Tuxedos, Termites, and Tapas: My 90s Oracle Odyssey
I recently found myself back at Oracle’s hallowed campus in Redwood Shores, California, expecting to write a blog on its latest data and AI prowess. Instead, my brain decided to throw a full-blown nostalgia party, complete with streamers made of dot-matrix print-outs and a DJ spinning the jarring sounds of a modem connecting. I was engulfed by the memories of how I started my career in the very location more than three decades ago. So, instead of writing about technology, I am writing my memoir about the joys of working at Oracle in the 90s.
If you were expecting to read another technology-numbing blog, then you can stop right here. But, if you are curious about the pre-world-wide-web era of corporate life, you are more than welcome to join me on this journey down memory lane.
In 1991, I arrived in the United States on a B1 exchange visa from India, where I had independently acquired proficiency in Oracle version 5, distributed on magnetic tapes. Following the completion of my assigned projects, I was offered a position at Oracle’s headquarters. The commencement of my employment was delayed until early 1992, as Larry Ellison personally signed all offer letters and was traveling in Japan at the time. So, I spent a month experiencing the country in its raw, unfiltered glory, including a brief but enlightening period as a locomotive-riding hobo. That, however, is a saga for a future blog.
The Oakland Hills fires were raging, a stark parallel to this year’s Los Angeles destruction, as I began my Oracle journey. The company itself, in its early 90s glory, was a wonderland of employee perks, a transparent attempt to keep us happily chained to our workstations. And, truth be told, we were more than willing to be chained. Oracle was truly the first quintessential Silicon Valley company that did everything with panache. We attended so many formal events that we began to question the practicality of renting tuxedos, rather than investing in our own.
Working within the Unix group meant I had the pleasure of navigating approximately 100 unique interpretations of this venerable OS, since Oracle’s software ran on them all. While I personally favored the elegant simplicity of Unix, I was also inducted into the mysteries of DEC VMS, Oracle’s ancestral base code operating system. Our competitors, Ingres and Informix, were rather proud of their ‘technical advancements’. We just had Larry Ellison. And that, as they say, was game over.
In the pre-Google era, mastering Oracle meant wrestling with a box of printed manuals that could double as a weightlifting regimen. As Oracle’s influence grew, I took it upon myself to introduce various aspects of the product to the masses at UC Berkeley Extension. This resulted in a 250-page book, a literary endeavor that, while unpublished, found a second life as a ‘reader’ for unsuspecting UCBX students…you’re welcome (I think).
Jurassic Park, the cinematic event of our era, prompted Oracle to rent a local theater for its employees. When a young girl declared, ‘It’s a UNIX system! I know this!’ while hacking a Silicon Graphics computer, the entire audience erupted in applause. We had, it seemed, achieved cultural relevance.
We were in that very same theater when Larry Ellison, live from New York, attempted to launch Oracle 7 with a live demo. The demo gods, however, were feeling particularly mischievous that day, and the demonstration faltered. Yet, Oracle was undeterred and launched its database with characteristic flair. This was the Oracle way: grand gestures combined with unwavering confidence. We even held company picnics at a horse racing track that, sadly, has since traded thoroughbreds for thoroughly ordinary townhouses.
I started my San Francisco life in Bernal Heights, in a cozy spot with a dubious Carlos Santana connection. Then, I upgraded to a Nigerian Government-owned mansion in Presidio Heights, a move that significantly increased my square footage and roommate count of eight. With many Oracle colleagues, we formed a Monday-to-Friday vehicular migration to Redwood Shores, relying on a vanpool. Every Friday evening, we drove back to the city.
Our residence, aptly named ‘The Embassy’ as it was a former diplomatic outpost, was a notorious party venue. Our party invitations were strictly word-of-mouth: invitations were spread through the ancient art of verbal communication to avoid overcrowding. Many times, these parties ended with the arrival of the police…
We had a house band, ‘The Termites,’ specializing in Beatles covers and I was their self-appointed manager. Every weekend, the few tech workers who actually resided in San Francisco would congregate at our dive bar performances. The band’s reward? Free drinks. It was a noble sacrifice, really. Tech workers largely avoided San Francisco at that time, opting for the peninsula and its easier parking, flatter terrain, and less visible homelessness.
Work ceased entirely upon our return to San Francisco. My green screen monitor and painfully slow 9600 baud modem were reserved for dire situations only. In the absence of cell phones, we experienced true, uninterrupted leisure. Our evenings were truly our own.
I must confess my undying affection for San Francisco. From my birth city of Leeds and millennia-old temples in India, I found the city’s claims of ‘history’ hilarious. However, Gold Rush tales, Beat Generation lore, and hippie-era shenanigans wove their magic, and I was hooked. I became a certified tour guide, because apparently, I enjoy inflicting historical anecdotes on unsuspecting tourists (and readers of this blog). Food and historic oddities became my passion despite the city’s many, and loud, detractors. I also joined the board of International Youth Hostels, renamed Hostelling International, as we expanded beyond the gorgeous Fort Mason location.
The International Oracle Users Week (IOUW), a conference that made Moscone feel like the center of the tech universe, was a San Francisco tradition. For ten consecutive years I presented at this event, and its slightly more caffeinated European counterpart.
Working for a global company sparked my wanderlust. I enrolled in Spanish classes at Casa Hispana in the Castro District, and armed with my newfound linguistic skills, I requested a transfer to Spain. The remarkably quick ‘yes’ suggested my manager might have been more interested in my departure than my career development.
Those months in Barcelona taught me that Spanish textbooks are merely a starting point. My attempts at customer support were a masterclass in missed nuances. For example, my teachers had never taught me how to translate ‘Control- Alt- Delete’ in Spanish. One memorable incident involved asking a client for his password to access his computer, only to be met with uproarious laughter. Turns out, ‘el caro’ — Oracle reversed — translates to “the most expensive”. My book-learned Spanish failed miserably!
While Spain’s well-known siesta wasn’t observed in workplaces, it was certainly observed…spiritually. On my first day, the Madrid management team descended, curious to inspect the imported ‘talent.’ This inspection took the form of an extended, multi-course lunch at a nearby tapas bar. As we strolled over, I noticed the entire team was present. Concerned about abandoned phone lines, I inquired innocently, ‘Who’s minding the store?’ They responded with a collective, incredulous stare: ‘It’s lunchtime.’ Message received.
As the two-hour lunch wound down, I was asked my preferred aperitif. I confessed, perhaps naively, to not being a lunchtime drinker. My protests were, shall we say, overruled. A few ports later, slightly wobbly, I confided my concern to a colleague who assured me ‘Oh, we’re all like this.’ When I asked about afternoon productivity, they simply smiled and said, ‘Oh, we just wait for the day to end, and then we go for tapas.’ A very efficient system, I thought, once I adjusted.
Ah, the 90s, the golden age of discotheques. In the US, bars politely ushered you out by 2 AM. In Spain, arriving at a club before 2 AM meant you were incredibly lonely but had the dance floor all to yourself. The real party commenced at 2 AM and continued until the sun, quite rudely, interrupted.
Though Spaniards excelled at enjoying life, there were some ambitious souls who were curious about how I, a foreigner, had learned Spanish and found myself working in Spain. They were the ones who yearned for the US, only to find themselves running on the very same corporate treadmill as many of us stateside.
There was a slight, shall we say, ‘administrative detail’ I omitted regarding my Spanish sojourn: my tourist visa, affixed to my Indian passport, had expired. The renewal process was leisurely and protracted, leaving me in a state of bureaucratic limbo. This, surprisingly, didn’t impact my work, but it did necessitate a certain…discretion.
However, I was soon to learn that discretion wasn’t enough. While enjoying bocadillos in Madrid with my wife, a police raid swept through the neighborhood, targeting drugs and undocumented individuals. When they approached our table, I strategically withheld my Indian passport, instead presenting my California driver’s license. They were initially hesitant, but upon seeing it, their demeanor shifted dramatically. ‘California! Muy bonita, si? Muy dinero, si?’ They gushed. Whether they were hinting at a bribe or simply marveling at the prestige of California, I couldn’t be sure. But the sheer reputation of the US in the 90s ensured our swift, and unencumbered, departure.
Following my Spanish sojourn, I was recruited to nCUBE, Larry Ellison’s R&D pet project, which was developing MPP computers for Oracle Parallel Server and Video Server. I had the privilege of demonstrating various innovations to Larry, who, unimpressed, declared the only Java application he’d witnessed was an ‘animated bobbing man.’
nCUBE, and their Frog-designed rocket-shaped chassis, sent me on a global adventure. My Indian passport, however, had some very specific rules about Japan, and only allowed single-entry visas. Therefore, I was at the Japanese consulate every Monday morning in San Francisco, to get a visa, and then off to Narita on the 11:30 am United flight, to be back for the weekend. I know what you are thinking, why not just stay. But, that would be way too simple, and we can’t have that. Like my earlier hobo days taught me, there is an adventure at every turn and like them bureaucratic hurdles are the spice of life, I guess. A straightforward solution is rarely the most entertaining one and without them I wouldn’t have anything to say in this blog!
Peace out.
