A Persian Goodbye
I always wanted a to be an architect. That came to a screeching halt the first week of freshman orientation when this student magazine was slid under all our dorm room doors on which it showed the earning power of all the major professions. Veterinarians were at the top and architects were at the bottom. I had not applied to the school of architecture, but as an engineering student, I still had it on my screen. That magazine killed it for me. It didn’t have to be even upper half, but dead last was too hard to swallow. My father had been a pretend architect and my sister was on her way to being a real architect (which she indeed has been for forty-five years). Nevertheless, the interest in architecture never escaped my soul.
In 2008, in the depths of the financial meltdown, when real estate was a toxic asset class, I was asked to take over a $3 billion portfolio of over-leveraged trophy properties that were all collectively and singularly teetering on the brink of foreclosure. They had been overpaid for at the peak for suspicious reasons (lots of fees flying around in those days) and someone had crafted a story of trees growing to the sky while others had bought in since they were flush with other people’s money to put to work in the treetops. The properties ranged from raw land in the middle of Los Angeles, Phoenix and Las Vegas (64 acres just off the Strip) to iconic NYC buildings like The Clock Tower at Madison Square and the old New York Times building on Times Square. They all seemed special, but they all had hidden flaws that had kept others from taking on the challenge. The common thread was that they all needed to be financially restructured and that required there to be an architectural vision developed (some might say a Plan B for trees growing to the sky).
I restructured all twenty-two properties over two years and kept each and every one from falling into foreclosure. My bankers and lawyers were in awe and could not figure out how I was doing it, especially since I had no real estate restructuring experience. They hadn’t yet recognized that the deeper the distress, the easier it was to motivate people to play ball. The most impressive salvage job was the Times Square Building, bought for $800 million and suddenly the proud owner of a new $200 million appraisal. I managed to bring the $711 million in debt on the property down to $300 million while convincing everyone that we could repurpose the planned office into high-end condos, a snazzy hotel and popping retail. The financial tricks that made this all possible were not the secret (though they helped). The real trick was the passion for the new vision for the physical property. Suffice it to say, that two years gave me a big dose of that architecture Jones I had harbored for fifty years.
Following that episode and because of it, I fell into a situation that consumed six years of my life. It was called the New York Wheel. It was ultimately a $610 million project supported by three NY real estate billionaires (two of whom I had worked with on one of the trophy property restructurings), $206 million of Chinese investor EB-5 money and $200 million of senior debt provided by one of the world’s biggest hedge funds. All of that was arranged and sourced by yours truly. Over the six years we took this from a twinkle in the eye to a nearly completed project on eight acres of north-shore waterfront Staten Island. There are many stories that flow from this six-year odyssey, but this is the story of the architectural saga involved with surrounding the world’s largest observation wheel with the beauty and functional intrigue befitting such a monument to New York City.
The founding partner of the concept, a Hasidic gentleman, finagled meetings with several avant-garde architectural firms that either passed on the project in concept, or more likely passed on working sans retainer (which was the usual request, Hasidistically speaking). Then one day, I was asked to join a meeting with two architects from Perkins Eastman at a breakfast in Chelsea. One was an Einsteinishly wild-eyed guy and the other was a broad-smiling mustachioed swarthy guy with the hint of an unspecific foreign accent. We had met Stan and Navid and they agreed on the spot to take the commission.
It quickly became obvious that Stan was the man with the Sharpie who sketched ideas in rough generalities and Navid was the business and practical end of the process. It only took a few meetings for me to realize that my task would be to work through the entire process (conceptual, schematic, design development, construction documentation, budgets and bidding, and finally, construction administration) with Navid. As the process unfolded, I grew more and more fond of Navid’s pleasant demeanor and can-do attitude. These projects require long and sometimes tedious sessions with changing specialists on all sides. Navid was by my side at all times guiding me as a first-timer and giving me confidence in my capabilities to guide this effort. We became friendly and spoke often of personal things. I learned that he was of Persian descent and that he had a strong connection to his family. Navid spoke often and easily about his wife and sons and there was always that same smile on his face and beaming expression of pride that he also showed for his prior successful projects. I came to respect Navid for his passion, his diplomacy, his capability and his breadth.
When one works with someone on a successful project or business, its easy to come away feeling good about your partners. With the New York Wheel, while there is pride to be taken in aspects and accomplishments, no one would mistake the project as a success (it remains and may always be unfinished). And here’s the thing, I respect Navid and his part in this as much or more than if the project had succeeded. That is a testament to the man and his personal qualities.
When I got the message from his son that Navid had died quite suddenly from cancer, I was stunned. He was so vital, he was special. And now he was gone. I attended the memorial and watched his close family and friends speak of his qualities (all of which I immediately recognized from my six years working with the man) and grieve his passing. I have been to a Persian wedding and witnessed this same passion for life and family. Now I was seeing the passion of Persian grief and the passion of Persian life come through every speech. I have never been to Persia (I have been to Pakistan, Jordan and all through the Western side of the Gulf), but I have a greater desire for having known Navid, to meet a people that could breed such a man. Goodbye my Persian friend.