a bit of silliness

My friend Sam told me about an article on pipe smoking, a pleasure he and I occasionally partake of. I guess that makes us seekers of truth, according to Michael Foley. My Dad told me about a silly mug that I might have to give him for Christmas. And there's a rather funny album that's been floating around for a year, but I was recently reminded of just how odd it is. Try listening to some of the clips; my favorite is "Jump!" Also, why didn't anybody tell me "Grey's Anatomy" was set in Seattle? I've been hearing about this show all year, but nobody thought about mentioning that? I watched the first two episodes tonight and I like it, but those scenery shots of the Emerald City... beautiful!

more sports

Mark Galli has written the article I'’ve been waiting a long time to read. In the latest issue of Books and Culture his piece, "“On a Pass and a Prayer: Why we no longer believe in sports but should,"” lucidly explains why we need sportswriting, or what he calls "“stories about the games themselves, and their heroes, when men and women act out great dramas, games of tragedy and hope, meaningful precisely because they transcend the usual social calculus."

Full disclosure: I'’ve harbored dreams of being a writer for Sports Illustrated since I was old enough to read the magazine. I love the drama and mystery of sports, punctuated by glimpses of unmitigated grace cutting through our obsession with justice and getting what we deserve (what else can you call it when your winning goal comes from an unintentional deflection off the opposing defender?). Don't get me wrong -– when my Dodgers or Nittany Lions play better than their opponents and still lose I get as mad as everybody else. But that'’s the nature of grace -– our conceptions of justice must always be tempered by humility because God'’s grace means people don'’t always get what they deserve. As an admitted devotee of sports and sportswriting I knew I would like this article going in.

Galli works on a few important themes, starting with the idea that the often miraculous nature of sports is good for us as people who suffer from "“a widespread loss of transcendence."” I don'’t use that word miraculous lightly. It'’s easy to explain away just about everything, but what else do we call it when something entirely unbelievable happens? Sports is one realm where things that have absolutely no business happening take place with some regularity!

When my Dad and I watch sports we have this reccurring conversation: when the situation gets dire (down 3 games to none in a best of seven series, down 5 points with 15 seconds left and your best three-point shooter fouled out, backed up on your own 30 yard line with enough time left for just one play, etc.) Dad declares with certitude that the game is over. I predictably respond by calling him a pessimist and running down the possibilities for a comeback, far-fetched may they be. He then claims he'’s not a pessimist, but a realist. Of course, he'’s almost always right. But those exceptions (most notably the Saturday afternoon Kordell Stewart and Michael Westbrook broke hearts all over the Great Lakes State) are enough to remind me that these things do happen. In response to Al Michaels'’ famous question from 1980, yes, I do believe in miracles. As Christians we have to answer yes.

But sports? Aren'’t we getting a tad too excited about them here? Galli says it better than I can: Â"what goes on between the foul lines or end zones is real, and that the symbolic participates in a deeper reality... sports are a dimension of play, and play an expression of Sabbath, an activity that cannot have any socially useful purpose lest it become just another bit of work. Play is a celebration of the seventh day of creation, an activity in which we live out the imago Dei and create our own bounded but free worlds. Play points back to the culmination of creation and forward to the time when all existence will be nothing but a Sabbath."

If, as Galli suggests, in sports we are reflecting our creator by creating our own worlds -– worlds with joy, grace, pain, miracles, and tragedy, just like our own world -– sports do matter. I love trying to view social issues through the lens of sports (which Galli argues is the direction most sportswriting is going), but we can also appreciate sports and the stories of sports on their own merit. It's popular in some circles to talk about God'’s relationship to this world in terms of a story. I love the idea (of course I do -– I'm an English major), and look for connections between our stories (in literature, film, life, and, of course, sport) and The Story. It'’s those connections that give the drama of sports so much value.

"the fringes of english usage"

One of the joys of being back in the US has been regular access to some quality National Public Radio programming. Today, on Talk of the Nation, Neal Conan hosted a segment with three language experts (Grant Barrett - a lexicographer, Geoffrey Pullum- a linguist, and Martha Barnette - co-host of a radio show on language). The particular focus of the conversation was the internet's impact on language, though they did a fairly poor job of staying on topic. Pullum came off as a bit of a snob, and he didn't do Barrett much credit in his response on LanguageLog. I think the best part of the conversation was when Barrett and Barnette touched on the passion people feel about language. Pullum misunderstood that Barrett's encouragement to one caller to "keep fighting" was simply his way of telling her not to stop caring about language. So I echo that admonishment to you, my faithful readers.

sport preoccupation

I know I've only been blogging about soccer lately, but I'm a firm believer that sport is a fascinating barometer for social trends (in addition to being a lot of fun). For example, on the New York Times World Cup blog they refer to a depressing story about how simply being a fan can be dangerous in some places. Some of my friends tell me I should stop wasting so much of my time following sports. Maybe they're right, but I know what I'll be doing tomorrow morning at 7:00 AM Pacific.

npr is the best

"Dutch Fans Go Pantless Over Beer Logos"

confounded and confused

Yesterday I got to worship at Sanctuary, the church my sister and brother-in-law attend. I've been there several times and I know a handful of people there. We were a little late getting there (I made my parents wait until halftime of the Australia-Brazil match before we could leave), but the service hadn't started. We parked across the street and as we walked over we heard a hearty yell. The pastor, Randy, called out, "Hey! You're not supposed to be here - you're supposed to be in Europe!" He greeted me with a warm hug, which was followed by another from the worship leader, Pete. We quickly found some seats as Randy greeted the congregation and Pete asked us to stand.

Then, in one of those "is this really happening" moments, I heard the first few chords of the opening song, and I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, shout for joy, or collapse out of sheer emotional exhaustion. It was a song written by my friend Ron that has a great deal of meaning for me. As I sang it lustily I was filled with gratitude (because I was once again worshipping with a community I knew and understood), sadness (because I miss the people I shared that sang with at Calvin), joy (because this song, of all they could have chosen, was the one that welcomed me back to the States), and many other emotions.

The song was a microcosm for the rest of the service. We did many things that seem as familiar to me as breathing, said words I've repeated countless times (Heidelberg Catechism Q&A 1!), and sang songs that are a part of me to my very core (Praise to the Lord the Almighty, God be merciful to me, I could sing of your love forever, even the doxology!). Yet, I hadn't had the chance to do any of those things in corporate worship in almost a year. Yes, my church in Budapest is wonderful and I'm not complaining about it. However, Sanctuary is part of the same tradition I am. It feels like home to me in a way that I don't think my little Scottish Presbyterian church ever will.

At church yesterday I was incredibly grateful for this sense of community and place, but the more I think about it the more I'm confused by it. Is this a good thing? Am I somehow reinforcing the division in the body of Christ by acknowledging these feelings? I want to go back and read M. Craig Barnes' Searching for Home again, because I think he gets at this idea. It's especially strange because I've been so frustrated at this very same tradition lately. Mary and the smart people who comment on her blog (she's smart too, incidentally) have had an interesting discussion of the issue, so I won't add to it. I will say, though, that despite many people from my denomination's inherently flawed approach to scripture I love this tradition of which I'm a part. Even though some of my brothers and sisters may find me more worthy of being a denominational leader simply because I have only one X chromosome, they are still my brothers and sisters. For better or worse they are my community, the group that defines home for me. Now the question is... which one is it? For better or worse?

monday morning... midfielder?

My World Cup addiction started in 1994. That was the year the world's best invaded the United States and everybody was talking about Thomas Brolin, Gheorghe Hagi, Hristo Stoitchkov, Romario, and Roberto Baggio. Or at least I imagine everybody was. You see I wasn't in the States in June of '94 - my family was taking advantage of my Dad's sabbatical by spending six months in Australia. While I was disappointed about missing the chance to go to a match, I couldn't really complain. I was in Australia, after all! My solution was to get up at 5:00 every morning to watch a match and a half before school every day. I fell for the passion of the Nigerians, the professionalism of the Swedes, the precision of the Dutch, and (of course) the underdog determination of the Americans. And the great matches... Italy v. Ireland, The US v. Brazil (an overtime match that my mom, bless her, let me skip school to finish watching) , Brazil v. Holland, Bulgaria v. Germany, and Brazil over Italy in the final.

It was all over for me - I was hooked. But while I was overseas for my formative world cup experience, this year was my first chance to enjoy the world cup while living in a real soccer crazy country. You can walk down the Vaci Utca in Budapest and literally not miss a minute of play because every cafe and restaurant has the match playing. Little coffee shops who look like they're barely scraping by suddenly have 64 inch plasma screens hanging up outside! Last week the Czechs embarassed the US, while I watched on a giant screen in the main square of Budapest with hundreds of other people. My students could talk about nothing else the next day.

I've just spent the morning watching Andrei Shevchenko remind the world he's one of the best in the world and can carry the Ukraine to the second round by himself if he has to. With all the color, pageantry, and excitment of the players and fans, it's the most exciting sporting event in the world (with apologies to March Madness). I can't wait for the knock out rounds!

reflections at 34,000 feet (or 10,363 meters)

[editor's note: this post was written on Friday, June 16]

I love flying. I know the seats are small, the food is bad, the company can be strange, and it’s terrible for the environment, but having twelve hours during which it’s literally impossible for me to be always doing something or always going somewhere isn’t such a bad thing. Lufthansa, whose fine service I’m enjoying, now has wireless internet on its flights (for a small fee), but I’m resisting the urge. In a few hours I’ll really want to know how the soccer is going, but even that can wait until I get to LA. I’m cut off from the world by 6 miles of air, and it’s finally given me the chance to reflect on a few things.

My music choice at the moment is “Hit the Road, Jack” by Ray Charles. There’s no better song for making an exit, and that’s what I’m doing. Yesterday I finished my first year at Kossuth Lajos Muszaki Kettannyelvu Szakkozepiskola (and that’s the first time I’ve gotten the entire name of the school down from memory!). I’ll be back next year, of course, but for now I’m heading back to the world of baseball games, good Mexican food, Mom’s home cooking, and English! I don’t know what I’m going to do when confronted with the reality that I can understand everybody around me and they can understand me right back.

I don’t know how I’ll respond to what some call reverse culture shock, and from what people tell me I won’t even be consistent in my response. The same grocery store that I love one day because I have so many choices might be debilitatingly overwhelming the next. So, for those of you who will see me soon, please have patience! But enough of that for now – I’m going home and I couldn’t be more excited.

The last few weeks have been overwhelming in their own right. You may have noticed that the frequency of posts on this site has dwindled. I remember teachers telling me they looked forward to the end of the school year as much as we students did. I never believed them, and I was right. Now I know teachers look forward to the end of the year even more than their students do! As a student I just had to worry about my own exams and final projects. Now I have to create fair evaluations that allow my students to demonstrate their abilities. Then I have to be as objective as I can in administering those tests and grading those assignments. And finally, because of the way the education system here works, I have to prove to my administration that my appraisals are fair and valid. Then multiply that process by 110 (the number of students I teach).

I hope this doesn’t sound too much like whining. Even though I’m thrilled all that stuff is finished I know my students deserve nothing less. They (or rather most of them) have worked hard all year and need to be able to demonstrate that. Of course, that’s why it kills me when a good student walks into an oral exam and gets flustered by the first curve ball we throw and falls apart. Suddenly he or she can’t even remember how to conjugate “to be” when yesterday she/he was tossing around conditional progressives like a pro. Amid all the end of the year evaluations I also got to pass out my summer reading assignments. Yes, next year I’ll get to teach American and British literature in addition to English language classes. One of the summer tasks I’m most looking forward to is creating the syllabi – any suggestions?

As I look back on the year I’m thankful for how well things have gone in the classroom. My students were almost always hard working and diligent, and I think they learned a lot. I haven’t read their course evaluations yet, but I think they liked me a bit too! We had a great turnout for our end of the year cook out, and I was reminded how much I enjoy just hanging out with these kids (even when they're positively schooling me at soccer). I couldn't ask for any better students for a first year of teaching. I think I'll probably be posting a bit more on the transition as I adjust. Only six hours until I land in LA - I wonder what I'll think!

some randomness

It's been a busy few weeks and I haven't posted in a while. It's hard to believe I'll be heading for the USA three weeks from tomorrow. Year one of my great Hungarian adventure flew by! I've been reading The Ragamuffin Gospel, by Brennan Manning, and he quotes Robert Capon saying this:

"The Reformation was a time when men went blind, staggering drunk because they had discovered, in the dusty basement of late medievalism, a whole cellarful of fifteen-hundred-year-old, two hundred proof grace - of bottle after bottle of pure distillate of Scripture, one sip of which would convince anyone that God saves us single-handedly. The word of the Gospel - after all those centuries of trying to lift yourself into heaven by worrying about the perfection of your bootstraps - suddenly turned out to be a flat announcement that the saved were home before they started... Grace has to be drunk straight: no water, no ice, and certainly no ginger ale; neither goodness, nor badness, nor the flowers that bloom in the spring of super spirituality could be allowed to enter into the case."

I liked the imagery.

Also, I recently codified my thoughts on chick flicks and a friend suggested I put them on my blog. There are eight requirements any romantic comedy must fulfill for me to judge it a good chick flick.

1) There must be something unique about the setting, concept, or idea of the film. Somebody can say "the film with the X" or "the one about an X" and know which movie you mean. For example, "the movie about the American movie star and the English bookshop guy" is obvious, but "the one about Cinderella" is not.

2) There has to be SOMETHING unpredictable in the movie. If I can tell you every major plot development after seeing the first five minutes of the film we're in trouble.

3) Dialogue, dialogue, dialogue! Chick flicks live and die by the realism and wittiness of their dialogue. If it's cheesy and trite they're awful, but snappy banter can save even a lukewarm plot.

4) It has to have realistic characters - none of those flat, one-sided, all-we-know-about-them-is-the-love-story characters, please. I want real people with real quirks and real emotional responses to real problems. I know realism isn't a hallmark of these films, and I'm not asking for every situation to be realistic (see number 1). However, given a few stretches for us to believe, the rest should be easy to accept. For example, when we believe that a rich businessman is willing to spend loads of money to hire one hooker for a whole week, it's not that difficult to imagine her slowly using the money to transform herself into a more refined woman.

5) It must have a good soundtrack. This is the most underrated part of a chick flick, but it's vital. These are movies about emotion and if the music doesn't set the right emotional tone you're sunk.

6) It has to have at least one pantheon-level repeatable line. There should be one that brings the film to mind whenever you hear it, regardless of context. In fact this is a good rule for almost all genres of movies.

7) They have to throw the guys a bone. It doesn't need to be something big, but few small "guy" moments in the film are must! Examples are the whole "Brooks Robinson is the greatest third baseman ever" subplot in Sleepless in Seattle, or the "Dirty Dozen" scene at the dinner table in that film (which I think is the single greatest guy moment in a chick flick).

and 8)... actually, I forget number 8. I'm sure it was something good. It's not a closed list - I take suggestions. Now you can decide for yourself if a chick flick passes the test. I've used a few of my favorites as examples (though I don't know if Pretty Woman is really a favorite of mine), but the archetypal chick flick is, and always will be, Casablanca.

crossing the abyss

I'm blessed to have a lot of really smart friends (see the links on my sidebar!). Another one has started a blog that I imagine will be some very interesting reading. She's just getting started, so welcome to the blogosphere, Jackie!

a trip to the embassy

Today I went to the US embassy for the first time, and it was an eye-opening experience. Let me first say, I was looking forward to this. I've seen enough spy movies with Americans diving into the embassy and safety at the last possible moment to be childishly excited by going there. As I walked in (through a massive security checkpoint where they took my computer for the duration of my visit) I imagined Matt Damon as Jason Bourne dodging through the building, trying to catch bad guys or something. I went to get some more pages put in my passport (it's full - how cool is that!) so I can go to the Belvedere Art Museum in Vienna in a couple weeks.

It was fairly busy, so I got to watch a few Hungarian people go through the security line in front of me. The guard was brusque and efficient with them, but when he heard my accent-less English he broke into a wide smile and started chatting amicably with me. He asked me where I was from, why I was in Budapest, and the other standard questions (as he took away my beloved laptop, probably to put some sort of spy tracking device in it...). It felt really good to be treated nicely.

In the waiting room they have a machine that gives you a number depending on which button you push. There were about two dozen people waiting, so I pressed the "US Citizen" button and settled into a comfy chair with my book (Open Heart by Frederick Buechner). Much to my surprise, I got to read all of about a paragraph before my number was called. When I got to the window I asked if there hadn't been some mistake. I was assured that all those people were Hungarians there to apply for visas, and I didn't have to wait for them. Again, it felt good to be kind of special, but also awkward.

I guess you can argue that, as an American, it's my embassy and I should be treated that way. However, that's the attitude of entitlement that really angers me about so many Americans. I wanted to say something - but how do you complain about something like that? So I leave it for you to decide for yourself. Maybe this is a symptom of a larger ideological problem. Or maybe I'm just overly sensitive.

grace

I made two of my classes listen to one of my favorite songs today, U2's "Grace." We do "listening activities" with songs a lot, but the best part is the inevitable "what does it mean" question that follows the listening. We got to talk about how an oyster turning a painful grain of sand into a pearl is a wonderful example of grace. We discussed karma and reincarnation. And there was a moment when one of my students said, "Grace is hard because it makes me feel guilty." In a phrase he summarized one of the great struggles of my life. It reminded me why I'm really glad to be a teacher. Here's the song:

Grace
She takes the blame
She covers the shame
Removes the stain
It could be her name

Grace
It's a name for a girl
It's also a thought that
Changed the world

And when she walks on the street
You can hear the strings
Grace finds goodness
In everything

Grace
She's got the walk
Not on a ramp or on chalk
She's got the time to talk

She travels outside
Of karma, karma
She travels outside
Of karma

When she goes to work
You can hear the strings
Grace finds beauty
In everything

Grace
She carries a world on her hips
No champagne flute for her lips
No twirls or skips
Between her fingertips

She carries a pearl
In perfect condition
What once was hurt
What once was friction
What left a mark
No longer stings

Because grace makes beauty
Out of ugly things

Grace finds beauty
In everything

Grace find goodness
In everything

csiga

Now that it's warm out every morning I'm greeted by at least two dozen prime examples of one of the world's coolest creatures on my way to school. I love snails! Did you know they actually have teeth - lots of them? They use them like a file, and they're strong enough to chew through limestone! And they move on that slimy mucous, which is amazing stuff. They also use it to clog up the hole in their shell when they hibernate (leaving a tiny hole for breathing), and it's so gooey it protects them from sharp things on the ground. They also secrete it when something tried to eat them (like a frog) so instead of a yummy snail they get a mouthful of goo.

two wheels are better than four

This evening, as I was riding a tram into the center of the city, I was surpriused to see something I saw on the last Friday of every month in Grand Rapids: hundreds of bicycles filling the road. Critical Mass has reached Budapest! I wish I had a bike here so I could have joined in.

some more books

One of my favorite vacation pleasures is sinking into a good book, so last week I often found myself enjoying the spring sunshine, a cup of coffee, and the current paperback at a café. Specifically, I tackled The French Lieutenant’s Woman, by John Fowles, and A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving. The first is a thoughtful investigation of the Victorian period, specifically Victorian sexuality, written from the perspective of the 1960s. The story and commentary were interesting enough – I still don’t know what to make of the Victorians – but the most interesting parts were the points were Fowles would insert himself, the author, into his own story. He frequently discusses the typical conventions of Victorian novels, and the nature of the writing process. I think if I ever write a novel I’ll have a hard time keeping myself from making the same sort of interjections. Authors often say the characters they’ve created take on a will of their own, which is something I’ve never really understood. Fowles comes the closest, however, to making it clear.

As for Owen Meany, he’s one of the most unforgettable characters I’ve ever read. Irving creates someone so original that as I read I kept thinking it would be impossible to make the book into a movie because nobody could play Owen. My only criticism is Irving’s foreshadowing, which is about as subtle as a brick to the face. I love the tough questions the book asks about faith and belief, especially since Irving leaves so many open ended. Even now, a week after finishing it, I find myself reevaluating Owen’s convictions in my fleeting daydreaming moments. As sure as I am that God doesn’t work the way Owen thinks he does, it has a certain appeal to it. Deep down, I want faith like Owen’s, even though I know it’s misguided. I know this doesn’t make much sense to those of you who haven’t read the book, so go out and read it and then comment on my blog! My only criticism is Irving’s foreshadowing, which is about as subtle as a brick to the face.

vive la france

I’ve had a lot of things rolling around my head lately, but not a lot of time to make enough sense of them to share. This was directly connected to my Easter break travels to Barcelona and southwestern France. I was able to hang out with my old 3^rd Schultze bro, Sam Schoofs, and enjoy his wonderful hospitality. Instead of writing a lot here I decided to simply upload the journal entries I made during the trip. It’s kind of a lot, so consider yourself forewarned! I’ve also posted some pictures.

woof!

This morning I dashed out the door of our building because I woke up a little late and I nearly stepped on... a puppy! I live at one of the buildings of my school, and it's kind of like a small compound. We have a nice 6 foot fence with barbed wire at the top - haven't figured out if that's to keep intruders out or students in. Bobak, the manager of the base (as we affectionately call it), decided it would be a good idea to get a dog to bolster security. Of course, he picked an incredibly cute and friendly beagle/collie mix. We're trying to think of a suitable Hungarian name for him - any ideas?

under the frog

I've started a new book: Under the Frog by Tibor Fischer. It's the story of two young basketball players and the 1956 Hungarian revolution. Perhaps I'll write more about it when I finish, but one of the early chapters contained a wonderful description of the hospitality you encounter in the Hungarian countryside. It is 1949 and our hero, Gyuri, has just arrived in the tiny village of Halas where he is treated as an honored guest. When I read this I'm transported back to my first visits to Hungary with Calvin College, and the families who treated us so well.

"The scale and ferocity of peasant cuisine could be overpowering if you were out of training. Gyuri knew how the breakfasts alone could put feeble urban dwellers in hospital. At Erdovaros, the summer he was thirteen, when Gyuri had been entrusted to one of the local families, they poured him a generous palinka [brandy] for breakfast along with a brick of fat [lard] garnished with a dash of paprika. Thinking well of their liberality, he drank the palinka before walking out the door into the ground. It had taken his legs hours to remember how to walk but his stomach only a few moments to evict the solid elements of his meal. That sort of morning fuelling was tolerable only if you had grown up on it and if you had a day in a field ahead of you. Even as an atheletic thirteen year-old, harvesting for an hour had given him so much pain in so many places that all he could do was lie in the field and pray for an ambulance, while the heavily pregnant woman who had been working alongside him kindly offered to go and get him a drink.

The hospitality was unleashed straight away. Gyuri hadn't seen so much food, so much good food since the point when the war had got noticebly war-like, and it was quite possible that he had never seen that much food in an enclosed space ever before. The depressing thing was that he wouldn't be able to make up for five years' going hungry in one evening, however hard he tried. Even the expansive Neumann was looking awed by the food, since people had unmistakable designs of inflicting several sevings on them. If Gyuri tried to slow down his consumption, the villagers who had appointed themselves his personal troop of waiters would hover around and if he ate up, the consumed items would be swiftly replaced. Within half an hour of mastication commencing, Gyuri was seriously worried about parting company with consciousness: surrounding his enourmous plate, which had grown a stalagmite of sausage, cured pork, pig cheese and boxing-glove-sized chunks of bread, were two glasses of wine, one red, one white, two glasses of palinka, apricot and pear, and two glasses of beer in case he got thirsty. Behind him he could hear enraged villagers fighting to get to his side so they could pour out more of their pressings and distillations."

new look (and title)

I thought a change of pace was in order for this little corner of cyberspace. Perhaps I'll return to the old title eventually, but for now I wanted to refocus myself a little bit on something I've been struggling with for a long time: the balance between pride and humility. It's important to remember that humility isn't thinking you can't do anything. Instead it's the knowledge that we can do all things in Christ, not in our own strength. The new title comes from the great hymn in Philipians 2:

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus:
6Who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be grasped,
7but made himself nothing,
taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.
8And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to death—
even death on a cross!
9Therefore God exalted him to the highest place
and gave him the name that is above every name,
10that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
11and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father. (NIV)

The quote comes from The Gulag Archipelago, by Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn. Here was a man who had seen the very worst of humanity, yet he would not offer a blanket condemnation. He recognized that even his tormentors were made in the image of God, and consequently could not be called evil. If only we could all be that humble when we consider our enemies!

some reviews

I've been indulging in the popular culture lately, and I thought I would share a few things with my faithful readers. I just finished two books, one that took my two months to read and one that took me two days. The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, by William L. Shirer, is an incredibly informative and sobering read. Shirer and his CBS Radio colleague Edward R. Murrow were the voice of World War II for most Americans, and Shirer's firsthand observations of pre-1942 Germany and Berlin are fascinating. He diligently chronicles the twists and turns Hitler took on his way to power, and then shows how megalomania gradually took over the dictator and insured his demise. I came away from the book with several key observations: First, Hitler never told the truth, but people inherently trusted him. For some reason he could make people believe what he was saying, which enabled him to dupe all of Europe from Chamberlain to Stalin. Also, Hitler could have been stopped quite early on without much use of force. The first time he seized land outside Germany's borders was the Ruhr region of France, which was a violation of the Treaty of Versailles. At that time Germany's military position was so weak that any show of strength by the French would have caused Hitler's seizure to fail and almost certainly his government to fall. It took years for Germany to build up the strength it needed to start an open war, and at any point during that time the Allies would have been justified (according to the Treaty of Versailles) in stopping him. Nobody did. The greater evil is so often that good people simply sit back and do nothing. And finally, Hitler's knack for seizing the right opportunity at the right time during his rise to power was uncanny. Only when he had already gained supremacy in Europe did he start to make mistakes in his judgments of how foreign governments would react to him. This is an incredibly well-written book, and at nearly 1200 pages it needs to be to keep a reader going. Shirer focuses on the characters of Nazi Germany, which brings the history to life. Only in the diplomatic details of Germany's relationship with the USSR does he really get bogged down, but otherwise this is a comprehensive and fascinating history of the Nazi party and their twelve infamous years of power in Germany.

The second book, Malcolm Gladwell's The Tipping Point, applies the concepts of epidemiology to societal phenomenon in a fascinating way. Gladwell observes that often a very small thing has a very dramatic impact on a product, idea, or condition in society, and he goes into great deal describing and analyzing this. He explains the phenomenon in three ways, focusing on the power of a small group of people to change society (the messengers), the staying power -stickiness, he calls it- of certain ideas (the message), and the environment where the idea emerges (the context of the message). The first thing to notice about this book is that Gladwell writes nearly flawless prose. It's effortless to read, but not like Harry Potter is effortless. Gladwell simply doesn't have those clunker sentences writers try to avoid because he describes difficult ideas with amazing clarity and elegance (The New Yorker didn't hire him for nothing). Second, the idea behind this book is just plain interesting. I've always been interested in culture and the way people work, but this takes it to a new level, challenging very basic assumptions in entirely persuasive ways. And that brings me to a third point: the book is impeccably researched. He documents every point so well that I never doubted his conclusions (and I'm normally a "suspicious" reader). He has wonderful illustrations and examples, both quantitative and qualitative. I'm so hooked I started browsing his web site and found several very interesting articles I hope to post about soon.

This week the Titanic 13 Film Festival started here in Budapest. I'm pretty excited because I've never lived in a big city that had a proper independent film festival. Calvin did a great job of showing some, but they simply didn't have the resources for something like this. Last night I saw "Green Street Hooligans," starring Elijah Wood. It's the story of a nerdy American kid who gets booted from Harvard, and ends up falling in with a gang of British football hooligans who support West Ham United. I was really impressed with the way the movie portrayed this kid's struggle between the need for acceptance and respect and his non-violent background. It doesn't glorify the violence (of which there is a lot, by the way), nor does it offer a blanket condemnation of the hooligan culture. The most powerful character is Pete, a History and PE teacher by day and the leader of the gang of hooligans by night. Everyone in the gang balances two lives, but none so poignantly as him. I highly recommend the film, but it is high on the violence and bad language.