Books! Actual books!
"A rollicking ride of intellectual discovery and emotional growth... his comic timing never fails"
-- The Wall Street Journal
"Pulls you in like a good sports story"
-- The New York Times Book Review
"Endearingly frank... jubilant... lighthearted and fast-paced"
-- New York Newsday
"A surprisingly touching memoir"
-- Entertainment Weekly
"Snappy and informative"
-- Associated Press
"Effortlessly funny and informative... tender, human, and very wise... A must for anyone who loves Jeopardy!, or has ever seen it, or is breathing."
-- Joss Whedon, creator, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
"I haven't seen Jeopardy! since I was a kid, and yet I was charmed and amused by Bob Harris's fascinating and surprisingly suspenseful book. Through sheer force of personality, he takes this brainy TV show and makes it funny and easy to relate to."
-- Ira Glass, creator and host, This American Life
"A surprisingly intimate, entertaining book."
-- Orson Scott Card, 4-time Hugo Award winner, author of Ender's Game
"Funny, enlightening -- and just might help you win a million bucks on Jeopardy!"
-- A. J. Jacobs, author of The Know-It-All
"A masterful job of describing the feel of Jeopardy! in the heat of battle... I knew Bob was a great guy and a fantastic Jeopardy! player. Now I've found that he's also a wonderful writer. I think I'm starting to hate him."
-- Brad Rutter, top money-winner in Jeopardy! history
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“Revelatory... Harris's sly wit and infectious curiosity make understanding world chaos fascinating... witty, horrific, and necessary.”
— Boston Globe
"Brave... irreverent... charges into the thick of the globe's myriad simmering wars... hilariously relaxed."
— New York Observer
"Only Bob could make a user’s guide to our increasingly hostile world this absorbing, this breezy, and—ultimately—this hopeful.”
— Ken Jennings, author of Brainiac: Adventures in the Curious, Competitive, Compulsive World of Trivia Buffs
“Fascinating, enlightening, and surprisingly: NOT TOTALLY DEPRESSING. A gimlet-eyed look at the world we endure that’s also suitable for enjoying with a gimlet.”
— John Hodgman, author of The Areas of My Expertise
and correspondent for The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
"All three [presidential] candidates should read all three of these [recommended] books, but McCain gets first crack at Bob Harris's "Who Hates Whom“... a lighthearted overview of the insurrections and civil wars in the world today."
— Steven Pinker, author of The Stuff of Thought, in the New York Times Book Review
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Main  Round the World Athens: Aristophanes, Beach Volleyball, and a small bit of Iraq
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Athens: Aristophanes, Beach Volleyball, and a small bit of Iraq |
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Thursday, 16 December 2004 |
Wow.
I could already write volumes about what I'm seeing as I begin this trip back into time.
Athens, by itself, has inspired much of the collected wisdom of humankind. And then staple on the Olympics, where people from all over the world gather to celebrate
a) the human spirit
b) beer and c) each other... and this is one hell of a fascinating trip.
I suppose for getting perspective, you couldn't do much better than a walk around ancient Athens, where people thought up stuff thousands of years ago that we're still trying to get right.
A couple of hours ago I was sitting on a rock next to the likely spot where Socrates was imprisoned and later executed for teaching (among other things) that the purpose of a life is wisdom, and most politicians ain't got none and ain't gonna, and most people don't figure it out near quick enough.
The more things change...
Incidentally, a convenient option available to all visitors of the Acropolis is the chance to slip and fall onto jagged rocks every few minutes. A lot of us seem to be taking the facility up on the offer. After all, there's the delightful combination of the Parthenon to stare at, a breathtaking view of the sun-bathed city to be overwhelmed by, and a jillion broken rocks, smoothed by years of tourists tromping through, which now have the smooth surface of greased ice.
Thus, kawhump. Over and over. Not just me. Seems to be something you do here. Kinda fun, in an ow ow ow sort of way. Not complaining.
Logging off to go watch some archery in the stadium where they did the 1896 games, suddenly fall down some more, and possibly contract skin cancer...
Back again. Archery in an old stadium: zwippp! shhhwoooosh! thmup. Zwippp! shhhwoooosh! thump. Repeat viewing several hundred times, interrupted only by the constant guzzuzza of nearby cicadas, while the skin roasts directly off your flesh. And yet, it's a complete delight, even if I may never get used to seeing my country sometimes booed like a bad-guy wrestler stalking into the arena.
I've written before of the relative boorishness of Americans abroad, which has been a sadly frequent experience whenever I've traveled -- so much so that I've genuinely wondered if I've let my dislike of jingoism and reactionary politics, intensified by seeing it from my countrymen, cause a deep-seated prejudice, even an anti-Americanism welling inside me. Maybe I've only been seeing what I expected to see. As a lefty, you get accused of these things often enough that you start to wonder.
Interesting, then, that I've had such a different experience here. In fact, almost every American I've met has been lovely. Whether it was Jessie, the triathlete I met at the Temple of Zeus, or Richard, the baseball fanatic who helped me find Heinrich Schliemann's grave (long story for another time), or a dozen others... I've been pleased as hell with these people. Proud to share a flag with them, honest to God.
Which is good news and bad. Bad, because it also means that what I've seen before wasn't just what I wanted to see, or I couldn't see what I'm seeing now. And good, since it does remind me of my love for America, because damn if meeting people I'm proud of didn't make my heart swell.
Of course, that doesn't mean we're all showing a good face to the world here.
Yesterday I wore a T-shirt from New Zealand. I like it because it's black, and so I look a little less round in it. Now, only an idiot would bring a black shirt into 95-degree weather. Unless that idiot was also rather vain. So, the shirt's here. Yesterday I wore it. And it says, sure enough, "New Zealand."
Last night, I had my first chance to visit the not-quite-finished main Olympic Center, where a bunch of the major events are held in a complex of about half a dozen major venues.
(Incidentally, while the facilities are all working, the landscaping simply doesn't exist yet. In the daylight, the place has the dusty feel of a new housing tract 90 minutes north of L.A. I kept expecting to be shown a model home. Although rest assured, it should all be really beautiful when the Games start in 2005.
Oh, wait.)
So after watching two games of women's water polo -- which, incidentally, seems to revolve around kicking other people underwater, and also throwing a ball occasionally as something of a side activity -- I retired to a large open area near the main stadium, where a big jumbotron showed a steady real-time unedited feed of events around the city. From this vantage point I enjoyed the desert sunset, watched the entire facility transform itself into a spectacularly well-designed palace of light, and ate greasy crap in two languages.
Joining me in these noble endeavors were hundreds of people from all over the world, identifiable by their clothing. Imagine the United Nations as outdoor sports bar. To my right, Hungarians. To my left, Frenchmen. Ahead of me, batches of Russians and Germans and Swedes. Behind me, Mexicans and Brits. And this was just in the thirty feet nearby. The area is the size of a football field.
And since I was wearing the only clean shirt I had... I became a New Zealander for the night. Not intentionally, and I didn't mislead anyone. But if I kept my mouth shut, that's what I was.
I should mention that I've heard Americans booed frequently here. Again, I have no idea if that's in the media coverage back home. And it's not constant, or even the most prominent thing you hear -- more a dark humming undertone present during the introductions of Americans, underneath the standard courteous applause. But I'm hearing it for Americans, and I'm hearing it a lot. (The only consistently less-enthused response is for any Turkish athlete. I suppose 400 years of occupation has that effect.)
So last night, during one of the 100-meter dash semi-finals, two Americans took the lead, then coasted the last few meters, turning and seemingly even talking to each other before the finish.
I don't know how this played back in the States. I do know how it played in the Olympic Center.
I also now know what people from many nations will say in front of someone they presume to be a New Zealander. That little gesture of cockiness from those sprinters set off remarks from more than a few of the people around me, about more than just a race. Nothing loud. Nothing in-your-face. But you can guess the rest.
What was startling, I guess, was how matter of fact it all was. "Of course the Americans are assholes" was very much the gist.
Sigh.
This administration has created (or at best exacerbated) a truly global perception of Americans as bullies and braggarts.
And I say that for exactly one reason: because it is absolutely accurate.
I guess there's a new slogan for the Democrats: Kerry/Edwards '04: So The World Will Stop Booing.
Sigh again.
UPDATE: Just got back from tonight's track-and-field dance party. Didn't hear any booing of Americans at all. Matter of fact, the cheer for the 100m sprint champ was full and hearty. Just thought I should add. Still, it was present in the low background at the first two events I attended, the archery team final and women's beach volleyball. But tonight the worst I heard was a remarkable degree of not-much-cheering when the Americans swept an event. The U.S. victory lap received noticeably less enthusiasm than that given to various discus throwers, triple-jumpers, and decathletes all night long.
And then there was the magnificent show of love given to an injured distance runner from Ireland who was lapped by almost the entire field and labored alone for nearly two minutes to finally cross the finish line.
We weren't just cheering. Many of us were standing. And when it was my turn to help cheer her as she struggled along the back stretch, I noticed my eyes had filled with tears. So had Leslie's. And almost everyone else's.
Just for a moment there, it felt like all of humanity had a good and decent soul. We need more moments like that.
Speaking of NBC, my friend Leslie and I were wandering from the stadium to the metro at what would have been moments before 4 pm EST and realized we were walking right toward the NBC set-up. And so if you were watching and thought you saw a vaguely familar face standing among the flag-wavers behind Lester Holt, holding a camera, enjoying the weirdness of filming himself being filmed, and mouthing along the words from Lester's teleprompter over his shoulder, slightly ahead of Lester... yup.
(Actually, I doubt with all my heart and soul that this was visible. But I couldn't resist. Moth. Flame. Whuf.)
One last thing... I'm writing from Syntagma Square in the center of town. It's filled with people, even at 1 am, which it is, and I add: oh crap I need to sleep. But anyhow, a lot of folks are wearing flag-clothes, as described above. And an odd moment just now, coming out of the Metro: I ran into a guy wearing full-on Iraq.
Awkward little surprise. What words would I say to him? What would he say to me? I slowed, debating how best to say hello. But he was busy talking with a German, and about five seconds later Leslie was hit on by a swarthy guy with fancy clothes and an agenda -- either seduction or possibly a time-share condo -- and we were soon walking away before there was any chance to talk.
I'm gonna keep my eyes open, though. Very interested in that conversation.
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