A Scranton Boy at the Top of the World

"It is quite common here to live to a very ripe old age, climate, diet, and mountain water you might say, but we like to believe it is the absence of struggle in the way we live." From Lost Horizon by James Hilton

I have never been one to give much thought to time. But a year here, and a year there and next thing you know 41 years have gone by. But as luck would have it, a quirk of my industry called "garden leave" left me with an excess supply of time this past summer. What exactly does a middle-age Scranton boy who suffers from a fear of heights do with an entire summer off from work? For me the choice was simple. I spent most of it with the family then went to Nepal - the highest country on earth - for a bit of trekking in the mountains with my mate Matt. A journey of discovery? Perhaps. I'll leave you to decide.
The "picture": funnily enough, it rains during the rainy season
While none of us like to admit it, part of the reason we take ourselves to far away places is to get "the picture" - a snapshot of you standing in front of one of those things you normally can only see in a postcard. The picture of course, is then put somewhere for everyone else to see. In Nepal "the picture" is you standing in front of one of the highest mountains on earth. Getting the picture should be easy. After all, eight of earth's fourteen 8000+ meter mountains are in Nepal. The only problem is August is Nepal's monsoon season. And in the monsoon season, it rains.. and rains.. and rains.

The monsoon complications started early. Having flown from Chicago to London to Delhi to Kathmandu and finally to Pokhora, we arrived at a tiny "airport" at 6:00 am to catch our last 30-minute flight. It would be in a 10-seat puddle jumper through one of the highest valleys on earth. Unfortunately, the monsoons left visibility at virtually zero. Luckily Binod, our guide, booked us on the 2nd flight of the morning. When I asked why, he smiled and just insisted we didn't want to be on the first flight. By 11am the first flight did take off. Forty five minutes later Binod's logic sunk in. The passengers of the first flight to Jomson returned having never landed - their white faces pretty much saying all that was needed about navigating a tiny plane through a Himalayan valley during the rainy season. It was time for Plan B. We abandoned the scenic Jomson valley trek and drove two hours to the south entrance of Annapurna national park to begin an alternative 5-day trek.

Two days into walking and I started to wonder whether I would ever get the "picture". While day one was perfectly sunny, we were too low to see anything. Then in the early hours of day two the skies opened up and I had my first real experience with the power and persistence of the monsoon rain. With our schedule tight, we had no choice but to press on. So we walked seven hours and 1500 vertical meters (nearly 5000 feet for the Scranton folk) in torrential rains. By the afternoon I was drenched, tired and in despair - having flown halfway around the world to get a picture of me in front of a Himalayan peak, I found myself trekking through scenery that could pass for any rainy day in the Pocono mountains.


Then, as we arrived in the hip trekker town of Ghorepani the rain stopped, the clouds thinned and I began to spot the mountain gems of the Annapurna range. First came Annapurna South (7219 meters; I am pictured in front of it), then Annapurna I (8091 meters, 10th highest in world), then the Dhaulagiri range (Peak I is the 7th highest in the world) and the next day Machapuchare, known as fishtail for its unique peak (Matt and I are having a beer in front of it). Admittedly, these ranges get far less attention then eastern Nepal's Mount Everest. But the Annapurna region is no less beautiful and has proved more treacherous. The fishtail mountain has never been climbed successfully. And Annapurna I has had only 103 successful climbs - and 53 deaths. Waking up alone at 4:30 am on Day 3 to watch the sunrise hit the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri ranges, I came to realize I was in Nepal for more than just a picture.

Language barriers: beware of those "lay-jes"
While I am known for having many skills, language is not one of them. So like any American who travels the world, I have grown used to expecting those around me to speak English, except of course in Paris and most of Scotland. English is pretty common in Nepal. But as I often find, language barriers can come in many shapes and forms. There are translation barriers. When I spoke to Binod ahead of my trek, I was very clear about what I was aiming for - an easy walk in the hills of Nepal where I can see a few mountains and experience Nepalese culture. No problem, he assured me. But "moderate trek" does not translate easily into Nepalese. Our "easy" day was five hours of trekking in the mid-August sun. Thereafter, I struggled to find anything easy. Day two was seven hours of walking up 1500 vertical meters. And while days three and four were virtually flat, in Nepalese flat means spending the day alternatively walking up and down 1000 meters to reach the same altitude. By day five, we technically went down hill, but my withered body didn't notice.

Then there are also those tricky accents. Most Nepalese guides speak decent English. But it doesn't always sound quite like the English you are accustomed to. Early into the trek, Binod kindly warned me to stay away from the "lay jes". Since I had mentioned my fear of heights, I figured he was telling me about some upcoming mountain ledges. Not quite. Binod was warning me about something I would have known myself had I read my Nepal guide book. During the rainy season blood-sucking, genuinely icky leeches are everywhere... and I mean everywhere. And while I'd like to think they are equal opportunity blood suckers, those "lay jes" seemed especially attracted to me. By the end of the trip, I had managed to be bitten 10 times and had lost a non-negligible amount of blood. The rest of my party - Matt, Binod and our porter "Donna" didn't manage 10 bites between them. The picture above is my foot after one of my "special" post-trek discoveries.

Culture: Tuxedo-clad Nepalese men singing "Hey Jude"
Most people I meet assume that my business travels have introduced me to many different cultures. Fair enough. But to be honest, most of my trips blend - a mix of wandering through airports filled with western duty free shops and sitting at a Grand Hyatt sipping single malt while listening to a local sing Broadway show tunes. This trip started out the same. After two consecutive overnight flights, we checked into one of Kathmandu's only 5-star hotels. For our first night we figured the hotel's buffet and promise of "local" music would be a good introduction to Nepal. While there was nice local barbeque, the pasta and French wine list made it feel a little fake. Then, as I noshed on my tiramisu, a guy in a white and blue tuxedo walked up to the microphone and started singing "Hey Jude" in a harsh Nepalese accent. It occurred to me this wasn't quite what I had in mind when I decided to come to Nepal. Fortunately, once you leave Kathmandu and head to the mountains, you leave all elements of 5-star behind you. Trekking culture is an interesting mix of mountain Nepalese, slick city-born english-speaking guides and western hippies in search of Shangri la (not the hotel). I am pretty sure I was the only investment banker (technically Matt is a fund manager).

The core of trekking culture is the Tea House. For $1-2 per night, you get a "private" room with a musty old mattress and quite a few insects. There is usually one toilet (a hole in the ground) and one shower, typically in the same room as the toilet. But the heart of Tea House and its main allure is the central gathering room. All houses have them. Here all the activity takes place. You eat your meals here. While all Tea Houses offer western dishes, the local food is normally safer for the stomach and better tasting. A beer is normally 2-3 times more expensive than the room, but you are usually too tired to drink much anyway. The central space is where you go to warm yourself by the central (and only) fire. And the central fire serves as the central (and only) dryer (pictured).

Importantly, the central space is where you swap stories with fellow trekkers. There was the clueless young American couple, who managed to miss the path one day. By the time they arrived in the central space they were covered in leeches, their constant smiles still in place (still smiling in the picture). Or the idealistic social-worker from Seattle, who spent one night speaking to a wandering holy man who didn't speak much English. There was the asthmatic Italian on his way to Annapurna base camp at 17,000 feet. He made my fear of heights look trivial. And the middle-age, chain-smoking Polish couple, traveling with an odd German mother-son combo. In the world I live in, the chance of meeting any of these people is remote. But for a few nights, we shared beers and stories with a comradery gained from our days on the mountain paths. Even better, Tea House culture is mainly class free. My fondest evening was the one where our guides and porters broke out their Nepalese drums and filled the central room with music and dancing that took me far away from the man in the tuxedo singing "Hey Jude" - see a video below of my Matt dancing to one of those tunes.

New perspectives: keep the toilet paper dry!
I suppose what I will most remember about the trip was the perspective it brought. As I said in a previous blog, 20 years of living an urban, mainly banking life style has made me a little soft. Ten days in Nepal made me realize how soft. While I managed to make it through the trip with no major stomach problems, Matt was not as lucky. On our trek through torrential rain, he gave me my first sense of perspective. During a morning break he quickly opened his bag to check the belongings. In our world, the first priority would probably be whether his expensive camera equipment had survived the rains. On a Nepal trek the only thing that mattered was his roll of toilet paper was still dry. It was, which served him well a few hours later in the middle of the trail - literally. Better to lose some dignity than be swarmed be those pesky "lay jes".

Parts of our trek took us off the beaten track. So much so that not all Tea Houses offered bottled water. After sweating off a few liters on one particularly tough day, the absence of drinkable water left a feeling of thirst I have never witnessed, nor wish to witness again. To fill the void, we drank the entire stock of Fanta the Tea House had to offer. When we left the next morning we were significantly poorer (ironically a Fanta will cost you 3-4 times the cost of the room) and had bladders full of orange piss. Oddly, it was the only day I wasn't bitten by leeches.

But perspective in the mountains is only half the story. Nepal's economy is hugely dependent on the trekking crowd, so the country goes to great lengths to service their visitors. One night in Ghorepani we played snooker with Binod and Donna on a regulation English table. Since there are no roads, we learned that porters had to carry the table up in pieces, all to provide the trekkers with a little bit of home. You gain real perspective on Nepal when you leave the mountains and drive through Katmandu. The city is pretty appalling. There is no infrastructure. And the bumper-to-bumper traffic allows you to witness in slow motion the sheer level of Nepal's poverty. GDP per capita is $340 per year - the cost of an moderately upscale night out in Chelsea. 55% of the population is below the international poverty line of $1.25 per day. Adult literacy is 57%. And infant mortality is ranked 57th in the world (actually a big improvement from 20 years ago). It is a tough existence. That said, it is the only perspective most Nepalese know. And with this, they manage the be generally friendlier, more open and seemingly less stressed than many people I know in London. Perhaps Nepal truly is Shangri la. I suppose I'll need to go back again some day and investigate.

A Scranton Boy In Chelsea

We Retired DINKs Owe A lot to Steve Jobs

A few years ago I was attending a management-training course, back in the days when banks had enough money to think those courses were useful. During one session I was asked to name the three people I admired most in history. My choices were Alexander Hamilton, Abraham Lincoln and Steve Jobs. While the first two would not come as a surprise to people who know me, the choice of Steve Jobs probably needs some explaining. Since the main goal of management courses was to sound cleverer than your colleagues, I marveled at how Steve revolutionized whole industries - he is most well known for desktop computing, music and today mobile phones. But for a person who opted to have children a little later than many, Steve Jobs’ impact on me was deeper and more personal. I just wasn't at liberty to say why to my hard-charging, mostly male investment banking colleagues.

To understand, we need to rewind 20 years. Dina and I met in university, when she was a freshman and I was a sophomore. By the time we left school, we were pretty sure that we would get married. We were less sure on when we would have children. You have to remember I grew up in Scranton and boarded my first airplane at the ripe young age of 22. I had a world to see. As for Dina, the lack of any experience around children meant she was happy to go with my plan. So we graduated from university, got married and began a near 15-year period of our lives as DINKS (dual income, no kids).

It was a great time. Sundays were a late brunch, with the New York Times in one hand, a Bloody Mary in the other. Sundays began late of course, because Saturday nights were spent in Greenwich Village pubs with our large web of friends. The rest of our weekend was spent in pursuit of movies and music. For those of you who appreciate 70s punk and 90s grunge, two fond memories I have from my early 20s were getting stuck in a mosh pit as Joey Ramone (RIP; www.youtube.com/watch?v=agzIcrmg5mY) jumped on stage in a club in Trenton and listening to pre-fame Smashing Pumpkins in a club in Hoboken with a capacity of around 75, including the bar staff.

Of course, a few times each year we would travel as only DINKs can. In Botswana, we sat on top of our safari jeep sipping beers and watching the sun set over the plains. In Thailand, we scaled the 309 steps to reach Wat Doi Suthep (a monastery) and receive a blessing from a Buddhist monk. After a full's day hike in the Andes, we walked through the Puerta Del Sol to look 1500 feet below at the lost ancient city of Machu Picchu (since found by a herd of tourists and trekkers). We only had two travel rules: we never went to the same place twice (Paris and Rome were exceptions) and travel budgets were for wimps.

Then on March 29th 2004, on the eve of Ranen's arrival into our lives, we realized our days as DINKs had come to an end. Don't get me wrong, we were very eager to become parents. Its just that after 20 years of doing whatever you wanted whenever you wanted to, having kids came as a bit of a shock. Gone were the days of dining out 4-5 times per week. Babies needed to be in bed by 7pm (apart from Gideon, who never goes to sleep). My IPod suddenly had a section for kids filled with English nursery rhymes. We gave up on movies all together, since we only go out one night each week and it seems a little silly to spend it staring at a screen for two hours. As for travel, the days of exotic, manic trips around the world have made way for unexotic, especially manic ones. No more driving the Garden Route in South Africa staying in different inns every night. These days it’s a 2-hour drive to the Dorset Coast to a place with a nice kitchen and access to a local pharmacy. And while we still think budget travel is for wimps, our money is spent making the travel a little easier, like an occasional purchase of Virgin Upper Class seats (with some help from my infinite amount of air miles) on our visits to the US (the pictures show the boys enjoying their seats!)

This is where Steve Jobs comes in. In 1986, after losing a power struggle with Apple, Jobs acquired the computer graphics division of LucasFillm, Ltd for $10 million. Shortly afterward the company was renamed Pixar. In 1995, Pixar went public for $140 million and released its first full-length animated feature, Toy Story. Pixar probably had no idea it was about to revolutionize the animated film business and along the way make the transition to parenthood for film, music and travel-loving DINKs like me a little easier. Back in 1995, animated film was nearly dead – accounting for less than 1% of US film revenues. By 2008, that share had jumped to 10%. Pixar was the undisputed leader and main driver of the rise. (Pixar sold itself to Disney for $7.4 billion in 2006).

While the amazing computer graphics played a part in Pixar’s success, their real "secret" is the movies are incredibly appealing to parents and kids alike. The stories are funny and complex – in ways 5-year old don’t always understand, nor does it matter. Pixar was also the first to attract big actors to star in animated films. Tom Hanks played the lead role in Toy Story. And Paul Newman’s last acting role was as Doc, a retired racing car in Cars. These days, Hollywood stars fight over animated film roles. Pixar even recognized the power of the soundtrack. Indeed, I am happy to admit I have most of the songs from Cars on my IPod. I told Ranen I bought them for him, but I was fibbing.

So while Steve Jobs will be remembered by most for the way he revolutionized media industries, those early-in-life DINKS and later-in-life parents like me owe him a special thanks. Sure I no longer spend my weekends in search of music and movies or travel to exotic places. But the IPod has allowed me to rekindle my love of music – and create a budding interest in music in the boys. As for movies, I can't think of a better past time on a rainy London day than sitting on the sofa with Dina and the kids and reciting almost every line of a Pixar movie (check out the video below as Gideon gives his best impression of Tom Hanks as Woody). And when we do travel, I have our Pixar library ready to pop into the portable DVD player to keep the kids occupied while Dina and I sip a glass of Virgin Upper Class champagne!

Am I nostalgic for my days as a DINK? Sure, sometimes I am. But I wouldn’t give up my current life with Dina and the boys for anything - especially when you have guys like Steve Jobs around to make it a little easier.


A Scranton Boy In Chelsea

P.S. I haven’t totally given up my DINK life. I wrote most of this story on a 3-day trip to Vienna with Dina ohne kinder (without children, for the Scrantonians). Even better, this is the first blog written on my new MacBook Pro - my conversion to Apple is nearly complete!

Anger Management, the Abe Lincoln Way

"My dream is of a place and a time where America will once again be seen as the last best hope on earth," Abraham Lincoln, 16th President of the United States

Like the rest of the banking industry, I have watched recent events in America with quiet resignation. My industry deserves to be punished for the greed, irresponsibility and poor judgement that marked the years leading up to this financial crisis. To be sure, I can name a few co-conspirators. But never mind that. This crisis needs its dastardly villian and the banker is a worthy choice. But in America's rush to punish the bad guys, mob rule is taking hold. As is often the case with mobs, the urge to punish, and to do so harshly, is overwhelming society's responsibility to set criteria for deciding who the bad guy is. In the America I know and love, even the bad guy gets a chance to tell his story. So while I never intended this blog to be a forum for rants, I feel I can no longer sit by passively as the mob takes over. I want to tell my story, even if most people reading it already know it.

I grew up in Scranton, the quintissential small US town. It is middle to lower income. It is a region poplulated with 3rd and 4th generation immigrants - mainly catholic and European, especially Irish and Italian (I have a little of both in me, along with a dash of Polish). While Scrantonians are under-represented at US universities, I am pretty sure there are many who served in Iraq and Afghanistan. It has always been that way. My father served in the army and my uncle died a marine, on his way home from Vietnam. I never met him. American flags have always been proudly raised outside of Scranton homes - even more so after September 11, 2001.

When you visit Scranton, you get the sense that time has passed it by. Its "boom" days were many years ago, when the region supplied the country with the coal to power its industry. My grandfathers both worked with the mining companies. As they died young, I never met them either. In recent years, Scranton has tried to reinvent itself, with only modest success. First it attempted a period as a defense contractor. But the cuts to the defense industry during the Clinton years put an end to that. Then it had a go at call centers. But it is much cheaper to set up those centers in India. These days, Scranton is having its 15 minutes of fame, as the setting for the US version of The Office. The show originated here in England, in a town called Slough - not too different from Scranton, actually.

I grew up in one of those lower-middle class, flag-flying homes. Neither of my parents went to college, but three of their four children did. I paid my way through my undergraduate degree on scholarship grants, student loans and nearly full-time work. The loans I proudly paid off on time. I remember beginning my working life by driving my new Honda Civic (another loan taken and paid) to New Jersey carrying everything I owned. I had $6000 to my name. I worked my way up the corporate ladder the hard way. I wasn't part of a graduate program. I began at the bottom - doing menial jobs, putting in twelve hour days and earning a graduate degree at night. With a little luck and a lot of patience, I landed a job beyond my boyhood dreams: world travel; manic, unpredictable days on a buzzing trading floor; and the chance to play a pivotal role in growing, multi-million dollar business.

As part of my job, I moved to London with Dina in January 2003. It was a difficult time to be an American overseas. The goodwill the world had extended the US after September 11, an event I witnessed from across the street in my New York City office, was fading fast. The Bush Administration was about the launch its ill-fated, highly unpopular war in Iraq. One of our first memories in London was walking out of our home and into a sea of muslim humanity. Not 100 yards from our front door we were witnessing our first war protest. Soon after, we visited Belgium and had to resort to pretending to be Spanish. Thankfully, Dina partially speaks the language (I just stared and tried to look stupid, which has never been hard for me). And while we sympathized with many of the frustrations that Europeans had with George Bush and his policies, throughout those trying days, we remained proud Americans.

I often say that my story is what the small-town American dream is all about. With a lot of hard work, a little luck and a set of strong values, you can accomplish nearly anything. And I did. It just so happens that my dream was built around the business of banking. And while many in America will have me hold my head down, that is one thing I will not do. To this day I remain proud of everything I have acheived. Yes, I am a banker. But I don't run a ponzi scheme, or sell mortgages to households that can't afford them. And I can't price a complex derivative to save my life. I simply look at market prices and economic trends and advise clients on whether currencies will go up or down. Yes, I have made a decent living at it. But I have always performed my job with honesty and integrity - just as I was taught to do as a boy in Scranton.

So while I am not asking for sympathy, I do want to be heard. My warning to the mob is beware of the law of unintended consequences. Congress is set to vote on a bill that will tax most Wall Street bonuses at 90%. While this will make the mob feel better, the bill does come with consequences. For one thing, most of those dastardly villians the public wants to punish are in jail, on their way to jail, retired or looking for jobs in parts of the industry that no longer exist. Many that are left are like me: hard-working Americans whose luck is running out. Many of them have paid dearly for this crisis already. Barney Frank has suggested that Wall Street executives do not lose anything when their firms fail. I wonder whether he ever read the details of Lehman Brother's employee stock ownership program.

Meanwhile, part of the bill up for vote is a retroactive tax on money already paid to bankers. While this is not technically an unravelling of one of America's great strengths - respect for the binding contract -it is pretty damn close. Do we really want to go down that slippery slope in an effort to recoup $165 million from AIG employees? I sure don't, at least not for the equivalent of 1/1000th of annual American GDP. The payments of bonuses to AIG employees is an outrage. But they are based on contracts written before this crisis took hold. Unless the government is willing to let AIG fail, it should pay the contracts or hope the money is returned by choice.

Most importantly, if we are ever going to get out of this mess, main street needs to come to terms with the fact that it needs a healthy Wall Street. Watching last week's circus in Washington, I couldn't help thinking the country was snatching defeat from the arms of victory. An unprecedented amount of policies have been put in place to fix the American economy. And believe it or not, there are some signs the economy is finding a bottom. But there are two consequences of this bill, perhaps unintended, but almost certainly assured. First, Wall Street will focus far more on paying back the government money than it will lending to credit-worthy Americans. Second, the pool of talented bankers that remains will seek the relative saftey of foreign banks. I suspect the stock market realized this when it reversed course and started falling again at the end of this week.

As an avid reader of history, one of my true heros is Abraham Lincoln. A little story about him comes to mind. In a fit of anger, Lincoln wrote a letter to his young, impetuous and incompetent general, George B. McClellan. He then sealed the letter in an envelope and placed it in his desk drawer. He opened it a few days later when his anger had receded, to read it one last time. That letter was never sent. On the eve of the Senate vote, my hope is this bill - drafted in a fit of anger - is put in a desk drawer to be opened on another day. There is plenty of time to punish the arsonists. Right now, we need to put out the fire.

A Scranton Boy in Chelsea

P.S. For my dozen or so loyal readers, I want to thank you for your patience and understanding. I promise the next blog will get back to the most important things in my life: Dina, the boys and our lives in London.

Learning to Love the Beautiful Game

"Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I'm very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that." Bill Shankly, English football manager

As a boy in Scranton, I was brought up to believe in three sacred things - god, mom and football. And while you never liked to admit it, god and mom usually finished a distant second and third to the game with an oval ball, lots of padding and little use of your feet. The Scranton social circuit revolved around the high school football calendar - for parents and kids alike. A typlical Sunday barbeque topic was which 6-year-old showed the most quarterbacking promise. The height of political intrigue tended to be your family's level of connection with the local coaching staff. And it was not the least bit uncommon for a parent to get into a fist fight with a referee at a little league game (meaning 7-12 year olds). Just ask Dina, who witnessed this first-hand at my 7-year-old brother's game on her inaugural visit to Scranton (my parents were thankfully not involved, although mom was known around town for the occasional verbal assualt).

I was indoctrinated into the football religion early. By age four I was attending practice with my dad, who coached the little league team. By seven I was a starting player - yours truly had the right connections. By thirteen I had already broken four bones. By sixteen I was a starting halfback on one of those high school teams they make American movies about: year-round practices, a case in the school full of trophies and expectations from the local fan base which could be overwhelming for a teenager (you can rent "All the Right Moves", "Varsity Blues" or "Friday Night Lights" to get an idea what I am talking about). My senior year, we started the season ranked amongst the top twenty high school teams in America- only to finish with a mediocre 6-5 record. To this day, that disappointing 1986 season remains another topic of Sunday barbeques. By eighteen, my bruised, beaten and diminutive body forced me to hang up my helmet and retire to a role of football spectator. I spent the next sixteen years as a loyal fan - hosting barbeques on our New York City rooftop always with a spalsh of football talk.

As you might imagine, when it came time to move to London, I was a little anxious about how I'd fill the football void. In preparation, an English friend suggested I read a book titled, "Fever Pitch" by Nick Hornby. The book is an autobiographical account of his life-long addiction to Arsenal, a North London football team. Following my modest research, I anticipated an easy transition from football to... well...football. If salaries are anything to go by, English football is the most popular sport in the world. It is also steeped in history - the "beautiful game" was invented here in 1863. And fans are normally just shy of lunatic. Trust me, when Hollywood did a remake of Fever Pitch with the plot revolving around a Boston Red Sox fan, it just didn't work - you can't replicate the insanity of the true English football fan. Sadly, no other sport in the world has a fan base responsible for quite a large body count: http://www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk/liverpool-life-features/capital-of-culture/2007/07/09/two-tragedies-that-changed-football-64375-19426077/

But the English football game is different from its American cousin. For a start, you actually use your feet. And forget about the pads and crushing violence - a mere trip of an opponent could have you sent off for the entire match. To an American football fan, the English version seems all constant flow, with no obvious strategy. Even worse, you almost never score and draws are allowed, meaning nil-nil (0-0) finishes are all too common. Despite the fact that many of the best footballers in the world play in England, many of them aren't actually English. Indeed, one of the cruel ironies of English sport is the realization that although most modern games have their origins on this island, the English aren't very good at playing them anymore. The one and only time England won the football World Cup was in 1966. That victory over Germany is a favorite topic at many English barbeques today.

So for my first five years in England I watched the occasional football match on television. But the passion wasn't there. That changed this season - and I have my 4-year-old son to thank. Two of Ranen's signature qualities are his mild obsessions and amazing attention to detail -a perfect mix for a budding sports fan. His football obesssion began at last summer's European Cup. It was here he watched Spain's version of David Beckham, Fernando Torres, win the cup with a goal against Germany (the picture shows Ranen next to Torres after that goal). The attention to detail kicked in a few weeks later - he memorized the entire English football squad - names, positions and the teams they played for in the regular season. When he learned that Torres played for Liverpool, he insisted I subscribe to the pay sports channel, something I had failed to do in my five years here. By late autumn, our own social calendar was now filled with football - watching games on TV, playing our own version of matches at St. Lukes Park and talking football at Pizza Express while Ranen played make-believe games with his hands. As Ranen's obsession with football gathered pace, I realized my own passion was keeping up.

So as Ranen and I headed to our first live professional football match in February - Chelsea against Hull City - our excitement was palpable. Of course, the game ended nil-nil (0-0). Both of us were initially disappointed. But as I walked home with Ranen on my shoulders, I realized the match had everything that I had learned to love about English football. For one thing, English football is a very local affair. A quick google search revealed 117 teams in this small country. All have their local, and remarkably loyal fan base. Admittedly, our neighborhood hosts one of the biggest football teams in the world - Chelsea has a payroll of $200 million per year! But that was not always so. In a difficult period in the early 1990s, the team was in tatters. The local fans purchased the rights to Stamford Bridge - Chelesa's stadium - from the bankrupt property-developer owner. They still own it today. Many of those owners walked with Ranen and me down Fulham Road to and from the game (it is a 10-minute walk for us).

There is also the concept of promotion and relegation. Each season, the three teams that finish on the bottom of a league are "relegated" to the league below. The top three in the league below are "promoted" to the league above. Hull City was promoted to the top league - the Premiership - at the end of last season. It was the first time the team has played in the top league of English football in the club's 105-year history. So while a 0-0 draw was a disappointment for Chelsea fans, for the few thousand Hull City supporters drawing against one of the best teams in the world at Stamford Bridge was sheer ectasy. Ranen and I could hear Hull City fans singing for most of our walk home.

But perhaps the best part of English football is the point when you realize and relish just how precious a goal really is. Although in the end no team managed to get the ball into the net, you could practically taste the tension in every attack, every cross (a pass across the goal) and every corner kick - Ranen never once took his eye off the pitch (field, for the Scrantonians). In a scoreless draw, this stadium of 42,000 people nearly shook with the singing of club songs by loyal fans. One of my favorites was Chelsea's eloquent rant to all visiting fans - "Oh.. your shit, your shit, your shit". All of this happened, by the way, without a single commercial break and no time outs - neither are allowed to interrupt the constant flow of English football.

So my void is filled; my football passion returned. And while I will never be able to relate to English football in the way I did as a starting halfback in the American version, I am already looking forward to the next stage of my sporting passion - watching my sons play. And while I promise not to get into fights with referees, I can't committ to holding my tongue about Ranen and Gideon's forward attacking promise at our sunday BBQs.

A Scranton Boy (and Football fan) in Chelsea

P.S. I came out of retirement to face Ranen in the goal at his 5th birthday party. He scored, of course, and I woke up with a torn hamstring (see video below). Oh well.. back to being a spectator. By the way, we have first row tickets to see Liverpool and Torres play at Fulham Stadium in a few weeks... can't wait.

Lessons from those skinny-dipping Swedes

Winston Churchill once said "there is no sphere of human influence in which it is easier to show superficial cleverness and the appearance of superior wisdom as in matters of currency and exchange". All the same, I have made a good living providing wisdom with respect to currency and exchange to clients around the world. As one can imagine, these client encounters are usually a little unstimulating and typically forgettable. In the old days, Japanese customers would fall asleep. I originally thought I was just boring them, but have since learned it is customary for the most senior Japanese manager to exercise his seniority by snooring during a meeting. Many hedge fund managers like to tell me I'm stupid. But after their record losses last year, I can at least tell them I am in good company. And French customers just pretend they don't know what I am saying, which I suppose is fair since half the time I'm not sure either.

Every now and then, however, I have one of those client experiences that leaves a lasting impression on me. One such "meeting" occurred in Stockholm a few years ago. (Before you Scrantonians google it, Stockholm is the capital of Sweden). It was originally meant to be the usual fare - a research dinner where I spoke and everyone else ate. Normally, I liked to invite junior members of my team to attend client events. This time I chose a young, female, traditional Indian analyst (YFTIA for short). This was her first client trip.

As it was a beautiful sunny July day, the lead salesperson made a last minute change. Rather than dining in the city we took a boat a few hours up the archipelago for a simple meal on a tiny island. It all started out well: Some nice food, followed by shots of schnapps and then singing of traditional Swedish drinking tunes. I must admit I had no idea what I was singing, but it seemed close enough to what I used to hear at 2am at any Scranton pub. Let's just say, things turned a little peculiar following the dessert course. The manager of the hedge fund arose from the table, removed all his clothes and dove into the water. The males on his firm's team followed suit. Every sales person from my bank dutifully jumped in too (all males, in case you were wondering). Yours truly was left at the table with the one woman from the hedge fund and my YFTIA - all looking out the window at a bunch of naked men sitting on a set of rocks. Being an American businessman, I quickly recovered from my schnapps-induced haze and began wondering how I'd explain to human resources the lawsuit my YFTIA was about to file.

In the end, it all turned out fine. The woman from the hedge fund assured me that skinny dipping Swedes were as customary as snooring Japanese managers. The hedge fund manager - who, for the record, doesn't think I am stupid, nor I he - offered me a swimsuit, allowing me to experience the July, still ice-cold waters of Stockholm. And in the end, my YFTIA found the entire experience amusing. Although she did moveback to Delhi not long after.

Upon returning to Stockholm this past January, I thought back upon this experience with a realization that we Americans have much to learn from the Swedes. For one, Americans are way too serious about their work. In Sweden, minimum cumpulsary vacation is five weeks per year. Parents are given a combined 480 days of parental leave - yes dads too. I am ashamed to admit that by the age of two, Ranen termed airplanes "Dadda", while Gideon does the same now to the telephone. He also has a habit of pushing other kids off their dads so he can sit on a dad's lap. And yes, in Sweden, sometimes in the course of doing business, you drink, sing and shed those pin-striped suits for an innocent dip in the water. Can you ever imagine skinny dipping with clients in the Hudson river for the sake of good fun and client relationship building?

We should also remember in the early 1990s Sweden experienced one of the worst banking crises in modern history. The root cause was similar to the crisis in America today. So too, I fear will be the aftermath - a huge government bailout, a surge in unemployment, rising tax burdens and a permanent fall in living standards. What struck me most about my latest visit to Stockholm, however, was the high sense of nostalgia and low sense of angst amongst my Swedish clients. They have been through their own banking crisis and have come out of it. They all feel a little less rich, but also seem more balanced than most Americans I know.

I honestly don't know how America will look in a few years time, when this crisis finally begins to settle. What I do know is America and I will be forever changed. And while I too will look back with some nostalgia on life before (and during) this banking crisis, I am happy to say my experiences in Sweden remind me that no matter what, it is likely to be ok. And when it feels like it isn't, maybe just maybe, I will take a day off, strip off my clothes and take a dip in the Thames.

A Scranton Boy in Chelsea

P.S. The picture up top was taken during a trip Dina and I took to Stockholm. It was far too cold for skinny dipping, but we did enjoy a schnapps or two.

Lee Jeans on Ice

As I watched London's storm of the century from the comfort of my home the other day, I realized this city has made me a little soft. Scranton is the land of the alpha male, where snow storms and biting cold weather are an opportunity to prove your toughness. When I was a kid, a snow day meant a quick breakfast then dawn to dusk outside, regardless of temperature. By high school, January ushered in Pennsylvania's annual three-week ski season. It was a time to use those rented skis to slide for 60-odd seconds down a hill of ice.. topped off by standing in line to brave those uncovered lifts- all in six degree farenheit temperature while sporting a pair of Lee jeans. After all, cool guys from Scranton didn't wear those girlie ski pants.

Even when I began working in New York City, those wintry days offered opportunities to prove my manliness. During the blizzard of 1996 I dutifully prepared to brave the 26 inches of snow to get to Manhattan from Hoboken and perform my menial research job. Dina watched from a distance in comic despair. Technically I only made it a few blocks before giving up and grabbing some food at the local diner - with Dina still laughing at me. Nonetheless, I was comforted in knowing I had given it the old Scranton try.

As the storm hit London late Sunday evening, however, my old Scranton instincts abandoned me. I arose at my usual 5:15 am, took one look outside, and like at least 20% of Britain, decided to call it a day. I convinced myself I had good excuses. Thanks to broadband, I can do my job from home. And the city of London can be pretty testing, even for the steeliest of Scranton males. You must remember, this storm of the century amounted to about seven inches of snow (the century thing is technically correct, as it was the biggest snowfall since 1991). It was also predicted by the crack BBC weather squad well in advance. Even so, the entire city of London shut down. No buses, no trains, no taxis, no planes. Businesses were running at 50% capacity. As the British press seized the moment, Mayor Boris Johnson first blamed the type (wet), then the quantity (a lot) of snow to rationalize London's inability to cope with an every day affair in many parts of Europe. It is a good thing that London opted to host the summer Olympics!

But even if good technology and crap London transport services made my decision to stay home perfectly sensible, I still feel a little wimpy. I suppose that I realized a part of me didn't want to scuff up my Cole Hahns and D&G overcoat. It also makes me wonder whether nearly 20 years of urban life has left me ill-equipped to turn my two little boys into the alpha males they deserve to be. The evidence thus far is not reassuring. Ranen is tough for a 4-year old. But he does have a thing for matching clothes (my fault) and an obession with germs (Dina's fault). On Christmas morning he showed up in his matching White Company cotton jammies and stopped me from eating the remainder of Santa's cookie for fear of my catching his germs. As for Gideon, London's storm of the century left a lasting scar. His natural curiosity got him outside. But after taking his first few steps in snow, he retreated to the house for the next two days. During that time he repeated the pharse "dark outside, snow, wet" and refused to go back out (check out the video below, which shows his chat with mom about snow).

So I am making a storm of the century resolution. It is time to regain my alpha Scranton self and toughen up the boys. I've decided to cancel the Ski Chalet in Chamonix France, buy myself and the boys matching Lee jeans and get three full-day lift tickets for Pennsylvania's Elk Mountain Ski "resort".................. Just kidding.

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A Scranton Boy in Chelsea

P.S. By the time I published this, Britain was experiencing its second major snow storm in less than a week. It mainly missed London, but somehow didn't stop the transport system from having massive delays. I should have stayed home - now I need my shoes polished.

You can take the boy out of Scranton, but.....

I never liked the saying, "you can take the boy out of Scranton, but you can't take the Scranton out of the boy". Perhaps because I have spent most of my adult life trying to prove it wrong. It seemed from the minute I left home, at the age of 18, I was trying to shed my Scranton roots. First to go was that Scranton accent - a combination of Fargo meets Deliverance. Then there was the lingo. Where else in the world could you hear a phrase like "I'll have a couple-two-three of those beers" or refer to a funeral home as "a corpse house". (For Scranton beginners, this site is a nice guide to the region's special lingo http://www.brianweinberg.com/dictionary.html).

Next I needed to reinvent myself. Gone was the Yuengling beer. This guy needed to drink the drink of a gentleman. I had a phase with scotch on the rocks. But when I realized my reinvented self looked something akin to a 75-year-old country club retiree, I bought a book on wine. I upgraded my diet. Scranton is a land-locked, meat and potatoes kind of place. Indeed, my only recollection of fish was the frozen sticks from Mrs. Paul's (for those reading in England see http://www.mrspauls.com/). My newly-invented self dined on mahi-mahi, monk fish, and of all things, sushi (complimented with sake and plum wine). For entertainment, I shifted from the Multiplex to the arthouse movies at Lincoln Center. I joined a theatre that did Irish revivals. Hell, I even started going to the opera. And for a finishing touch, I needed a really cool job that no one in Scranton would do. I was hoping for guitar-playing rock star. But I never learned more than a handful of chords. So I settled for currency strategist. I figured there were only a few dozen or so of us in the entire world - surely I'd be the only one from Scranton. And in the world of high finance, it is about as close to a rock star as you can get. My transformation was complete.

But a funny thing has happened to me recently. I realize that I miss some parts of my old, Scranton self. While I still love wine, I am happy to see Yuengling have its own reinvention - as a micro beer available in Manhattan for $10 per bottle. I finally have to admit those arthouse movies at Lincoln Center are typically boring, and nearly always depressing. My last memory of Lincoln Center cinema was some movie about a school bus that crashed into a frozen lake. What's wrong with a little Lucas and Speilberg? Those Irish theatre revivals just remind me how sad early 20th century history was for my ancestors (I am Irish American). And to be honest, I find I just don't like opera. Why should I pay $75 per seat to cure my chronic insomnia when I can do it for free reading almost anything written by currency strategists.

But my reversion back to my Scranton roots is most notable in my parenting skills. It is here I had planned to shed anything I had learned as a lad. Don't get me wrong, I love my parents. But many of the funnier childhood memories revolve around their parental choices. There was the time my elder sister - the first of my family to attend university - convinced mom and dad that the university grading scale was a 3.0 rather than the actual 4.0. For most of her time in school, she had them duped into thinking she was a top student. As for dad, one of his most consistent parental choices was to get us kids to participate in activities that he liked. There was always a few Christmas gifts meant for me that he seemed to enjoy just a little too much. There were the times we played the Atari game system together. Every now and then I'd catch dad changing the difficulty on my controller when he sent me off to fetch him a beer. Dad liked to win. Of particular note was a trip to the cinema together for the premier of Apocolypse Now. The movie was released in 1979, which meant I was 11 (I still see a bald, heavy-set Marlon Brando in my nightmares). No, I am going to bring up my boys differently.

As I think about my parenting choices recently, however, I realize I have quite a lot of my parents in me. Sure, the boys are living their lives very differently than I did. But they should be - they live in the center of one of the largest cities in the world. My first 18 years were in a town of 6000 people. And while I won't be duped on grading scales, I have found myself more interested in seeing the boys have fun, rather than hitting the books hard (believe it or not, in England you hit the books rather early). But where I notice the greatest similarity to my parents, dad really, is in my desire to shape the boys' interests around my own. By the time Ranen was two, he knew every coffee chain in London and what treats are available at each (I have a bit of a latte fetish - he can recite from memory the selection of muffins at Starbucks and Costa). And for some time, he genuinely enjoyed watching me play my Sony PlayStation. By now, he has gotten the joke and insists on getting some of his own playing time with FIFA 2009 (a soccer game, of course). While I allowed Ranen to constantly listen to dismally boring nursery rhymes, with Gideon I am certain not to repeat this mistake. He will never learn "Piano man", a song that Ranen insisted upon repeatedly playing during our three hour drive to Cambridge some years back. Gideon loves music--- my music (if you don't believe me, check out the video below - Ranen, Gideon and Dina dancing to a song from the Kooks). Who cares if Gideon will be the only kid in nursery that likes the Stone Temple Pilots. Humpty dumpty is overrated anyway.

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In the end, I guess I have learned that despite living the past 22 years away from Scranton, I really can't take the Scranton out of me. More important, I realize, I shouldn't want to.

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A Scranton Boy in Chelsea

P.S. For those Scrantonian readers, a new hamburg joint just opened up around the corner--sounds like a touch of home, heyna?? (For those not from Scranton, hamburg is the food, not the city in Germany.)

2008: The Year of the Interesting Curse

In ancient China, there was a proverb - usually used to curse another person - which went something like, "may you live in interesting times". Its closest equivalent in Scranton is "may your mother-in-law have good health". While many years simply blend into one another, 2008 was very clearly one of those interesting times to which the Chinese were referring. As to whether it was a curse to live through, I will let you decide. I leave you with an A-to-Z of the most notable moments for me in the past twelve months.

A is for "ah-day", or Gideon's name for Ranen. 2008 was the year when we saw Gideon's first steps and heard his first word ("Cat", to call on Seamus, our feline of 13 years). It was also the year that a wonderful bond between Ranen and Gideon formed. Ranen became "ah day" when he taught Gideon to say, "good day". "Ranen" is still too hard for Gideon's budding language skills, so "ah day" seemed sensible.

B is for Boxing Day, a rather quirky holiday celebrated in the British commonwealth on December 26th. Its origins dates back many years to when the upper class would give to the poor on the day after Christmas. Either way, Boxing day was for us a way of celebrating the holidays and our new home in Chelsea with our family and friends here in London.

C is for C__ House, where Ranen began his first year of proper English school in September - uniform, et al (picture). I am proud to report that Ranen is already reading me to bed with his favorite story, "The Giving Tree".

D is for dad's 70th birthday in August, celebrated with his entire family by his side - a rare event since we moved to London. And thanks to the surprisingly close proximity of mom's and mom-in-law's birthdays, we celebrated these together as well.

E is for European cup, the once every four year continental soccer championship. This year, Spain beat Germany in a gripping final. More importantly, that game helped launch Ranen's healthy obsession with the beautiful game. It also meant I finally had a worthy sports companion in London! (Now we are just waiting on Gideon, although he already displays impressive dribbling skills)

F is for fourteen, or the wedding anniversary that Dina and I celebrated on November 12th. Admittedly, not usually a notable one. But in what goes down as one of our most challenging years together, the bond that Dina and I formed seemed to get even stronger - and surely more mature.

G is for Gideon, whom we finally got a chance to meet in 2008. Indeed, G is also for Garrett, a long-time friend and someone who summed up a second child perfectly. As he shared a bottle of wine with us, Garrett told us that for your first child, you cherish all the novelty, even the parts that aren't so pleasant. But for your second, you simply can't wait to meet the little person they will be. I met Gideon this year, and boy am I happy.

H is for Hank Paulson, the man who put the M in moral hazard. Hank's decision to let Lehman Brothers fail was not only a personal tragedy, but perhaps the worst policy decision in modern financial history. By time of print, $25 trillion had been wiped out in global equity value and more than 1 million jobs had been lost in the US alone since September. At the time, Lehman would have cost the tax payer about $40 billion. By the end of 2008, the cost of bailing out the US economy had risen to over $1 trillion. Happy retirement Hank.

I is for Istanbul, one of the wonderful new places I visited in 2008. In this case, the visit was with Dina, where we had three days to explore one of the most historically rich cities in the world. Other new stops for me included Cyprus and Australia.

J is for Jamestown, Rhode Island, the town we chose for our annual summer holiday with our entire immediate family. Two weeks of fun in the sun with baseball, hot dogs (mainly kosher ones), apple pie and a healthy dose of family "dynamics".

K is for Knights Tale, Ranen's 2008 movie obsession (following a near 2-year obsession with Pixar Cars). In a rather weird twist, the obsession began with another Ranen obsession - Heath Ledger, who died early in the year. Knights Tale was the only movie we could think of to show Ranen what a fine actor he was (we figured Ranen was a little young for Brokeback Mountain, aka "the cowboy movie").

L is for Lehman Brothers, the 158-year old firm which filed for the largest bankruptcy in US history. Lehman was also where I spent the past seven years of my career. I am sure that September 14th will be one of those dates I remember for the rest of my life. (The picture on the left is the Lehman bankruptcy bash I threw for my team in the week that followed).

M is for MarQCuS, the product developed by me and my team at Lehman. By September, MarQCuS had nearly $2 billion of client assets under management and had 2008 revenues annualizing at more than $60 million. MarQCuS now sits on a server under the control of PWC, Lehman's European bankruptcy manager. Rest in peace, MarQCuS.

N is for Nomura, the tiny Japanese merchant bank that bought all of Lehman's Asia operations and most of its European ones. Today, most of my old Lehman colleagues work there. I chose another path. I joined another US bank in November as global head of Foreign exchange and local markets strategy.

O is for October, one of the more expensive months in my adult life. Financing my own garden leave-- typically a perk of employment transition in the UK that I was denied. A few trips to far away places, some new furniture for our new home, a lot of leisurely lunches with Dina. And for the first time since high school, no paycheck. Who said the consumer is dead.

P is for Polina, our nanny from January through June. In a momentary lapse of reason, Dina fired our long-time nanny, Emerita (Emie). Polina joined with nearly no english skills and absolutely no nanny skills. Fortunately, Dina's regained her reason and rehired Emie in June. Polina remains a family friend and even got to join us in Cyprus in one of her last days as our nanny (see photo's background).

Q is for quadragenarian, which I became earlier this year. Dina through a swanky party for me, complete with a mock Financial Times birthday cake (pitcure up top - yes, that is really a cake), a collage of my early life, lots of champagne and an impressive mix of friends and family. Sadly, those family members that visited from Stateside got to witness the effects of quite a lot of bubbly on my declining, middle age tolerance (sorry for that).

R is for Ravello, a wonderful little town on the Amalfi Coast in Italy. We visited Ravello for the second time in August to attend our friends Ian and Michelle's wedding.

S is for the pound sterling, whose decline in 2008 was a professional and personal triumph. Professional because I was early in calling its demise (August 2007) and personal, because for the first time since we lived in London, it almost feels affordable (almost, that is).

T is for Turnberry, host of the 4th Annual Lehman Liquid Markets Conference (RIP), next year's British Open and Ranen's first round of pitch and put. Tiger, its time to start looking over your shoulder, as Ranen is not far behind you!

U is for University, Penn State University. Admittedly, the beating to USC on New Year's day was a disappointment (but technically, in 2009). Either way, this Scranton Boy in Chelsea appreciated the stellar 2008 season - We are, Penn State!

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V is for the Vale, the area around our new home. After Lehman's fall, Dina and I decided we needed a full split from our pre-bankruptcy life (we are not bankrupt, for the record).

W is for Warwick castle, Hever Castle and the other wonderful medieval sites we visited in 2008. My young boy obesssion with King Arthur and all things medieval had to be satiated with books. For Ranen (and soon Gideon), we take him to the source (then make him read the book!).

X is for X-mas, where Nancy's back surgery and Auntie Lisa's unexpected two-day stay in the emergency room made the decision to stay in London feel a little better. There is always next year.

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Y is for yin and yang, the Chinese concept of interdependence of various forces in the world. It is a fitting phrase when you look at the world through my economic eyes. At the start of 2008, the theme amongst many economists (not yours truly) was de-coupling - how the new emerging market tigers had broken their long-term interdependence with the US. By the end of 2008, we were in the middle of the worst global recession since the 1930s, a recession that was being felt most actuely in those economies thought to be immune to the housing-led crisis in the US - Russia, China, Brazil and India. While very little has felt funny about the global economy this year, I did enjoy the comic irony in watching Russia being forced to devalue the rouble in the closing weeks of the year (sorry Vladimir).

Z is for zero, or the level of overnight US interest rates at the end of 2008. Oh boy, we do live in interesting times.

Happy new year,

A Scranton Boy in Chelsea