Lately I have been devouring Arthur Phillips' "Prague." It's set in Budapest. While I was only physically there for two days, I've written two plays set there, so my mind was living there for a good two years. Phillips' expats (mostly American, though there's one Canadian) are fascinating to me. And I think I'm probably a little jealous I didn't run over to Eastern Europe for a few years after the Wall fell. It's very hard to put down, which I don't say about much contemporary fiction.