Still Standing

Defining Manhood in China and America

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Wed, 30 May 2012 08:43:00 +0000

In America, masculine stereotypes are easy to spot.

Photo by Brad Kinney, 2006

Being a man is rocking a six pack (beer or abs will do), scoring chicks, driving a nice car - generally showcasing your independence while masking any sense of vulnerability.

Ironically, even though we're sitting on the couch gaining weight as we watch them, Americans worship the Jack Bauers and James Bonds of the world, those heroes who can kill a man with their pinky as quickly as they can get a lady to go to bed with them.

While we err on the side of bullet-proof bravado, Chinese society seems to expect a softer man. In traveling to the country over the past eight years, I've met many demure guys with wet-fish handshakes and designer man purses. In educational and social gatherings, I've seen men stay in the background while the more outgoing girls steal the spotlight.

A New York Times article today discussed how boys are being left behind in China's education system. Girls in urban areas, perhaps thumbing their noses at society's preference for sons, are outpacing their male counterparts in a variety of subjects and on the all-important gaokao, or college entrance exams.

Tasked with carrying on the family name, boys in China are squeezed by the pressures of growing up as "little emperors."

On one hand, they're coddled. But the investment in their development raises the entire family's expectations for their future. Immense pressure to achieve leads to countless hours of study starting at a young age. With all this on your shoulders, who has time to ponder things like masculinity?

Apparently, 16-year-old Wan Zhongni does, and he's not liking what he's seeing.

“I should have used my free time to play sports, to play basketball. I think I lack masculinity. I need to improve," the NYT article quoted him as saying.

The piece goes on to enumerate reasons for the gap in male/female performance, but I couldn't get past the honesty and uncertainty in his statement: "I think I lack masculinity." How many of us could say the same thing?

It struck me that whether it's Chinese guys spending days immersed in Internet games or Americans collecting tattoos, deer heads or polo shirts, their problem is the same: Manhood in each culture is a moving target. No one is defining it, and few men in either society are inviting boys into a higher calling for their masculinity, which should be focused on submission to God and sacrifice for neighbors.

Where are the Chinese fathers? Many of the rich send their kids off to the best schools, while the poor go to find work in the cities, leaving their sons to be looked after by grandparents in the villages. Divorce isn't as prevalent as in the U.S., but Chinese families are practical. They will split up if it means better careers and more money for kids' education and parents' care.

Where are the American fathers? Many are parked in front of the TV, while some sit staring at computers in the offices where they spend 60-plus hours per week. Others left minutes after their child was conceived and never came back.

In America, it's well-documented that kids from fatherless homes are more likely to commit crimes and drop out of school. Many Chinese are worried that their country is losing its moral compass and sliding into materialism.

In both countries, it's going to take men defining manhood for boys like Wan Zhongni to avoid rough sailing ahead.

For a clearer view of manhood, read "Making Men: Five Steps to Growing Up" by Chuck Holton, which I edited. I've also found the teachings of Robert Lewis helpful. They're encapsulated in the book "Raising a Modern-Day Knight".

Debtors to History

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 05:53:00 +0000

What makes me who I am?

I've been wrestling with that question over the past few years.

As I approach the age at which my father died, and I've had a growing urge to know my history, the story before my story began. I want to dig deep, to unearth the roots of my family tree like a curious scientist seeking an elemental glimpse at what made its fruit grow.

When I was in Mongolia last year, I had a chat with U.S. Ambassador Jonathan Addleton about his memoir. I had ample time to read it on a 30-hour train ride from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar, the Mongolian capital. As I flipped the pages, I was struck by how deeply he understood his family history and how he relayed vivid stories of events that happened before he was born.

The key to getting such detail, he said, was humility - a deep respect for how the lives of his forebears laid the path for his own and how his experiences seemed to afford him advantages for each new stage. His upbringing in Pakistan gave him an international outlook. The zeal of his missionary parents solidified a strong sense of faith. His journalism degree helped him communicate better than many of his peers. He was, in his own words, a debtor to history, barely able to take any credit for his own accomplishments.

I can see the same pattern in my life. As much as our American mindset tells us that we are masters of our own destiny, and though our faith reminds us of the truth that we were customized in our mother's womb, we can't really understand ourselves if we don't tip our hats to what happened before and beyond us.

Maybe this is real to me because my father's absence has shaped my journey probably as much as his presence would have. In a strange way, I've been guided by lacking his guidance. I have searched for my Father because my father wasn't there. I've been driven to understand manhood because there was always a missing piece in mine. Some call this fate. I call it grace and providence.

In some Asian cultures a person's role in the family defines his identity. There's a piece of universal truth to this. We're all letters on the pages of a great novel, forming words and sentences that make a story when bound together. Without context we're nothing. With an author we're captivating.

It can be maddening not knowing what's on the next page, but I take comfort in being connected to the plot. My debt to history is one I'm glad to leave unpaid.

Please Help Send Me to Taiwan!

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 15:04:00 +0000

If you know me or have read this blog for even a few days, you've probably noticed my passion for China.

This love was first stirred up during four trips to the Middle Country in college. Each was a unique adventure, whether traversing the dusty deserts of Xinjiang province or teaching English in remote villages in tropical Yunnan. But for me, one common thread made them all a joy: Brad Kinney.

Brad is one of my best friends. Throughout our time at the University of Georgia, we had some crazy experiences in Asia and Central America - facing repeated interrogation by Chinese border guards and hiking across a former Panamanian prison island in the Pacific, to name a few. We also had a few quirky schemes here at home, including a (successful) quest to win free flights by diving in Wendy's dumpsters.

Now, we have a chance to return to East Asia as a team for the first time since graduation. But we can't do it alone. We're not asking for money; we simply want one minute of your time for each of the next 10 days.

Here's the deal: We've entered a photo contest in which the top three vote-getters on a Taiwan government website will be sent on an all-expenses-paid trip to Taiwan. The contest lasts from Nov. 21-30. We believe we have a good shot at winning with a little help from our friends. Will you commit to voting once per day for us?

If so, please post YES on the wall of our Facebook group or email me so that we can send daily reminder messages. We will only send one message per day. The messages will stop either by Nov. 30 or whenever it becomes evident that we have no chance of winning, whichever comes first.

In the meantime, please follow the below instructions to vote. It literally takes less than one minute:

1) Click this link: http://activity.taiwan.gov.tw/twfriends/SayHelloToTaiwanFBList.aspx?cword=U&cid=198&tid=123
2) This is our team page, "Flying Tigers - Happy Birthday, Republic of China.' Click the green Facebook 'Like' button.
3) Click 'Login with Facebook.'
4) Click 'yes' to Facebook integrating with the site. *Note that this will not post any activity to your wall.
5) Enter your email/phone number and security code (this info, from what I understand, will only be used to notify the daily voter prize - yes, you are entered by voting). Click 'OK'.
6) YOU HAVE VOTED! WE ARE ONE STEP CLOSER TO TAIWAN!!!
7) Repeat when you receive our daily email reminder.

Thanks for your help! We are already No. 3 in the U.S. and climbing, but it's critical that we move into the top 10 in the world today, especially while our competitors in Asia are sleeping!

Stop Waiting on the World to Change

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 07:55:00 +0000

It's a friendly sounding little tune, but simmering under the catchy melody is a sinister message.

Though I'm mostly a fan, John Mayer's "Waiting on the World to Change" has always irked me. It's not just the sound of the song (though I hate those bells used in the intro and interludes). It's the lyrics.

I would ask if you've heard the song, but I'll assume that you've turned on a radio in the last three years. On the surface, it's a protest against against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, a cry of frustration from a generation that's misunderstood and exasperated with stubborn leaders and a perceived powerlessness to effect change.

The sentiment seems right on target, especially as our legislators butt heads over raising our national debt ceiling. How can We the People be blamed for the polarized political system we've inherited? Maybe we should just hold on until the crisis passes, like an earthquake or a seizure. Maybe we should just wait, and the world will heal itself.

But listen a little closer and you'll hear the problem with the song. It subtly permits us to do nothing, assuming our efforts will be futile anyway. It's classic ostrich mentality, where passivity becomes a form of self-righteous protest.

Though the song presents it in a government-citizen context, I think waiting on the world to change has become a guiding personal philosophy for many. We see it in the erosion of responsibility in our country as more people rely on the government to meet their needs, their entitled mind telling them all the while that this is the way it should be.

Even worse is the way it has seeped into men's lives. I need look no further than the mirror for evidence. I'm often waiting on my job, marriage, faith, Chinese language ability or any number of aspects of my life to change, rarely recognizing that if I would just do something about it, they probably would.

We live in a spoiled generation - at least I do. Pessimists will disagree, pointing out issues like global warming and the fact that last year's doomsday recession still has some people checking the unemployment rate like it's the weather.

Still, think of the progression our fathers and grandfathers faced: World Wars I and II, the Great Depression, the Korean War and Vietnam. They knew real crises; we often melt down at the slightest inconvenience.

This is neither American nor manly nor Christian. Men take responsibility, even when it's not their fault, knowing that ownership of the problem gives them the ability to fix it. Christian men don't lament that the world is going to hell in a hand basket. They dive into the fire to keep the basket from burning. We must reclaim that spirit.

Start today. Whatever the problem is - family, finances, career - become the solution. Stop waiting on your world to change. Change it yourself.

Puerto Rico on Four Wheels

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 15:00:00 +0000

The motorcycle zipped past, riding the dotted center line that separated my rental car from the one just a few feet into the next lane. My wife gasped. We looked at each other, eyes wide, then wondered aloud why someone would risk his life to show off for motorists he doesn't know or shave a few seconds off his commute.

I would say we couldn't believe it happened, but after a few days of driving in Puerto Rico, it wasn't much of a stretch.

I was warned that driving would be an adventure in the island territory, and we weren't disappointed. Along with the motorcycle fiasco in San Juan, we were trailed by an old clunker in Isabela that rode our bumper for miles, beeping fanatically until we finally pulled over to let him pass.

Generally, driving in Puerto Rico isn't stressful if you see it as an exercise in cultural adaptation. Just as you reset your watch in a new time zone, you have to learn a different brand of road etiquette when entering a new place, even if the traffic laws are the same. Here are a few rules that I learned while urging my gray, four-cylinder Kia Rio up near-vertical hills in the rainforest and across freeways spanning the island from east to west:

Our Kia Rio in Pinones.

1. Yellow lights mean speed up. Traffic lights rigged with cameras don't seem to have made their debut in Puerto Rico.

2. Drag racing is permitted (perhaps encouraged) in parking decks.

3. The crowded, brick-paved streets of Old San Juan could hold the world parallel parking championships. Extra points are awarded for moving trash cans to open up spots that obviously aren't big enough for your car.

4. Dents in the island's ubiquitous Toyota sedans are more like scars on a warrior than blemishes on a maiden. These show that the car has taken on Puerto Rican traffic and lived to tell about it.

5. Exceeding the speed limit while going backwards on a dead-end street is OK, as long as the other cars frantically move out of the way.

6. If you are an outsider, you must rent a Kia Rio, a Jeep, or a Toyota FJ Cruiser sport utility vehicle.

Perhaps the biggest driving rule could be borrowed from a mob boss's manual: If you want something, you just have to take it, whether a U-turn that would make your driver's ed teacher cringe or a better spot in line at the red light. A little bit of offensive driving helps earn your street cred, showing other cars that you will nose yourself into that lane, no matter how loudly their horns protest.

A tunnel of trees driving east from San Juan.

The surge of confidence this brings is amazing. I quickly learned to honk while rounding narrow, blind curves in the rainforest. I slowed to miss iguanas in the road and accelerated through yellow lights. I even began converting kilometers to miles, a skill that evaporated again as soon as I arrived back in Georgia. (In Puerto Rico, distances are measured in kilometers, though speed limits are in miles per hour.)

In some ways, I would've liked to have better public transport options, even those that are less than official, like Panama's red-devil buses or the makeshift cabs I hailed in Mongolia. But this was my first time driving abroad, and it felt freeing. Our exploration wasn't limited by train or bus schedules, and a $3 map from Walgreens was the only ticket we needed to access this scenic and photogenic 90- by 30-mile world. As the concierge at our first hotel said, you can never get lost. On this island, you'll always know where you are. You're in Puerto Rico.

Puerto Rican Hotel Hopping

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 07:39:00 +0000

Five nights, four hotels, one amazing trip

Walking Old San Juan just after arriving from Atlanta.

For all the men out there planning an anniversary trip, let me save you some trouble: If it's a five-night excursion, try to stay in fewer than four hotels.

As my wife Katy and I prepared to celebrate four years of marriage, we had different desires in mind.

She wanted a beach trip, complete with umbrella drinks and cabana boys. I wanted adventure. We were both looking for a sunny spot where we could experience a different culture.

We settled on Puerto Rico. It's technically in the U.S., being a commonwealth and all, but its people and geography were totally foreign to us as mainlanders. The flights to San Juan were affordable, and the island promised a good mix of outdoor activity and beach bumming. I couldn't wait to dust off my rusty, limited Spanish. Katy packed some books and magazines, preparing to dust off a few beach chairs.

With the destination set, we started working on where to stay and what to do. Katy left most of the planning to me, since I arrange about four overseas trips a year for my work as an international business reporter.

Here's the problem: I only require three things from business hotels - low price, fast Internet and some kind of bed. As I remembered from our honeymoon, making plans for two is much more complex.

I became overwhelmed with all the criteria swimming in my head as I surfed the Web.

I wanted romance without breaking the bank. I wanted a secluded beach that wasn't too far from the city. I wanted to be able to move around the island without feeling rushed. I wracked my brain, talked to Puerto Rican acquaintances and scoured the Internet, hoping to find the perfect mix.

In the end, since all the resorts seemed like equally suitable bases for exploring the capital city, price became a prime factor in San Juan, where we would at least start our journey. Priceline won out, since we could save 50 percent off the going rate on Hotels.com and other sites by naming a price. And with all the added fees that resorts pile on in San Juan, shaving half off the top helped keep these places in our price range.

There was another factor for using Priceline. We were booking two nights at first but figured Priceline would allow us to extend at least one night at the same rate. If we hated our hotel or wanted to venture out into the countryside, we could move on.

This did give us more options, but it also meant I had more chances to mess things up...

Conrad Condado Plaza

Looking west from Conrad Condado Plaza at dusk.

Condado, a trendy district just east of Old San Juan, was the area where the city's resort scene first took root. Its heyday might've been last century, but I saw no lull in activity.

Along Avenida Ashford, locals came out in the waning sunlight to run along the sidewalks. As night fell, cars jammed the main thoroughfare on their way to the area's many restaurants, bars and casinos. Extensive reconstruction in the already bustling district should add even more vitality when completed.

The taxi from the airport dropped us off at the Conrad Condado Plaza (an $18 fare) on a rainy Thursday afternoon around 2 p.m. The check-in was seamless, though the room wasn't ready, and the attendant in a dark lobby seemed to be tolerating more than welcoming us. As the concierge took our bags, we took a $14 cab to Old San Juan to wander around. An hour or so later we got the call indicating our room was ready, right on time.

The ninth-floor room was spacious with a comfortable queen-size bed and a balcony overlooking the city, though there was no outdoor seating. Maybe they figured people with city-view rooms couldn't possibly want to enjoy coffee in breeze coming off the lagoon in the morning.

Inside, the room had a deep red accent wall with a matching L-shaped sofa, dark wood furniture and a white flat-panel TV. An art piece depicting a black-and-white flower was centered above the bed, giving off a very Japanese/modern feel.

I guess it's a matter of taste, but it seemed like the overall decor of the hotel was a bit too modern, as if it were trying to compensate for its age, like an old lady wearing too much makeup. But it was pleasant, and we found the room quite comfortable.

We particularly liked the large bathroom. The glass-encased shower was an unintended anniversary present for me, since Katy hates how I fog up the mirror while she's trying to put on makeup.

A few qualms with this hotel:

-10 percent resort fee, whether or not you make use of resort services

-$16 fee for a spot in the dungeon of a parking garage

-Staff was helpful when you could get them, but the phones seemed to ring a long time. A pile of dirty dishes left by a beach chair in the morning was in the same spot 12 hours later.

-Not the place for a beach getaway. There's only one tiny sliver of public beach adjacent to the hotel, and chairs must be rented.

-No one offered to take our bags to our room. I probably wouldn't have let them, but at least give me the option if you're going to charge a resort fee.

A few bright spots:

-Very close to Old San Juan, though this makes the $14 one-way taxi fare set by

the government seem outrageous. The B21 and C53 buses to the old city stop

in front of the hotel every 20 minutes during the week and every half hour on

weekends. I've read that fares are from $0.50 in exact change if you can stand

the wait.

-Very cheerful and helpful concierge desk, especially Yomary.

-Great pools and nice grounds overlooking the ocean.

-Starbucks downstairs that will deliver coffee to your room.

-Free and fast wi-fi.

Villa Tropical

Sunset on Shacks Beach in front of Villa Tropical.

After two nights in San Juan, we set off for a day of ziplining at Toro Verde Adventure Park in Orocovis and horseback riding on the beach in Isabela, a small town about two hours west of the capital. Since we were driving a lot, I figured we might as well find a charming place to stay on the beach, away from the crowds.

From the reviews on Trip Advisor, Villa Tropical seemed like a winner. It's a hotel split into apartment units right on Shacks Beach between Isabela and Aguadilla, with easy walking and driving access to other beaches.

But once we arrived, it quickly became evident that not all of its units were created equal. The five-star reviews that had drawn my attention came from folks who could watch the sun fade into the ocean from their beachfront decks.

Stupidly, to save a few bucks I chose 1B, a studio on the first floor in the back of the building, above the office and away from the beach. Sure, it had a full kitchen and separate bedroom, but it smelled of age and mildew. The dated bathroom was 1970s yellow and had no hot water. To boot, we were charged a $25 cleaning fee for only staying one night, bringing the price with tax up to $140. That could've bought us a resort room in San Juan at what we were paying.

The words from the lady who handled my booking haunted me: "Your wife will like the one on the beach better," she had said. She was right. As far as Katy was concerned, there was nothing redeeming about my selection, whether or not it was steps away from white sands and a coral reef.

She felt like a mountain climber who comes down too fast from altitude and gets sick. I made a note to never again to slip down the quality scale so quickly.

To be fair, Villa Tropical did have its charms. Trevor, one of the owners, has put together a fantastic, detailed guide to area restaurants and attractions.

Our one sunset was indeed beautiful. The atmosphere was very homey and laid back. We were offered some Coronas from a community cooler downstairs, for instance.

Families were around, but the beach still felt secluded when we spent time there in the morning.

Honestly, I think our disappointment with this property came partly from faulty expectations and the high price that we agreed to pay because we were rushed. If we had expected a low-key surfer's haven and paid half the price, I think we would've had a different feeling altogether.

Ritz-Carlton San Juan

A glimpse of the immaculate grounds of the Ritz-Carlton San Juan.

Redemption is oh-so-sweet. After bombing on Villa Tropical, we skyrocketed up back up the quality ladder when we landed at the Ritz-Carlton San Juan in Isla Verde for our fourth night.

It was our first time at any Ritz property, and it met our expectations. Everyone, from smiling Monique at the front desk to the guy who swathed our (free) beach chairs with towels for us, seemed to be enjoying their job, and they passed on this feeling of satisfaction to the guests.

The luxury was in the little things. We were greeted with fresh papaya juice when we checked in an hour early. We were asked three times if we needed someone to help with our bags. Next to the pools and on the beach were towel stations with urns of lemon- or pineapple-infused ice water. When we headed to the beach the next morning, we found bowls of chilled oranges set out for guests.

The room wasn't overtly opulent. The decor was simple and traditional, and the furniture was nice. The bathroom, filled with grayish-tan marble, was the real star. My only qualm was looking out the window to see the dingy hotel next door, but you get what you pay for with regard to the view.

Probably the most refreshing thing about the Ritz was that although it was the only place where a resort fee was justified, we didn't have to pay one.

And I didn't feel like they were out to nickel and dime me. There was a $17 daily parking fee, but beach chairs and wireless Internet, which I've had to pay for a la carte at inferior hotels, were free of charge. Also free were the services of the staff, who would help set up chairs by the pool or beach. You could even leave your towels on the chair when done, and they would come by and pick them up. (Can you tell I'm not used to luxury travel?)

In short, if we have the budget for it, we'll definitely return to the Ritz if we're in San Juan again.

Gran Melia

La Coca Falls at El Yunque National Forest, near Rio Grande.

Sadly, Hotels.com credit only goes so far, and we had to leave the Ritz after one night, but not before the staff offered to allow us to use the facilities for as long as we wanted for the rest of the day.

After lunch, we headed out to Gran Melia, a golf resort that sits on a peninsula in Rio Grande, which is 30-45 minutes east of San Juan near El Yunque, Puerto Rico's famous rainforest.

We arrived at 5 p.m., an hour after our designated check-in time. When the room wasn't ready, the front desk attendant offered no apology. "Maybe they are behind?" she ventured, without a hint of regret. Luckily the room opened up just as we were heading toward the hospitality room to change and head to the pool.

Gran Melia was an interesting place. It had the feel of a compound where leaving was discouraged. To get to the resort, you drive 10 minutes north from Route 3 on a road that winds through security gates, around fountains and past empty Donald Trump condos, all surrounded by a golf course where no one seemed to be playing. The lack of activity was a bit eerie.

We quickly realized we probably aren't the right clientele for this place, which seemed perfectly suited for business travelers looking for a laid-back rendezvous or families looking to enjoy the beach and the pool. We enjoy a relaxing atmosphere, but we also want to do some things outside the hotel gates.

The rooms were in 19 separate bungalows reached by a short walk or golf-cart ride. Ours was a large suite in Bungalow 18 with a very nice bathroom and big patio. All the floors were a light marble. I can't complain about the room, other than the mattress on the king-size bed. It had no pad and you could feel the mattress pilling beneath the sheets.

The grounds were extensive and include a long, calm beach where we watched the sun sink in to the ocean. With no more chance of tanning, we sought an outdoor hot tub and found the only one was in the spa. Even when it was open, you have to reserve it, but alas, it was closed.

My favorite asthetic aspect of this hotel was the outdoor lobby and the restaurants surrounding the main office. Candles illuminated the area at night, giving it a romantic feel.

Saint Brad of St. Louis

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 14:07:00 +0000

He stands like a statue, motionless except for the baggy, white clothes fluttering in a strong westward breeze from the Mississippi. He wears a backwards baseball cap emblazoned with a cross over a pure white bandanna. Back to the river, he stares silent and still at the Gateway Arch, the symbol of the city he is trying to save. In his left hand he holds a large Christian flag that billows in the wind. At his feet is a towel, positioned like a prayer mat on the hard concrete.

Passing tourists are puzzled. Everything else about the day seems so normal, peaceful even. Jazz floats on the wind from a moored riverboat. People snap photos and marvel at the arch's elliptical wonder.

But this strange man stands out; he emanates mystery. He begs for engagement, either in ridicule or just plain curiosity, but no one dares approach. The saint of St. Louis never moves. His sunglasses remain fixed on the arch and the souls milling around it.

In town for a wedding, our family encounters him on a quick trip to the city's iconic monument, which stands as a symbol of America's bold shift westward at the turn of the 20th century.

After staring for a few moments at this odd display of faith, I decide there's no way I'll find out what sparked it unless I ask. Having shared my faith overseas and encountered university street preachers barking hellfire and brimstone, I've been fascinated with how people try to fulfill God's command to make disciples of all nations.

"Onward Christian soldier," I say as I approach, mentioning the Christian hymn as if it's a secret password designed to break his stony gaze.

He seems surprised, as if this is a first, but keeps his stark posture as we begin to talk. I quickly spring into interview mode. Under his superhero getup is a story of faith more interesting than I could've expected.

A few years ago, Brad Lee was living a rebellious lifestyle and felt that nothing could touch him, but it didn't take long for life to shatter his facade of independence. A female friend, Sunshine, was diagnosed with cancer, and the doctors weren't sure she would survive. The news sent him into a tailspin. Broken down, he cried out desperately for God's help.

Brad felt God drawing him toward repentance. Somehow God revealed that he was not a genie in a bottle. It would take commitment - a full turn from Brad's careless ways - for his prayers to have any weight.

Relationship with God restored, Brad turned his attention and prayers to Sunshine. For him, those Bible references to healing weren't literary devices. They were promises that God hears his saints and responds when they ask for something in the name of Jesus.With the zeal of a radically new believer, he threw himself into fasting and prayer. In light of God's power, he would only accept a full recovery.

Though given only three months to live, Sunshine's health began to dramatically improve. Eventually she was cured completely. Brad saw this not only as an answered prayer, but a new commission. He would pray for as many people as possible, hoping God might similarly change their fate.

So now he stands stoically in the same spot every Sunday from noon to 3 p.m., three solid hours faithfully hoping and praying that God will lead an injured soul his way.

I lay my hand on his shoulder and pray for his ministry. Then I walk away scratching my head. It's not that I question Sunshine's healing, but almost automatically I begin questioning Brad's methodology. Does the healing of someone you love give you the gift of healing? Will God will hear your prayers for any stranger on the street? And the pure white clothes, the Christian flag, the way he almost tests God by showing up in the same place every week - Isn't it just a bit, well, crazy?

After turning it over in my mind, I decide that it is. But instead of leaving me feeling superior, this realization leaves me convicted.

Brad has the audacity, born of faith, to actually believe what Jesus says, that we will do greater things than he, that prayers seeking his kingdom will be granted. I rarely venture to a place where worldly wisdom runs out, where risk forces me to rely on God's power. I never ask for it, and then I wonder where it is.

I think every true believer needs a dose of craziness, at least by the world's standards (think Noah, John the Baptist, even Jesus). Maybe then our first reaction to an act of radical faith won't be criticism, but celebration knowing that there are still some of us out there who take God at his word, despite what others - even our fellow believers - might think.

Back from the dead...again?

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 05:32:00 +0000

You can run Michael Myers over with a car, chop his head clean off with an axe or riddle him with bullets, but you can never be sure he's dead until they stop making Halloween sequels.

That's kind of how I feel about this blog. The credits have long rolled, and the few readers I once had probably forgot it existed. But I'm trying to learn a lesson in perseverance from the masked madman: It's never too late for a comeback. Hopefully my writing won't be quite as terrifying as that pale face and those hollow, unfeeling eyes.

Those (very few) who followed me before might scoff. I have promised to reboot this blog in the past, they'll rightly point out. It's true, and I have no other defense than to say that I sincerely hope that this time will be different, that I will truly repent of my non-blogging ways.

The problem has never been lack of material. I've been pressed a little for time over the past year or two, but I've had plenty of adventures worth sharing in travel, writing, marriage, church and other aspects of life.

I think my main impediment has been perfectionism. I never wanted to be one of those bloggers who shares everything he ate for breakfast or bought at the grocery store that day. (That's what Twitter's for, right?) I'm not necessarily knocking such writers. Many of them of them employ a great mix of knowledge, humor and raw personality that have won them audiences far larger than I'll ever attract.

I guess I feel that blogging is a bit like karaoke for writers, at least in the way I've approached it. A man who knows he can't sing has no problem making a fool of himself on stage at the karaoke bar. It's a bit harder for an award-winning tenor to let loose and belt out "Friends in Low Places." He's got a lot more invested in his identity as a singer, and therefore, more to lose if he screws it up.

Not that my writing is as sweet as Frank Sinatra's voice. That's where the analogy breaks down. What I'm saying is that I always feel like I have to write something groundbreaking in order for it to be worth sharing, when that's really not the case at all. I've withheld too many insights (and blunders), and I've failed to share countless travel experiences that might have proven useful to others, all because I've been too scared to miss a note. Now I'm going to try to lighten up, join the party and have some fun.

So here's what you can expect: I know that most blogs these days have a predictable editorial direction. Some folks pontificate about money, travel, raising children, church planting or another niche in which they've got hard-earned (or self-declared) expertise. I work in online media, so I know that specialization is the key to successful blogging, but that's not what I envision here. My thoughts will be the glue that holds Still Standing together.

I'm not veering totally into left field. I plan to introduce pages to corral posts on some of my more prominent themes, like travel, faith, manhood, family and China. I expect that other blogs (hopefully one on short-term missions in China, specifically) will branch off from this page. Then, I'll try to build a loyal following based on the principles of content marketing.

For now, just consider me back for yet another thrilling sequel.

Cue the Halloween theme song...

It Feels Good to Be Rich

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 06:28:00 +0000

My friend Brad is giddy after visiting a Chinese ATM in 2006.

I didn't win the lottery. I haven't come into an inheritance. I'm still working as a reporter. But it feels good to know that I'm rich.

I've got a $20 bill in my wallet. It has been there for weeks. I rarely use cash, so I don't remember when I got it out of the ATM or for what purpose. Maybe it was a yard-sale stash or feed for the parking meters around Atlanta. Maybe it was left over from paying a friend back for Braves tickets. In any case, it still lingers behind receipts, coupons and business cards, just waiting for a chance to be broken.

I was sifting through the ads in the newspaper this morning. I usually only glance at a few nowadays. I took a brief look at the digital cameras, then moved on. It's not that I don't like gadgets, but looking is pretty much pointless. I already have anything that could come close to qualifying as a necessity for work or play.

It's striking to me, especially with the job shortage and the ailing stock market, how easy my life is, how many luxuries I enjoy without much thought. I flip a switch and lights come on. I pull a lever, and scalding hot water flows. My pantry is full, and I generally eat until I am as well. I could drive to California any day, and both my cars could make the trip. Every month I unearth a new pile of clothes to give away.

My charmed life extends beyond basic needs. In college, I used to hold onto gas receipts. Now they're useless. Though I have a gas budget, I rarely even look at the cost when the pump clicks off. Sadly, though, I've known people who put in a few bucks at a time as they wait for a paycheck to come through. Others only have one option: the bus.

My access to communications is further proof of the exceptional grace given to me. Driving through Atlanta the other day, I saw probably a hundred people lined up in the hot sun to sign up for government-assisted home phone service. As they scrambled for the basics, I was chatting on my cell phone. The next day, I logged onto my Comcast Internet connection to make local and long distance calls via Gmail.

I don't show all this to note any empirical personal wealth. Let's just say I'm not someone you'd invite to a political fund-raising banquet. My point is that modern American society has conditioned us to expect a degree of convenience that most of the world's inhabitants will never approach, and it's worrisome that we're no longer shocked by how much of an outlier our country is.

Of course, poverty exists in the U.S., but most Americans treat wealth like fish treat water. We swim in it, breathe through it, feel at home in it, but we never know we're wet. Our chosen peers reinforce our accustomed levels of convenience, and we race each other to the next rung of the socioeconomic ladder. As we climb, so do our living standards, and the things that were once wants are now needed at once.

The Bible is full of warnings to the greedy. Jesus ranted against the money-grubbing Pharisees. Paul warned his spiritual son Timothy about the division that wealthy individuals can sow in the church. James also cautioned against putting trust in things, not God. For the longest time, when reading these passages, I would silently join the biblical writers' critique of their opponents. After all, I wasn't rich. How could these comments possibly apply to me?

But I realized later that I wasn't grasping what they were saying and that the global economy imposes a newer, more stringent set of obligations on the Christian. We can activate humanitarian aid with the click of a mouse or travel to the other side of the planet in less than 24 hours. In a way, we have become neighbors with the nearly half the world's population that lives each full day on less than many of us spend on a coffee or latte every morning.

In this context, most Americans are rich, and that's not a bad thing. I won't call us a "chosen nation," as many do, but I do think God allows America to prosper so that we can facilitate the spread of the Gospel around the world. Our Lord doesn't need more storehouses in our backyards. He wants us to invest in a new harvest.

Learning from the Korean Passion

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 05:31:00 +0000

Business events aren't usually known for their spiritual flair. It's a rare occasion that I walk into a trade conference in Atlanta and encounter a religious invocation.

In America, even if many attendees are Christian, general consideration for adherents of other faiths dictates that we steer clear of rhetoric or actions that could remotely be perceived as intimidating or offensive. (Politically correct translation: Words or deeds that actually express an opinion or belief.)

Refreshingly, Koreans don't seem to have this problem.

At a recent Korean trade event in Atlanta, the opening banquet started with a prayer, and not one of those stale, impotent supplications to some distant cloud-sitter. The pastor actually mentioned Jesus and asked for things, big things, like the eradication of poverty through the prosperous business deals that would emerge from the conference. This was not your ordinary moment of silence.

Whether it's inherited or culturally learned, Koreans have an unquestionable zeal for living, a fervent emotionalism that guides thought and action. I've seen it and read about it on occasion, and I've heard from Americans doing business there that this can be both an asset and a hurdle.

Korean businesspeople, a high-level American executive told me, can be reluctant to make a decision, but "get out of the way" when they do. When the slow deliberations have ended, they bolt with a gazelle's speed.

This passion can become a hassle. I've heard outsiders, especially Americans, say that organizing an event with Koreans is next to impossible. This unnamed passion, this zeal for life, is transmuted into a disgust for those who don't share the same lofty vision. Consensus comes only after what we might consider inordinate amounts of bickering. Don't believe me? Ask the Korean lawmakers who were sprayed with fire extinguishers by their political opponents as they used a sledgehammer and electric saw to break into a committee room in December 2008. Barred from what could've been a decisive vote on their country's FTA with the U.S., they didn't let a little thing like locked doors get in the way.

The author of the Korea Dispatch blog calls the phenomenon "Korea's Emotional Logic" and describes the difficulty of cross-cultural communication:

Look at the disparity between how Westerners, both in Korean and abroad, view current events and how Koreans see things. It’s like they talk around each other, rarely if ever connecting, even when speaking the same language, whether Korean or English. One side is trying to apply logic while the other is speaking from the heart. It’s not that one is right and the other wrong. It’s that they just don’t connect.

The Western pursuit of logic, has left us somewhat cold, unwilling to live from the heart, the author goes on to say. It's exactly the Korean propensity to let the heart have its say that I found so refreshing while meeting people in Seoul last year, especially in the context of faith.

Take Eu-jin, the computer science major turned kindergarten teacher who was searching for a way to glorify God with her life, or Eun-hye, known by the English name Chloe at her hagwan, who was determined to find a way to take the gospel of Jesus to North Korea. Then there was Mr. Shin, a complete stranger, who just five minutes after meeting me on the subway escorted me to his church, where I ate the most hospitable potluck lunch I've ever had.

Ambitious dreams and sincere hospitality don't come from logic. They emanate from passionate hearts. We'd do well to take a page from Korea's book and love a little - before our minds get in the way.

Avoiding the Seven Demons

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 07:17:00 +0000

I've always been perplexed by the passage in Luke 11, where the Pharisees accuse Jesus of using the power of Satan to drive out evil spirits.

It's not so much Jesus's refutation that confuses me. In the discussion, he coins the phrase that Abraham Lincoln borrowed - a kingdom divided itself cannot stand - to show that Satan's forces can't survive if they war against each other. He then uses a parable about robbing a strong man's house to explain to that although our enemy has a formidable powers, he is easily bound and overtaken by his maker.

I'm good up to this point, but it gets a little trickier in the teaching moment afterward, when Jesus turns away from the immediate treatment of good vs. evil and begins directing criticism toward the Jews' unbelief. He drops this bomb on us that I have never been quite able to comprehend (vv. 24-26):

"When an evil spirit comes out of a man, it goes through arid places seeking rest and does not find it. Then it says, 'I will return to the house I left.' When it arrives, it finds the house swept clean and put in order. Then it goes and takes seven other spirits more wicked than itself, and they go in and live there. And the final condition of that man is worse than the first."

Commentators treat the passage in various ways. Matthew Henry discusses it in the context of salvation and the Word, similar to Jesus's treatment of the seed that fell on rocky soil. Some repent from their sins and clean themselves up outwardly, believing that a set of actions has made them acceptable before God. But if they have no root, if they don't submit to a deeper cleaning of the heart, they will just be making a mockery of the Gospel and their final state will be worse than the first.

More generally, I like to think of this passage as illustrating the idea that it's not enough just to avoid sin. Just following a set of rules does not lead to abundant life. It's not enough to shampoo the carpets, mop the floors and spray a little spiritual air freshener in our hearts. We don't need redecoration. We need a total renovation. In other words, I think Jesus is saying that we can't just focus on removing the old. We have to replace it with something new and different.

There's a TV show called "Moving Up" that tracks three families moving into each other's homes. In the opening interviews, the families talk about their beloved houses and how devastated they would be if the new owners change things. At the end, they return to see what's been done. Most are disappointed to see that what's remembered as a cozy nest has become completely foreign. Even if they appreciate the new owners' design sense, the new paint, accessories and furniture change the identity of the place. "This is not my house," they often say, their nostalgia tinged with disgust.

I think Jesus is saying that our hearts should be similarly inhospitable to the evil influences that once controlled our lives. In the context of demon possession, obviously this is more literal: evil spirits can't only be sanitized; they must be replaced by a new resident, the Holy Spirit. But I think this applies more generally to our personal lives as well. We often ask sinners to clean themselves up, but we don't treat the underlying cause of the mess: their hearts, which have their tables set for a demonic dinner party.

Of course, we must start with letting go of the desires that once ruled us, driving out the evil forces that once roosted in our hearts, but again, this not enough. Buddhists think that desire is the root of suffering, so we must detach from it completely. The problem is that in doing so, they are desiring a world without suffering, making their quest self-contradictory. Instead, our desires must be totally reoriented. We are not just saved from sin. We are saved into Christ. The old is gone. If the new has not come, the old will return.

Avoiding the seven demons' return - and the Christian life in general - isn't just about abstinence from the desires of the flesh. It's about indulging ourselves in Godly pursuits, thereby crowding out old habits and former identities.

We're Not Who We Think (or Say) We Are

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 03:28:00 +0000

Social media is a really convenient tool. Some say its magic is in the fact that it allows for transparency like never before. Politicians use Twitter to stay connected with their constituents. Parents can spy on their teenyboppers' online lives. Bosses can get a glimpse of their employees' true character out of the office.

While these are noble uses, I say the true advantage of these websites is their cloak-and-dagger aspect, the fact that we can hide our real selves behind the idealistic versions we post online.

It's really brilliant if you think about it. Other than people's comments, we control every part of our profiles. Want to be a jazz lover? Put it on your profile. Think it would up your coolness factor to show off the fried green tomatoes you cooked for dinner? Put it on your profile. Want to seem really spiritual and/or philosophical before meeting your girlfriend's parents? A few C.S. Lewis or G.K. Chesterton quotes can go a long way. Heck, just put 'em both on there. Who's going to have the guts to ask if you really like British Christian authors from the early-to-mid-20th century, or if you were just using them to burnish your Bible-bearing reputation?

And the clandestine cover-up can even go beyond our likes and dislikes. It covers our interactions with other virtual selves as well. We can post glowing status updates about our spouses when they do something nice for us while totally redacting the bumpy parts of our relationship. We can have a knock-down, drag-out debate on someone's comment stream, and all we have to do is press the caps lock key to "raise our voice."

Seriously, though, I've been thinking about my Twitter profile. Setting aside the fact that it's tough to learn anything about someone in 140 characters, I've been evaluating whether I did a good job encapsulating myself. As I was looking at the list of attributes, all meant to draw eyeballs to my own radiant little twittersphere, I realized that while many of them are true of me currently, some are true to who I once was, who I think I am, or who I wish to be. They're not actually me. Take a look:

Global business reporter, writer, missions enthusiast, musician, blogger, China lover and wanna-be world traveler looking to share the Good News.

Take "blogger," for example. I've written two posts in the seven months of 2010, and I have no paid blogging gigs. You tell me if I'm really a blogger or if I just have a website on Blogger.com.

Take "musician." Do I play guitar and sing? Yes. Do I play guitar and sing where people (besides my upstairs neighbors) can hear me? Not since I last led worship at church. And I've never consistently played public shows featuring my own music. You tell me if I'm really a musician or simply someone with a guitar and a hobby.

I could go on ripping myself, but the point is that we're not always who we think or say we are, and we can easily trick ourselves into believing that who we intend to be really matches the person we see in the mirror. I can disseminate missions information online; I can read books of God's exploits in foreign lands and call myself a "missions enthusiast." But if I'm not sharing the Gospel with people and helping others reach the ends of the globe, it's not really a part of my identity. It's a pretty feather in my cap, not a raging fire in my bones that spurs me to action.

We are predisposed to see ourselves better than we actually are, and ironically this problem seems to become more acute the less confident we are about ourselves. Evolutionists probably link this phenomenon to our survival instincts. Christians might say it's a vestige of the pride still ingrained in us by original sin.

Either way, the solution is the same: test yourself by what you do, not what you intend. (Other people are quite helpful with this exercise, especially spouses.)

Here's an example: I realized last year that I was telling people that I was learning Chinese even though I wasn't practicing regularly. Turns out I really just wanted to impress people, especially those I met through work. To fix the problem, I started studying again, and in so doing made good on my desire.

If you want to do something, don't leave it there. Act in a way that gives legs to your intention. If you can't or won't, question whether it's a true desire, or just something you use to give yourself some cachet at social gatherings or through social media.

Most importantly, apply these principles to your faith. Call ourselves Christians and say we love God though we might, the fruit speaks for itself. I'll spare you the litany of passages featuring smug "believers" who thought well of themselves while they were actually acting against God. It will suffice to leave with a word from James 2:18:

But someone will say, "You have faith; I have deeds." Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by what I do.

We are not who we think or say we are. We are the person, and the Christian, our actions prove us to be.

What Would Jesus Tweet?

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 05:03:00 +0000

Come, follow me.

In the age of Twitter, "following" someone has become as easy as the click of a button.

It wasn't so simple 2,000 years ago, when Jesus searched for his true disciples. He had no email newsletter, no Facebook page on which to post photos and updates. He didn't have a website where millions could convene virtually to download sermon podcasts or submit prayer requests.

His was a day when a teacher's shoe leather was his bandwidth, and his sphere of influence was as large as the area his feet could travel. His audience consisted of real people with skin on, seen eye to eye, not faceless Google bots or Web perusers.

In a three-year public ministry, Jesus attracted hundreds of thousands of followers, many of whom dropped everything - their careers, reputations, even their families - to become fiercely loyal vagabonds.

His bombastic message gripped hearers across geographic or socioeconomic barriers. Thousands listened to him for hours at a time, often enduring hunger and fatigue as they hung on his words. When he spoke in a house, crowds spilled into the street. When he spoke at the beach, they pressed in so tightly that a fishing boat became his pulpit.

There's probably a reason Jesus's advent came before the age before electricity and mass communication. He preferred to see, touch and hear those to whom he ministered. As far as we know, he didn't write. He passed on his message not by adding his voice to world literature, but by loving his followers and making them vessels of his message.

Still, I have to think that if Jesus were to descend today to a world where we hide behind computer screens, the same principles that made him a magnet in the real world would lead to an engaging online presence. In fact, the more I think about it, Jesus - as if we could expect less - would be the perfect Twitter user, that is, if he decided the micro-blogging service was worth his time, which is a whole separate matter.

Check out just a few of the attributes that would help him draw droves of followers:

Unique, simple message. For most of us, it's hard to squeeze a list of what we ate for lunch into a single tweet. Jesus was a master at crystallizing weighty spiritual truths in easily digestible formats, like parables. He never minced words. He was clear, direct and to the point and would have no trouble staying below 140 characters. People liked him or hated him, but they never ignored him. Getting noticed is the first step to snagging more followers.

Selflessness and relevance. Want to end up sobbing in a lonely corner of the Internet, lamenting a rash of unfollows? Go on gabbing about yourself. Twitter, like the Web in general, is a place for sharing. Followers will flee shameless self-promoters who constantly ask them to "check out" information that ultimately isn't useful. Jesus never had to beg for followers, because he was worth following in the first place. He never testified about himself unless asked, and he always reached into the heart of things. Everything he said affected the eternal destiny of those within earshot. It doesn't get more personally relevant than that.

Controversy and offline buzz. Online kingpins don't always get that way by being tech-savvy or by following everyone in sight. They do things that are worth talking about in real life. With Twitter increasingly used in conversation, these stories can multiply rapidly. With such extreme behaviors as raising the dead, healing the blind with saliva and turning over temple tables, Jesus would have no problem making the trending topics list.

Irresistible invitation. Jesus commands that we not only follow him, but that we live by the messages he gives us. He hand picked his 12 disciples and he's asking us to join the caravan.

Are you on his list?

Follow Trevor on Twitter

Will the Poor Always Be With Us? Jesus vs. Muhammad Yunus

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 19:15:00 +0000

Nobel Prize-winning economics professor and "banker to the poor" Muhammad Yunus visited Atlanta last month and spoke about the prospect of eradicating poverty to the point that one day we would take our children to see "poverty museums."

In Mr. Yunus' ideal future world, our kids would have to learn from a retrospective distance what they could not experience in the now: the sickness, starvation and abject lack that come with the inability to afford basic needs like food, clothing and shelter.

I applaud his vision and his efforts to make it a reality, but I wonder if it's a bit naive. Assuming that everyone (or even a slight majority) could learn to practice, like Mr. Yunus, the ideal of helping the poor help themselves, a world without poverty is at least imaginable. But it's hard to make that assumption, given our proclivity to act in our own self-interests at almost any cost. Even our charitable donations are mostly given out of our wealth, not any meaningful sacrifice (I'm preaching to myself here, by the way). How can we lift others out of poverty without giving up comfort and convenience? And how will people learn to sacrifice when the world's ideology tells them to get what they can in this moment?

Our methods of spreading wealth and providing for others may get better, but it's hard to see human nature changing. It's also hard to see our world economy developing without our definition of poverty shifting. Even if we totally eliminate poverty as we now define it, isn't it conceivable that in a wealthy world where a sense of personal entitlement is only getting stronger, a socioeconomic status now seen as middle class will be considered impoverished?

Jesus said we will always have the poor with us, but that we should take care of them. Mr. Yunus says their plight is reversible. The question is how we can use ideas and methods of the latter to obey the commands of the former in a sustainable way.

Image: Soweto township, Johannesburg, South Africa; by Trevor Williams

New Year, New Ear

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 02:45:00 +0000

For me, journals are altars, written monuments to the places and times when God has worked in unexplainable ways, either responding to faith or interrupting rebellion.

Though not as enduring or tough to construct as the stacks of stones the ancient Israelites used, my written remembrances provide the same thing: a store of faith that I can borrow against when God's presence and goodness aren't so obvious.

In January I considered writing a blog post about the new year, a wrap up of 2009 and a look ahead to 2010. I planned to make new resolutions, posting them on this blog and sharing them with friends as a way of keeping myself accountable.

Then I started thinking about what I wanted to accomplish this year, and it began to sound all too familiar: Study Chinese more. Read the Bible more. Pray more. Be there for my family more. Be a better husband. Get in shape. All of these "new" goals were leftovers from last year's to-do list. Was I really this lame? I felt busy this year, but was I just a hamster spinning on a wheel, getting some good cardio in but not moving anywhere?

Partly for reassurance and partly to divine how I could do so much but accomplish so little, I got out my 2009 journal. There were highlights, some funny stories, audacious events and signs that God's wisdom was at times really influencing my heart. But when I searched intently, there weren't all that many altars.

I decided to trace it back to 2008. The previous year's journal had a different array of events, most of them positive, but all woven together by a somewhat consistent cycle: a lack of discipline followed by a confession, followed by a brief period of faithfulness, followed by another setback. Same story for 2007. And the hamster wheel spins on.

I think God's getting tired of watching me run in place, so on New Year's day, he gave me a resolution of his own.

It came somewhere between Albany and Atlanta, on a straight highway with farms and forests on both sides. Katy and I were talking about the challenges this year would bring. How would we navigate them without veering off course? I know it's shocking to hear, but my wife and I don't always agree on everything. How could we reconcile our views and dreams, which sometimes tended to take off in opposite directions?

We decided that there was no way that we could do this on our own. The only way to wind up in the same place, and to keep holding hands along the way, was to meet up at the same signpost and follow a trail that neither one of us had charted for ourselves. We decided that our chosen route must be the one that winds along to the sound of God's voice. He would be the one that clears the path.

But there were some inherent problems before we could even take the first steps. We talk about following this voice all the time, but what does that practically mean? How do we really learn to hear the creator's whispers without psyching ourselves out or tricking ourselves into plotting our own course of action? These topics dominated our discussion as we drove to Columbus, where we would stop to chat with a friend and mentor.

We walked in the house and sat down by a blazing fire to catch up with the mentor on recent events. As is inevitable with this godly man, who seems specially appointed to speak wisdom into my life, we settled on God and his mysterious workings as a topic of conversation. Without any mention of our talks in the car, my friend (whom we call our personal prophet only half jokingly) entered into a discourse on deciphering the will of God. The thrust of the half-hour discussion and prayer? Learn how to hear God.

At this point, for once, God grabbed my attention, using a bit of humor and irony to drive home the point: I, like so many saints before me, had closed my ears to the one voice I professed to be the megaphone for my soul. While on Earth, Jesus always said, "He who has ears, let him hear." I've always had these curiously shaped sound-catchers on the sides of my head. Shouldn't that merit me some spiritual understanding? Apparently not. With all manner of humor and irony, God was speaking to me about hearing. He was revealing that I needed a different set of ears, a spiritual set, tuned only to the frequency within which his sweet voice falls softly.

I won't recount all the intricacies of the conversation or claim that I've made any significant strides toward my next destination, but I have realized what it takes to find the right path, to take the first steps toward the allure of his voice. It's simple, really. It starts with shutting up the part of me that screams like a spoiled child for authority, that whines when it can't see around the next bend, that complains when fatigue sets in. Only when we stop staring at our own feet will we see - and hear - where His path leads.

Giving Up the Quilted Community

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 03:33:00 +0000

Technology's making it easier than ever to build a patchwork Christian community of friends and mentors from the past. But effective faith requires a present context, so in this age of transience, we've got to overcome our fear of new faces.

Sometimes I drive home from work earlier than usual or go in a little late. The latter happens much more often than the former, as my wife can attest, but either way the result is the same when the context changes: The world looks different.

In the thick of winter, I've grown accustomed to darkness on my 6:30 p.m. commute, so darting home during sunlight hours sometimes reveals a food shop or a tire repair center that I've passed each day but never noticed. On those days I feel like a foreigner in my own apartment complex. Everyone who gets off work at 5 is out and about, grabbing mail, walking dogs, taking strolls, even moving in.

Ah, moving. It seems to be the one constant in the life of my apartment complex. Every weekend at least one huge truck blocks the parking lot to drop off a few newcomers who strain to unpack the props they'll need for their next act on life's stage. They'll spend a year or two here finishing a master's or doctorate degree at Emory, working in a local restaurant, pursuing a musical career or climbing a few rungs on the career ladder at a local IT company. And then they'll be gone.

My time here is also limited, I'm pretty sure. In America, apartments, however luxurious, aren't considered the holy grail of housing. You can't exactly put up a picket fence around them, and it would just be plain difficult to squeeze a dog and three kids into this amount of square footage (not to mention that you'd be violating the lease agreement on multiple counts).

No, for most of us, these stacked boxes we call home are temporary storage units we share with our stuff as we hope and scrimp for something better. I've really enjoyed my time in the apartment, but I'd be lying if I said this is where I want to live out my days. Just like the student and the musician, both tied to this community by temporary goals or employment, no matter how long I want to stay here, I'm likely going to be transient.

Though I haven't yet moved, I can see the story repeating itself at the complex. I've had at least three across-the-hall neighbors and four different families living above me in the past two years.

Part of it's the nature of the times, I think. In the age of technology, fewer people are tied to the same employer, same town, same life for 30-50 years, as once was the case. People are going places, switching jobs and uprooting themselves for brand new careers with increasing regularity.

But despite the fact that folks are moving more often, it's not getting easier for folks to fit in when they move. That's especially true for believers looking for a place to live out God's kingdom in a new local context.

At least that's been my experience.

When I graduated college, finding a job was priority No. 1. I briefly considered a move to China but promptly remembered I was marrying a wife whose taste buds hadn't quite warmed to Peking duck.

I also thought about moving to the town where the in-laws live, but the journalism job there paid peanuts, which I really enjoy as a food, not so much as a unit of currency.

Things got crazy enough at one point that I even considered helping a pastor friend plant a church in Montana or joining a magazine start-up that I knew was doomed to failure, obscurity or some combination of the two.

In the end, when dust from all these schemes settled, God put me in Decatur, Ga., at the swirling center of an archipelago of friends, mentors and fathers of the faith spread throughout Georgia. I could reach UGA friends in Athens in an hour. I could see family in Columbus in two. Two of my best friends were in Augusta. I could reach anyone through a quick phone call or instant message, but accessing these lifelines through technology, or even knowing they were so close was different than actually sharing life with them. I could survive off of this patchwork community, this loose web of support, but only for awhile.

My wife and I slowly began easing into a church here in Decatur, but by my laziness, God's hand, or some combination of the two, it never felt like the right fit. We could never settle in, and with regard to Christian community, it just didn't feel right to supplant our faraway but familiar faces with strange new believers just because they were closer.

For me (and I think for Katy as well), moving was the first time we were required to really own our faith. In college I had built-in brothers. Accountability was a cinch: Hiding stuff from the folks sharing your pantry or battling you in 3 a.m. video game wars is pretty much impossible.

But moving into a new home in a new city with a new wife? That was unchartered territory. Working together, we had to find our niche, and I'm glad to say that through two years of searching and God's leading, we have, in a small church that is working to build disciples in a targeted area of the city. It's been a little awkward, and there's a long way to go, but we're slowly learning to live life with people we'd never seen just a few months ago.

It wasn't easy to make the transition, but the journey has led me to a conclusion that I think might be lost on others making a move: In the Facebook world, we can't let the temptation to hang on to past connections hinder our search for current community. Besides, if we start to miss the ones we leave behind, it's not too difficult to turn on a computer. A status update's just a few clicks away.

Ending the Drought - 1 New Post, 2 New Songs

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 06:47:00 +0000

Wow. This blog has been fallow for way too long. A few months ago I posted on Twitter the fact that I should probably remove the word "blogger" from my profile in an effort toward truthfulness. The truth is, today marks a terrible inverted milestone that really hurts what little credibility I had as a blogger in the first place: It has been long three months since the last post here.

There is some good news in all this for the few folks out there who are into my music. My absence from the blogosphere hasn't been totally unproductive. Amid my ongoing work as a reporter and trips to South Korea, Maine, Costa Rica, Texas and Mississippi, I've been able to grind out two new songs.

Well, I say "new," but again, I should be truthful. It's evident by the subject matter of these songs that they were written quite awhile ago, but their journey from pen to paper to performance to recording has moved at a snail's pace. They both deal with times before I was married. Katy and I just celebrated our two-year anniversary in June, which should give you a clue as to how long it's been since I laid down some new tracks.

"Arizona" talks about the desire to get away from all the hullabaloo that comes along with getting married. Getting through all the well-intentioned but exhausting congratulations, the necessary but tedious preparations, is quite a feat, and I think guys (who don't relish the whole wedding process quite as much as our female counterparts) will especially relate to how ready I was to get away from the Georgia pines and off to the serenity of dusty Arizona, where Katy and I went for our honeymoon. Preview the song and download it here.

"Home to you" digs back even further in the Katy-Trevor saga, to the days when we were trying to make a long-distance relationship work. At that point, I was questioning whether all the miles were worth the waiting game that we had to play. Would a family emerge out of our endless driving and the striving? Was the relationship worth all the weekend trips, the gas money, the hurt of being apart five days per week? Looking back, I'm glad to say that it was, but things weren't always so clear. This song, I hope, captures the frustration of not knowing what lay at the end of the road we were traveling. Click here to preview and/or download it.

Both songs are free. The quality's not astounding. These were done in my home studio, so let me know how I can improve. I'm an OK writer but a terrible producer. Hopefully I won't go three more months before making more noise on this blog.

How to Navigate Seoul's Metro System

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

I might as well have been looking at the control panel for a NASA space shuttle when I stared down a subway kiosk on the outskirts of Washington D.C.

It didn't take much to confuse me at this point. On Wednesday, a 13-hour flight had brought me home from South Korea. On Thursday, we packed up and left Atlanta for D.C. During the all-night drive, my jet lag was an advantage: The 2 a.m. to 7 a.m. shift? No problem.

But now it was Friday. Sleep-deprivation had caught up with me. And if the fatigue wasn't enough to muddle my brain, the puzzle of buttons, fare charts, digital instructions, money receptacles and receipt dispensers on the D.C. metro kiosk finished the job.

I wasn't the only one struggling. At 10 a.m., travelers were already pouring into town for Fourth of July celebrations. Everyone who arrived at the Greenbelt station needed instructions, and they looked haplessly to a lone attendant who, judging by his palpably annoyed state, had spent his entire morning dealing with ignorant tourists.

In the end, I left with two tickets in hand, one each for my wife and me, but the process wasn't easy. First I had to find the reduced holiday rate on the chart above the kiosk. Then I had to select a pass or single fare card. Next I had to choose the quantity of fare cards and the value of each. The machine's configuration was mind-numbing. With no automation, I had to add up the total fare in my head. And there were no numbered buttons. The fare simply started at $20.00, and I had to use what looked like a white plastic light switch to toggle all the way down to $4.70.

At this point, I really began to miss South Korea.

Compared to D.C.'s, the metro system in Seoul is a breath of fresh air. English is available at all kiosks, most of which have bright, intuitive touchscreens that make the ticket-buying process quite simple. In Korea, I could recheck the destination on my map, write down some notes, buy the ticket, retrieve my change and head to the turnstile faster than I could figure out how to simply work the machine in Washington.

Of course, your ability to navigate any subway will be directly related to prior experience. If you've never negotiated the pulsating, bullish crowds, the labyrinthine tunnels, the oft-confounding ticketing systems, your first time will likely be more of a crash course than a joyride. I've ridden subways in Hong Kong, Paris, Shanghai, D.C. and Atlanta, and the experience undoubtedly helped me in Seoul.

With more preparation, Korea would've been even easier, so I'm offering a few words of advice for those who might be planning a trip. I'm no expert, so more experienced folks, please feel free to correct or augment what follows.

Getting on

Seoul proper has nearly 11 million people, and the city claims that about half South Korea's population - more than 24 million - live in or commute to its metro area. Those numbers prove that the moving around this city will mean trial by fire for the first-time subway rider.

It sounds simple, but I've found that half the battle is knowing where you're going and being prepared. I recommend grabbing a metro map at the airport and studying the 10 lines during the hour-long bus ride into Seoul from the airport in Incheon. That way you'll at least have an idea how to hit the ground running upon arriving at the hotel. I really don't have any tips on how to best read a subway map. It's mostly just instinct, experience and most importantly, attention to detail.

Find the nearest subway station to your hotel. Any will do, but if you're at a confluence of different lines, consulting a map first could help you pick a line with a quicker route to your final stop.

With your destination in mind, stroll up to the kiosk. If you're an English speaker, you'll have no problem seeing the ENG button at the bottom of the screen, a stark sight in a sea of Korean. I'm assuming if you're reading this you're an English speaker, but just note that Korean and English are the only two languages offered at the kiosks. I saw some Japanese girls and a Chinese couple having to use English to select their destination on the digital screen, although the paper map I got from the airport listed stops in Chinese and Japanese.

After you select English, you'll have to choose what type of fare you want. I chose "single journey" every time, although if I were staying longer I could've loaded up a T-money card. Even buying single fares, the metro is considerably cheaper than in most American cities. It cost me just a little more than a dollar for a one-way fare that allowed me to traverse the city.

Once you've tapped a ticket type, many of the most popular stops will flash up on the screen. If yours doesn't appear, click the letter(s) the stop's name begins with, and an alphabetical list will come up. You're not bound to this particular stop if you change your mind during the ride. The machine just uses your stop to calculate your fare. If you disembark at a different destination, make a visit to the clearly labeled "fare adjustment machine" to pay what you owe or get your change, whatever the case may be.

Note also that your fare will include a 500-won deposit to cover the cost of the orange metro card in case you don't return it. After you get off, make sure to take your card to the "Deposit Refund Device." Slide it into the slot, and take the 500-won coin that drops down into the coin return. While 500 won doesn't seem like much - it's less than USD $0.50 - the cost adds up after double-digit subway rides. Get in the habit of getting your deposit back, and it won't be a problem.

Finding Direction

After scanning your newly acquired orange fare card and passing through the turnstile, the next order of business is to figure out which way to go. This is crunch time. Deciding which train will mean the difference between being late or on time. It's tough at first, because the Seoul metro maps and signs don't give you cardinal directions like east or west. They list a smattering of stops pointed toward each of the lines moving in opposite directions.

I devised a sort of scheme to deal with this. The ideal situation is to see your stop on the sign, but that won't happen if you're transferring down the line or getting off at a lesser-known stop. This is another reason it's important to have a map handy. You'll have to match the unfamiliar words on the sign with the unfamiliar words on the map to see which ones correlate with the direction of your final stop. This is one of the toughest parts of navigating the metro, as the choice between one direction and another often must be made in a split second with people rushing, tones blaring and doors sliding shut. Not to mention that the names on the signs, though transliterated, can sometimes begin to look and sound the same to foreign eyes and ears.

And now to my non-foolproof system: I quickly check my destination on my map and scan for the next and last stops in that direction. I also look for any potential landmarks in between. Stadiums, shopping districts, universities and tourist sites all generally make the cut.

The Ride

So you're through the sliding doors, out of the stifling heat that hangs in the subway corridors and into the quiet, air-conditioned comfort of the train. And hopefully you've picked the train moving in the right direction.

Now what? If it's not crowded, slide into a seat, but be sure not to take one of those designated for the elderly.

Once you're seated, the ride is pretty easy. Just don't expect many people to talk to you. I had a few benevolent souls speak to me, but mostly I just kept to myself. Others will be doing the same. For the most part, everyone will be engrossed in whatever content their cell phone is feeding them at the time: TV, texting, conversation, Web surfing. It's all on the table. And the people who aren't engaging in one of those activities are holding the phone in their hand, poised to pounce at the next chance for conversation.

Memorize your stop and its corresponding number, and you can chill a little, especially if it's a long way away. Announcements in English and Korean, along with a festive little recorded song, warn passengers as each stop approaches. It's smooth sailing from here, but keep checking the maps as you pass each stop. Leaving mental breadcrumbs will help build a map in your head that will make this process easy to replicate on the way back.

Getting out

Getting out of the subway isn't hard. Mostly you just follow the signs that say "Way Out" in English.

But picking the right way can be tricky. Subway stops often double as underground crosswalks. Exits are numbered, and each one will usually spit you out on one of the four corners created by intersection. The key again is to know ahead of time which way you need to walk once you get above ground. If you know that as well as the appropriate road to follow, convenient maps on the wall will help you find your way.

Other issues:

1. Dealing with crowds - Like most Asian countries, the violent crime rate in Korea is pretty low. But just because you likely won't get mugged, don't assume that you won't get robbed. Without being paranoid, be aware that valuables are called such for a reason. Take care of them. Keep bags in front of you, and watch out when the crowds really begin to press in.

2. Entertainment - There are actually lots of things to do on the subway if you're creative. My favorite? Watch people. Also you can watch TV on the phone of the person sitting next to you. Read or take notes. Study your map. Notice the personalities of the different subway stops. Count the number of people talking on cell phones.

There's always the occasional alms-seeking entertainer, too. At one stop, I saw a South American guy playing an assortment of flutes from the Andes and selling his CDs. On one train, a blind man walked through with an outstretched hand, playing "Take it to the Lord in Prayer" on a harmonica.

3. More Resources - This isn't the definitive guide. The Korea Tourism Web site has some great information that I haven't covered. More resources are linked below:

-Apps with maps - Seoul metro on your iPhone or iPod touch
-Interactive map with all major Korean cities' metro lines
-Click the Seoul metro map above to see a full-size version

Video of Andean flute player:

Anybody out there got any words of wisdom, disagreements to add?

Uighur Watching

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 03:01:00 +0000

The world's spotlight is now on China's wild northwest, where ethnic tensions came to a head last week in a conflict that left nearly 200 dead and thousands injured in the city of Urumqi, the capital of Xinjiang province.

The tragic events have given me some clarity. While backpacking through the region in summer 2006, I was detained and interrogated five different times by police. With another example of the region's volatility, I have a little bit better idea why.

Xinjiang is the ancestral homeland of nearly 10 million Uighurs, Turkic-speaking Muslims who make up about half of the region's population. Although the province is officially known as the Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region, the minority Uighurs have expressed resentment over increasing Han encroachment on what they see as their territory, known as East Turkestan to those bold enough to promote the region's autonomy.

The Han Chinese have been migrating into Xinjiang over the last several years to seize opportunities in the resource-rich region. The central government has enacted policies and programs encouraging this westward expansion, some say in an effort to dilute Uighur influence and exert more control over the region. The Han are China's largest ethnic group, making up about 90 percent of the country's population. Uighurs have complained that the benefits of economic development in the province - which makes up about a sixth of China's landmass - haven't been fairly shared.

China has had more than a few reminders that Xinjiang is a stick of dynamite waiting to be lit. Last year, two of Uighur assailants ambushed a Chinese police unit in the border town of Kashgar, killing 16 a month before the Beijing Olympic Games. (News reports called into question the validity of the official account)

Last week's spark occurred when a group of Uighurs - some put the number at nearly 1,000 - gathered to express dissatisfaction for Chinese government inaction in the killing of two Uighur workers by Han Chinese during a brawl at a factory in faraway Guangdong province. The Urumqi protests grew violent when Chinese police tried to disperse the crowd.

After the Uighurs ran wild, thousands of Han sought revenge and took to the streets with sticks, knives and other implements. When the dust settled, more than 180 people were dead, most of them Han, according to Chinese government propaganda. Uighur activists claim that hundreds of Uighurs were shot and killed during the police backlash. The Chinese government has not confirmed that, nor will it. The latest figures put the number arrested for their roles in the riots at 1,400, and some are reporting that Uighur men are being rooted from their homes.

The Chinese government would like nothing more than to pin this on "separatist" elements. In fact, foreign ministry spokesman Qin Gang has already blamed Rebiya Kadeer, the world's foremost Uighur activist, for fomenting the unrest. Last year, during the assault on the Chinese police patrol, the government played the "terrorist" card, saying that those who committed the acts must've been Islamic extremists.

Perhaps because of their Islamic beliefs and relative obscurity, the Uighurs' cause has not been celebrated as heartily as that of Tibetans and other oppressed peoples. The Chinese government says that it gives Uighurs ample opportunities. Uighurs feel disenfranchised. I have to say that if not for my experiences in Xinjiang, I might be tempted to believe the Xinhua (Chinese state media) version of events.

But this conflict runs pretty deep, and it has a political root, as most so-called "ethnic" conflicts do. The Qing dynasty conquered Xinjiang in the 1870s, and since then the Uighurs have mounted a variety of struggles - bombings, shootings, rebellions and demonstrations - to shirk Chinese rule. In the 1940s, they succeeded for five short years, when the East Turkestan Republic blossomed as the Communist and Nationalist forces were battling for control of the mainland. When Mao Ze Dong came to power in 1949, he sent the People's Liberation Army to bring the western provinces back under Chinese control. The Uighurs submitted without a fight.

The Chinese government issued a report in 2002 blaming Uighurs for 200 separate terrorist incidents during the first few years of 21st century. The claim was made the year after 9/11, when President Bush laid down America's "for-us-or-against-us" gauntlet with regard to the fight against terrorism. China quickly sided with the U.S., stating its commitment to quelling terrorist activities within its borders. But some think that China’s claim of allegiance to the U.S.-led war against terror is a façade meant to legitimize the brutal suppression of anti-Chinese sentiments in Xinjiang. When Uighur prisoners got out of the Guantanamo Bay prison facilities last month, the U.S. would not repatriate them to China for fear they would be killed or harassed. Instead, the small Pacific island nation of Palau and the Atlantic island of Bermuda took the Uighurs in, with much backlash from their populations.

The bottom line in all this is that the Chinese government wants economic control of the northwest. The Uighurs want more autonomy, less encroachment. It's sad to say, but despite the best efforts for cultural understanding on both sides, these ideologies clash and will inevitably result in friction in the future, much like the tumultuous 20th century. Let's just hope subsequent struggles won't be as fierce as last week's.

More resources:

My recent article on Coke's new bottling plant in Xinjiang

See also: A View of Pre-Olympic Tensions in Xinjiang

Daily Bread Deja Vu

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 16:09:00 +0000

A third short story from one of my Asia mission trips has been posted on the International Mission Board's East Asia field blog.

It's been three years since I went on a mission trip in that part of the world, but God has kept the memories fresh. I hope to continue putting down on paper (or blogs, as the case may be) all the amazing experiences He's allowed me to have.

Click here to check out the story about meeting a friendly face while walking through a rainforest park in southern China.

This post will link you to the other two stories the East Asia blog has published, as well as a chronological list of entries from my 2006 trip.

Lessons from the First Swedish Woman to Climb Everest

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 15:49:00 +0000

It's a rare privilege to talk to some who's summited Everest, rarer still to meet someone that has some superlative attached to their feats on the mountain.

Renata Chlumska, a renowned 36-year-old Swedish adventurer, became the first woman from her country ever to reach the roof of the world in 1999. She was slated to come speak in Georgia two weeks after my Sweden trip, and I was going to interview her in Malmo.

She was headed to Hungary the next day and couldn't make it to meet me, so we spoke by phone instead.

Though Everest is her claim to fame, I found out that her speech was actually going to cover her Around America Adventure in 2005-06, when she kayaked and biked around the perimeter of the lower 48 states. This year is the 10th anniversary of her initial Everest summit, and it's now "old news," she joked.

Adventurers have to tout their accomplishments. It's how they make their living, whether they're motivational speakers whose value is in their unique perspective or expedition leaders who need to brand themselves as trusted guides for extreme outdoor trips. (Chlumska is both.)

What struck me as I talked to her is how she believes that challenges on the mountain are similar to those we face in life, without the blistering cold, physical exhaustion, struggle for oxygen and altitude sickness, of course.

"For me, being tired, going through hardship, when it's painful, your body hurts and you're drained mentally and physically, that's not the reason to turn back. That's just part of the challenge," she told me.

That was so refreshing for my American ears to hear. Our culture worships comfort and ease and values convenience, not discipline.

For Chlumska, overcoming hardship - valuing the destination over the discomfort in getting there - is part of gaining a new perspective that sets you above the crowd.

"You just get a different view when you climb a mountain or hill or tree," she said. " You just get to see a different angle."

It's the same way in faith.

If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. -Jesus, Luke 9:23.

A Southerner in South Sweden

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Sat, 06 Jun 2009 14:58:00 +0000

I know I keep saying this, but for someone whose international travel experience is mainly in China, it's really easy to become mesmerized by Europe. That sounds almost counter intuitive, because some would argue that the culture in Europe is so similar to the U.S.

Here's what I mean, though. China's a vast country, almost a continent in its own right, just like the United States. I've traversed it from east to west, examining all kinds of cultures in interior provinces and border regions. But no matter how exotic the locale or how many miles I travel, I'm always in the same country.

Contrast that with Europe, where nations rub elbows with each other. Especially with the EU's paper-thin borders, you can cross with hardly any indication that you've left one country and entered another.

That was my feeling when my Sweden-bound train crossed the Oresund, the strait that separates Sweden and Denmark. Since a bridge linked the two sides about a decade ago, the southern region of Sweden, called Skane, has become tied to Copenhagen's metropolitan area. It makes sense economically, considering the fact that Stockholm is six or seven hours away by train or car.

A Day in Malmo

My first stop was the capital of Skane, a city called Malmo. It has a quarter-million people and lies right on the Oresund. My host, whom I had just contacted on Skype that Sunday morning, would meet me at the Malmo South station. From Copenhagen's center, it was only 15-20 minutes away.

Nils Eric Svensson, an economic development official with quite possibly the most Scandinavian name ever, stood with the hint of a smile on his face as I disembarked. A tall man with piercing blue eyes and some of the biggest hands you've ever seen, I had met him at our office in Georgia over a year ago. We didn't realize it until we finally saw each other. He helped me stuff my bags into his Volvo wagon, which along with the Saab wagon could compete for the title of Sweden's flagship vehicle.

He took me on a driving tour of Malmo. If Nils could be believed, the city was being transformed by an emphasis on the knowledge economy, logistics and environmental technologies. We passed a huge new IKEA facility, a new subway tunnel under construction and a 50,000-seat sports arena on our way to downtown.

As we drove, Nils gave me an abridged look at Malmo's nearly 1,000-year history. The city was established in the 1100s, when what is now southern Sweden was a part of the Danish kingdom. Malmo was originally called "Elbow" because of the shape of the nearby harbor. It has a long maritime history that led to its ascension as a shipbuilding center with a thriving wharf industry earlier in the 20th century. When the construction of ships moved largely to places like South Korea, some of Malmo's large wharfs closed down, leaving thousands jobless and the city with an identity crisis. For Malmo, it was a fork in the road, and from the tale that Nils was spinning, the city chose the right direction. "I've been working in and close to this area for all my time, but I have never experienced a development like we have now," he said.

Many of the wharf buildings, steel factories and old buildings now house companies that make devices for steering ships, clean technology applications, animation for mobile phones and other products that represent an about-face from the city's industrial history. As if to cap the transition, in 2001 construction began on the Turning Torso, a lonely 55-story skyscraper with a unique twisting design. It towers over the harbor and the shorter buildings around it. The Torso replaced the huge Kockums crane that stood as the city's iconic structure in the harbor during the wharf days. On a clear day Nils said it could be seen from 100 kilometers away. Along with the jobs, it too was shipped to South Korea in 2002, symbolizing a clean break with the past.

Where Are They Hiding?

If Malmo had 250,000 people, I wondered where they were hiding. It was a cool, overcast, blustery Sunday, so I assumed many people might be at church or staying indoors. The city was quiet with no semblance of hustle or bustle. Over lunch, Nils said the lack of activity had more to do with the season than religious fervor. In a land dotted with centuries-old churches and universities, not many people make a weekly habit of attending services, he said. It was the beginning of April, and everyone was waiting for the weather to fully change. Then they'd be out in force, walking along the water and taking advantage of the shift from harsh winter to temperate spring.

After lunch in Malmo, Nils drove me up to Lund, an old town with a huge university with a strong research sector that has attracted many high-tech companies. On the way, the green landscape impressed me. We were close to a relatively large city, but the four-lane highway still felt remote. Unlike in America, Sweden doesn't allow billboards to dot every piece of pasture land along the side of the road. We occasionally passed giant, white wind turbines.

Nils said that Malmo residents joke that their Danish friends on the other side of the Oresund strait never get any sunsets because they're facing east. After lunch, Nils and I had about five more hours until darkness fell. I didn't want to take too much of his time, so we went to his downtown office to conduct a video interview I'd put on my company's Web site.

I was talking to him about his region's plans for the upcoming Swedish Entrepreneurial Days conference in Savannah. Tragically, two weeks later, Nils was killed when a truck hit him while he was crossing a street in Savannah. The day before his death, Nils told me at the conference that he was enjoying a sort of vacation in Georgia's oldest city. It was his fifth visit. There was no way of knowing that my interview with him in Malmo would be his last media appearance.

I left Malmo with a deep respect for Nils, enriched by his Swedish brand of Southern Hospitality. With no real benefit for himself, he had taken three hours out of his day off to show a nosey reporter around his city. For me, he turned what could've been a wasted day into an opportunity.

On to Vaxjo

Nils dropped me off a Malmo's train station, a beautiful old brick building that looked and felt similar to the one in Copenhagen. An army of bicycles were parked outside, and gulls fluttered around the structure, which stood in stark red contrast to the bright blue sky. Nils told me Danish architecture had inspired many of the structures in Malmo, and the town hall proved him right. It was situated on a square and looked like a smaller model of the one in Copenhagen.

It only took about 20 minutes for my train to arrive. I boarded and sat down facing east, the direction I would ride for two hours before reaching my next destination.

Vaxjo has branded itself as the "greenest city in Europe." The city takes pride in its quest to totally eliminate CO2 emissions, an effort it began in the mid-1990s. At least according to government leaders, its environmental focus really started long before that, when city officials decided in the late 1960s to clean up its polluted lakes.

While Vaxjo has failed to meet its ambitious CO2 reduction goals, it has reduced emissions by more than 30 percent since the early 1990s. The key to that has been the use of renewable energy sources to provide more than 90 percent of the heating energy. Like Georgia, Sweden has a wealth of forestry resources that it's trying to monetize further as nations form new policies toward green energy.

If you like nightlife, Vaxjo is probably not your place. Maybe it's just Sundays, but when I stepped out of my hotel at 9 p.m., there were very few downtown establishments open. I tried to resist being a fat American, but the choices for dinner were limited to a McDonald's and a questionable pizza place. I went with the tried-and-true golden arches and then retired to the hotel.

The next day was a flash of green. A Vaxjo university professor picked me up at the hotel and drove me around for awhile, showing me the advances the city has made in building environmentally friendly apartments and houses made almost entirely from timber that boasts elevated insulation capabilities that reduce the need for heating in winter.

We then went to the school and did video interviews about possible collaboration between Vaxjo University and the Savannah College of Art & Design. A publisher of an environmental magazine came in to talk to me about partnering with our international business news Web site. I then visited a company that makes kits to transform gas-powered cars into flex-fuel vehicles. Finally, I went to city hall, where Vaxjo's executive mayor laid out reason that his city has become so green-conscious: To create jobs, boost quality of life, and help Vaxjo make its name known on the international stage.

Vaxjo is more than just green energy, though. There'll soon be a glass museum showing off the city's history as a glass/crystal capital. There are great shops, a museum dedicated to the Swedish mass migration to America, and of course, some old churches and buildings. Not to mention that I was now in Smaland, the birthplace of Ingvar Kamprad's IKEA, the furniture giant that has swept the world.

I ate a quick dinner and headed back to the train station. My two-day whirlwind tour of southern Sweden was over almost as soon as it had begun. It was two hours back to the Danish capital. I grabbed a scarce room at a hotel near the Copenhagen central station. My first European tour ended the next day.

Photos - Doors of Denmark

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Wed, 27 May 2009 05:17:00 +0000

Denmark is the door to Scandinavia from the European continent. Here's a sampling of the doors that grace historical buildings around Copenhagen:

The gate to Tivoli. It was closed for renovations on the day I was there.The door to the country at Kastrup Airport.

24 Hours in Copenhagen

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Wed, 20 May 2009 04:48:00 +0000

I didn't have long to make my mark on Denmark, so I started early. My flight landed in Copenhagen, the capital, around 10 a.m. I was still a little tired from getting to Charles de Gaulle airport at just after 6 to catch my early flight from Paris.

I read the Wall Street Journal (in a very airplane-friendly tabloid format) for most of the two-hour flight, but I looked out the window in time to see wind turbines standing starkly in the Copenhagen harbor, their crisp white contrasting with the blue of the sea. I wasn't even on the ground, and the city was already starting to live up to its reputation as a hub for alternative energy.

Denmark was not my destination. It was merely a way point, a place to pass through en route to Sweden, but I was excited. There was no way I was going to let a new country go to waste.

Lakes were everywhere reflecting the light of the late morning, and the land was awash in green and blue. Touchdown was smooth. Kastrup Airport was nice, clean and very modern. The first sign that greeted me when I exited the terminal said "Wi-fi Zone." This validated something else I had heard, that Denmark is one of the most wired countries in the world and one of the top places for information technology.

I didn't have to wait long to try out the country's IT infrastructure. After grabbing my bags, I walked to an electronic kiosk to book a train ticket into the city.

Luckily the instructions were in English as well as Danish. A British lady was struggling with the machine when I came up. I tried it out and had no problem until I entered my credit card. The transaction looked like it was going to clear until the screen asked for a PIN. I had never used a PIN with that credit card in the U.S., but the machine would not be reasoned with. I used my debit card instead and felt lucky that I had brought it with me. This wasn't the last time the PIN problem would crop up.

I had no problem finding the right train. It wasn't too crowded when I hopped on. No one made eye contact. A short American guy was making out with his tall, blonde Scandinavian girlfriend the whole way to the central station, Kobenhavn H. My giant red suitcase impeded movement; otherwise I would've turned away. Their public affection displays made me a part sick, part homesick. I'd been away from my wife for a week, the longest time we'd been apart since we married nearly two years ago.

The central station is a large brick building just across a street called Bernsdorffsgade from the famous Tivoli Gardens. It had a McDonald's and other restaurants and shops, but like the airport, the train station was a bit more quaint than you'd expect from a capital city. Of course, Denmark only has 5.4 million people and Copenhagen less than half that, so the whole place, while undoubtedly cosmopolitan and far from sleepy, has a refreshingly laid-back feel.

Come to think of it, while Paris has the (some say) ghastly 59-floor Montparnasse Tower as its lonely modern skyscraper, I couldn't find one in the Danish capital. That's not to say it's not a modern city, but it is free what some would call tall architectural sins that most shiny new western metropolises have committed in the name of progress and population density.

I took a left out of the train station's main entrance and traced Tivoli's eastern edge. An information sign led me to a tourist center on the corner of Bernsdorffsgade and Vesterbrogade, where I nabbed a map. I'd booked my hotel the night before but hadn't bothered to get directions, partly because I'm lazy, and partly because I knew finding it would force me to be resourceful. (Of course, it's hard to be adventurous for long when you're rolling a 45-lb. piece of luggage over cobblestone streets.)

The map led me to the Radhuspladsen (town hall square). After just a few minutes of walking, I looked up to see my aptly named hotel, The Square, overlooking the sprawling paved plaza that spread out in front of the Radhus, the beautiful old town hall.

I claimed my room at the hotel. The nice blonde attendant told me someone had left me a message at the front desk. This made me feel important, and more than that, relieved. A representative from the Danish Energy Agency would meet me for an interview in about half an hour. I love traveling, but doing so alone and without a context honestly isn't very fulfilling. This interview would give me a job to do and a friendly face to help me make sense of this new city.

While I awaited Peter's arrival, I settled into my tiny room overlooking the square. I hooked the ethernet cable into my computer to start using the first truly free Internet I'd encountered in Europe. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for choosing a netbook that had an ethernet port despite temptations to go with a cheaper model without one.

I pulled up Skype and called another interview prospect, a businessman who had spent five years in Georgia as head of Denmark's trade commission here. He was beginning a weeklong vacation from work, but instead of traveling to exotic locales, he was spending it working on the garden behind his 100-year-old yellow cottage. I tried to tell him I wouldn't trouble him, but he insisted I come for coffee. In half an hour, I had already made two appointments.

I met Peter downstairs. I expected an older man, but I got a tall, thin Dane who looked to be in his late twenties and spoke perfect English with a slight British tinge. He downplayed his English, saying he needed to polish it if he ever wanted a job at the EU. He had hard eyes and features. His brown hair had slight waves. We went for a quick lunch at an artisan sandwich place that showed me Danish food might give the French a little competition. The busy clerk wouldn't accept my American card. "Only Danish," she said in a disapproving tone. I was embarrassed as my new friend had to pick up the 50-kroner (about $10) tab.

Peter and I ducked out of the small shop and took our sandwiches to a bench near one of the city's many canals, just around the corner from the Danish parliament building. We talked about biofuels and climate change, and how Denmark is trying to add to its alternative energy portfolio. The country already generates a fifth of its electric power through wind energy. This December Copenhagen will host what some are calling the new Kyoto, the U.N. Conference on Climate Change.

After a nice interview, I hit the ATM to pay Peter back and get cash for my cab ride out to the suburbs. Peter left me with a Serbian taxi driver who'd been in Copenhagen for 20 years. The ride was only 15 minutes, but it cost me the equivalent of $25, a ridiculously high price for someone who's traveled mostly in China, where cab fares seem to be cheaper than the cost of the gas that propelled the vehicle to your destination. I made a mental note to take the bus or train back to the center of town.

I arrived at Kent's home about 20 minutes after 3. His wife saw the cab drop me off and met me at the front gate. She led me to the backyard, past a few apple trees, some berry bushes and across lush green grass to a patio where Kent was sitting. The coffee in the carafe was still hot even though I was 20 minutes late. He poured me some, and we began talking. He asked me how our publication was doing and gave me a detailed description of Atlanta as an international city and what the state of Georgia needs to do to attract more global businesses.

Afterward, he took me back to the city and dropped me off at the hotel. With the appointments over, it was time to explore. I walked out toward Norrebro, an area of the city the tourist map told me had thriving ethnic populations and a lot of antiques. It sounded like a place to get my cultural fix while finding a great souvenir for my wife.

Heading north, I crossed over a canal that Kent said used to be a moat a thousand years ago when Copenhagen was a fortress. When I stopped to take some pictures of the giant swans in the water, a Romanian lady came up to chat with me. Miruna was carrying her baby in front of her in a sling. She was married to a Dane, but she couldn't speak Danish and he couldn't speak Romanian. They communicate in English. A sad soul, she seemed amused to have a foreigner to speak frankly with about the difficulties of Danish life. The place is tough for foreigners. Some say it's difficult to even get a cell phone contract there without citizenship. Miruna had been jumping through hoops in hopes of gaining citizenship, but the process was taking its toll on their family. She was looking forward to a trip to her homeland to visit relatives.

We parted, and I walked forever looking for a place to eat. South Asians offered kebabs. Middle Easterners sold vegetables at streetside stands. A surprising amount of Seven Elevens tempted me with convenience store goodies. Trendy bars and pubs attracted local crowds. I passed all these up, thinking I'd find something better and more affordable. Food is expensive in Denmark. Beers are upwards of $8 and a good meal can set you back $30 easily. To put it in perspective, know that value meals at the Copenhagen's trendy McDonald's cost $10-$13. I wanted to marry atmosphere with affordability, but it didn't look promising.

I stopped at a candy store for a psychological boost and that high that comes with consuming way too many Swedish fish and strips of sour candy. The stash (I bought it by the pound) lasted until I crossed over the moat and back to the central shopping district. I found a pub offering a a real hamburger, Coca-Cola and fries for $16, a steal compared to Burger King's $13 meal.

After a lonely meal capping a long day, I screwed up the exchange rate and gave the waitress an $8 tip, equivalent to 50 percent of the cost of the meal. At that point I knew it was time to go to bed. Sweden was just across the Oresund, the body of water that separates the two countries. Another country was just one bridge away.

Photos: City scenes, from top to bottom: The old Town Hall building, Tivoli entrance, Copenhagen canal, Danish doors.

Video below: Get a good glimpse of the front of the central train station in my video explaining that Tivoli is closed:

Home Sweet Hotel - European vs. American Lodging

noreply@blogger.com (Trevor Williams) — Fri, 15 May 2009 05:28:00 +0000

Appreciating American convenience after eight nights in seven European hotels

The hours of ironing, the meticulous folding, the careful closure of the suitcase and the cautious slide of the zipper: None of it mattered. When I pulled my suits, shirts and slacks out of the giant red bag I'd brought to Europe, it was clear that I'd need drastic measures to smooth out these pesky wrinkles.

An iron! I thought. My boss was paying more than a hundred dollars for this cramped room in France; certainly they would offer the courtesy of such a mundane device.

I slid open the door to the room's makeshift closet, and they were all there - the whole array of hotel laundry tools - suit hangers with clips, a bar to hang ties on, a full-length mirror. Still, though, no iron.

But I did see something intriguing. It looked like some sort of black, vertically rectangular George Foreman grill mounted on the wall. Its brown cord was loosely attached to an electrical outlet that didn't have the third hole for the grounding prong. I looked at the device quizzically, opening and closing it like the jaws of a toothless, plastic alligator's mouth. The red button on top begged to be pushed. Next to it, I read the words, "Trouser press."

It turns out that the device was pretty intuitive. You slide a pant leg through, fold the press into place, lock it and press the red button. It begins to breathe heat to both sides until your pants become like the buns of a panini being toasted. At least in my hotels in France, Denmark and Sweden, the trouser press gave off enough heat to give that few blissful seconds of leg warmth after putting on the pants, but not enough to actually remove many wrinkles.

And then you have the more obvious problem of what to do now that you have semi-presentable pants and a shirt that looks like it's been through a war. The trouser press is a limited tool, and try as often and as awkwardly as I might, it just wasn't made for pressing shirts.

The trouser press wasn't my only issue with European hotels. In an eight-day trip across France, Denmark and Sweden, I stayed in seven different hotels. It became clear that those frequented by our European friends are not always endowed with the same inalienable conveniences that a lot of American hotels promise.

Take the bathrooms, for instance. Call me lazy, but after a shower I don't enjoy having to walk back down the hallway toward the entryway to go to the bathroom. That's right, my American readers. The toilet in some French hotels is kept in an entirely separate room from the shower, sink and tub. Imagine a coat closet to your left as you walk into your foyer. Now imagine there's a toilet in it. That's just how it is, without the coat rack, of course. And just like a coat closet, there inevitably is no fan in this little restroom. (After all my travels to China, you'd think I'd be grateful for any toilet you can actually rest your behind on, but I digress.)

There are in Europe, however, two separate settings for toilet flushing - a big button and a small one on the wall - which I did find very useful. As a lazy environmentalist, I'm a bit sad that somehow this effortless water-saving adaptation hasn't made its way to the States on a broader scale.

The inconveniences in the Euro hotels didn't end in the bathroom, though, and some nifty flushing gadget couldn't blind me to other shortcomings. After I finished showering, I'd want to chat with my wife. Without a cell phone, I'd use Skype to call home. Skype requires the Internet, so I generally had to either buy three hours of connection for a decent 10-euro price or get gouged for one hour at five euros. This would've been OK at five-star hotels, but everyone knows - well, at least the owners of Quality, Comfort and LaQuinta Inns do - that inexpensive hotels should have free Internet. That's just the way the world should work.

Because of my indignance, I'd refuse the one-hour trap and get suckered into spending three hours talking, twittering, reading and writing. Then I'd need to sleep, which brings me to my next beef with European hotels:

They have no alarm clocks.

People who know me know that alarm clocks are No. 4 on my version of Maslow's hierarchy of needs - food, clothing, shelter, and alarms to remind me to wake up and go after all of the above.

That said, I like to think I'm a relatively savvy traveler, so I realize that it's ultimately my fault if I don't have an alarm clock that will wake me up. I actually have two that I accidentally left at home. The blame is all mine, I admit.

That didn't change the fact that in Sweden and Denmark I had to stuff my Timex watch into my ear canal to make sure that its measly alarm took the edge off of the sleep before the automated wakeup call came from a muted phone came at the programmed time.

Contrast this with my experience in Savannah, Ga., during a business trip two weeks after returning from Sweden. Not only did I have an alarm clock with two separate alarms, noise settings and snooze buttons, but I also had a personalized wakeup call from the clerk at the front desk. When I didn't answer on the first try, she called back to make sure I was awake, and she even acted cheerful about it! I couldn't believe it.

This post isn't intended to rag on European hotels. I had a great time listening to the nightlife out my window at the aptly named Square hotel on Copenhagen's old city. I had an even better time getting to know the joys of the coffee offered as part of a "city breakfast" at the bar in a Parisian Novotel.

As Bill Bryson so humorously showed me in "I'm a Stranger Here Myself," a collection of essays on returning to the U.S. after 20 years in the U.K., America is a wonderful land, but our excessive quest for convenience doesn't always make the most sense if we look at it with fresh eyes.

Then again, as my wife would say, why would we be looking introspectively our habits when we could be watching the Hallmark Channel on our American hotel's wall-mounted flatscreen?

A serious tip: If you're traveling in Europe, especially Denmark, make sure you have at least one credit card that is PIN-activated. I've never used a PIN on my Visa in America, but they demanded one when I was buying train tickets and hotel rooms. Good thing I had my debit card too. Anyone have any thoughts on whether there's a way to get around the PIN requirement in these places?