by Frances Mayes
ages: adult
First sentence: “The silhouette of Alghero rises from the Mediterranean.”

At one point, while reading this collection of travel essays, I thought, “When Frances Mayes is lyrical in her writing, I feel lyrical.” Not a very lyrical sentiment, true, but an honest one. As I discovered before, when Mayes writes well, you feel like saving her words. Her books are not ones to be rushed through.

The problem with this book is that it’s really a series of disjointed essays, each on a different spot, and while some of them are wonderful, others are well, banal. (That and I have issues with the title. It’s not a “year in the world”, more like “several years bopping around southern Europe, Morocco, and Great Britain.”)

As Mayes is a lover of all things Italy, those chapters are by far the best. I want to visit Naples, Sicily, Mantova and wander the streets, shop in the markets, taste the food. Lay on the sun-kissed beaches, swim in the sparkling ocean. (Her work also brings out the adjectives in me.) She makes Italy so accessible, luxiurious, desireable.

When reading books I am often reminded of people. This one — the Italy and England/Wales chapters especially — made me think of my mom. I can understand her long-held desire to go to Italy now: it is a marvelous place.

But, aside from her love-affair with Italy, the places Mayes visits have their ups and downs. She gushes about Andalucia in Spain, but is underwhelmed by Portugal. She stays in a crummy house in Wales, but has a good old time with friends in Scotland (which is by far her most indulgent, and my least favorite chapter). Her husband gets food poisining in Morocco, they go on a cruise around the Greek Islands (she alternates between gushing about the ocean, making fun of the passengers, and lamenting that they can’t spend much time anywhere. Sounds like my cruise experience), but have a much better experience with a guided boat tour around ancient ruins in Turkey.

Even with its many imperfections, it’s a book worth reading. I vascillated between jealousy and what she was able to do (and afford!), and soaking the words in and feeling like I was there myself. There were times when it read like a guidebook (a very good guidebook, but one nonetheless), but I can’t complain, coming away with garden and food suggestions, book recommendations, and CDs to listen to.

And still, I may be sad to see it go back to the library. I did enjoy my travels; Mayes is an impeccible traveling guide and companion.