.
“I don’t know, I’m not skilled enough to evaluate,” Nazy replied.
“Neither am I,” I said. “On the other hand, I only watched Mitra and Stefan,” I thought.
The next day we had time to enjoy and appreciate Shahriar’s colorful garden. We also visited friends for an early Persian celebration and then went to see the Tango finals. Sadly, the judges lacked our skills. (They were not watching the right dancers.) Mitra and Stefan agreed that they had a wonderful experience nevertheless.
Unfortunately, poor planning had left me unprepared for the April 1st celebration of Nazy’s birthday. Nimbly, I suggested that we return home via Carmel-on-the-Sea, one of Nazy’s favorite cities. We stopped and had a wonderful lunch at an unforgettable, European-style restaurant.
“What was the name of that restaurant?” You ask.
“I forget,” I reply
I was able to interject birthday present shopping time and even surreptitiously located a hand-crafted wooden birthday card. We got home in time for dinner in Santa Barbara with Melika and Tom.
The next day, April 2nd, is Sizdah Bedaar, the13th day of Faverdeen, the initial month of the Persian calendar. Naturally, we wanted to follow tradition - with a twist. This year we wanted to create “new traditions”.
We went outdoors for a walk in the park near the house. And, to make sure the walk counted as a traditional picnic, I carried a can of Coke Zero.
We gave our Sabzee (sprouting wheat) to Melika’s cat. This is not traditional. The Sabzee is usually thrown into an open forest. (This tradition was risky in Switzerland. If the forest police saw us we would get a 500 Franc fine for improper disposal of organic material. We were never caught) Nazy sponsored the 2013 break with tradition because “the cat needs grass.” Note: If we have a bad-luck year, readers should remember who tempted fate.
It is also normal practice to tie grass sprouts together on Sizda bedaar. Wishes made while the grass is tied are “guaranteed” to come true. We
“ .... didn’t tie the grass, Dan. Our luck will..”
“Suck?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“In that case, we have to find some grass to tie,” I replied.
“Are you crazy? It’s 11:00PM. It’s dark. The parks will have rabid foxes.”
“Rabid foxes?”
“Or coyotes. We can tie the grass tomorrow.”
“On chardah bedaar?” I asked. [Note: hopefully the previous comment is funny and makes sense in Farsi.] “That won’t work. We need good luck. We can go out now.”
And so, I found a miniature ‘flashlight’ (translation for readers in the UK: ‘torch&rsquo
and we walked to the Mission. Our initial efforts were fruitless; the grass was well-trimmed and it was not possible to find shoots tall enough to tie together. I suggested that we try the rose garden because “there may be tall stragglers there”. The rose garden was occupied by ‘tall straggler’, a person, who offered to help. (At least I think he offered: “Watchja looking for?” Want a hand&rdquo We demurred. “This!” I exclaimed, “is impossible. We need to head into the nearby and conveniently located untamed forest.”
“What about the animals?”
“I’m not a afraid of squirrels.”
“I’m talking about tarantulas, Dan.”
“Tarantulas? Here?”
“I saw it in the Santa Barbara Trail Guide.”
“Surely they don’t come out at night. We can frighten them with my flashlight.”
“Your flashlight may make them think it’s daytime.”
“Luckily, the battery is dying. We can fool the tarantulas. They’ll think it’s dusk.”
As luck would have it, we found an adequate supply of “tieable’ grass in an arachnid-free zone. We tied grass and made our wishes before the day ended. Now we just have to see if they pan out. Initial indications are promising. Nazy passed her ‘behind-the-wheel’ driving test; we are now both California licensed. In addition, I have...
“A consulting gig,” I explained to Nazy.
“Where?”
“Geneva.”
“Didn’t we just leave Switzerland?”
“I think we can agree that either the location or the timing of the offer is less than ideal.”
“Do you speak French?”
“Ja, mein Liebchen.”
“Good luck.”