| Title | : | Neither Here nor There: Travels in Europe |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 0380713802 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780380713806 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 254 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1991 |
Whether braving the homicidal motorist of Paris, being robbed by gypsies in Florence, attempting not to order tripe and eyeballs in a German restaurant, window-shopping in the sex shops of the Reeperbahn or disputing his hotel bill in Copenhagen, Bryson takes in the sights, dissects the culture and illuminates each place and person with his hilariously caustic observations. He even goes to Liechtenstein.
Neither Here nor There: Travels in Europe Reviews
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Bryson at his worst. He is the whining American tourist he claims to detest. Meandering through a dozen or so european countries, he manages to complain about virtually every hotel accomodation. And for christ sake Bill, put a freakin map in your book. I'm not totally ignorant when it comes to european geography but if youre gonna write about travelling hundreds of miles every other day, i'd like to glance at the route with out having to bust out my world atlas.
After Shorthistoryof nearly everything i was so high on him, now this... -
Neither Here, Nor There made me laugh-out-loud during a time I needed it, so thank you Mr Bryson! In this book, Bryson retraces his journey across Europe from years earlier, beginning in Norway and finishing in Istanbul. Ever since watching the film adaptation of his book, A Walk In The Woods, I can’t help but imagine Bryson as Robert Redford, instead of, well, Bill Bryson.
I regularly found myself looking up these European places and wanting to find out more. His descriptions were beautifully written (especially the Northern Lights, Capri, Austria) and often made me feel like I was standing there too. This was set in 1990 and while Europe is a dramatically different place today, Neither Here, Nor There never felt too outdated. On the occasions it did start to wander into that territory, it came across more like a beautiful snapshot of a bygone era instead. The chapter on Bulgaria was a real-opener in regards to this.
Sure, Bryson sometimes goes off on rambling tangents that don't quite work or aren't that funny. But more often than not, he gives hilarious insights into encounters with strangers, the stereotypes of a country or just complains in a laugh-inducing way. Occasionally, he comes across as a loud, obnoxious American tourist, but I also feel he is somewhat self-aware of this and embraces the fact he’s a bit of a prick.
There is something incredibly comforting and cosy about reading a Bill Bryson book. Perhaps it’s the way he writes or observes the world around him, perhaps because it’s as close to travel you can get from the comfort of your own couch or bed. If you find yourself sharing anecdotes from a book with friends, then it’s probably a good sign of a quality read. This happened to me numerous times; whether it be laughing hysterically with my Italian friend as she agreed with Italian stereotypes or asking Mum about her 1976 European travels to places mentioned in the book.
The facts and historical anecdotes really brought to life many of the places Bryson visited. Some readers have complained that these Bryson trademarks are virtually missing from Neither Here Nor There. To a reader not overly accustomed to his work, I didn’t notice this at all. One of my favourites was: “Liechtenstein’s last military engagement was in 1866, when it sent eighty men to fight against the Italians. Nobody was killed. In fact – you’re going to like this – they came back with eighty-one men, because they made a friend along the way.”
I was happy Bryson’s old mate, Katz, got a few mentions too – these always made me laugh and I couldn't help but wish Katz had been accompanying him on this adventure too - though I feel only one of them would’ve survived! A small downside was the final chapter, Istanbul. After so long following Bryson’s journey across Europe it just seemed to end a bit too abruptly.
I now have the urge to wander aimlessly around a city I don’t know, with this book inspiring me to visit Europe more than ever! Neither Here, Nor There is the best travel book I’ve read and has made me want to read more of Bryson’s work. Bring on some long train journeys, dodgy pickpockets and epic European scenery! -
I'm a fan of Bill Bryson.
I'm not a fan of the complaining, whingeing, swilling pleb who wrote this travel book. No, this is too harsh. But I do feel a little ripped off only because I know how interesting a Bill Bryson book can be. There's no history in this book, there's no culture, there is very little interesting stories.
Here is what it felt like:
So I got off the train at Hergenbootensberg and it was raining. Why does it always rain when I travel? The place was a dirty shithole and no one spoke English at all. I went to a travel desk and complained to them and then asked them to find me a room for the night.
The room was full of mildew and smelt like an armpit. So I smoked. There were no restaurants open just McDonalds everywhere I could see. So I ate a burger and complained to the workers there about their weird foreign McDonalds burgers.
The next day I walked 10 miles to a rich principality. They were all rich and I was poor. It was shit. So I walked back to my hotel and stole the towels. And then I smoked. I'll be onto Belgium soon. -
I had a rather curious experience while reading this book. Because I'll be in Europe shortly, and I've been on a Bryson binge anyway, I downloaded the audiobook onto my phone and began listening. I took a walk and was merrily following along, until, at about one third of the way through, a thought flashed through my mind—This book sucks!
I was taken by surprise, because up until then I thought I'd been enjoying it. But the further I read, the more my judgment was justified. I'm sorry to say this, Bill, but this book is not very good.
To put it briefly, Bryson comes across as extremely immature in this book, both as a writer and as a person. He tries hard to be funny, but too often ends up making jokes about cultural stereotypes—Italians are bad drivers, the French are rude, and so on—or simply engaging in hyperbolic descriptions of extremely ordinary events, which unfortunately only serve to magnify their ordinariness rather than to alleviate it. This book contains very few of Bryson's trademark little-known anecdotes, and almost nothing that could be deemed insightful about the places he visits. He spends a distressing about of time talking about hotels and restaurants—mostly to complain about them—and more than once ends up eating in a McDonald's. Bryson even complains that a menu in a German restaurant was written in German. He might as well have stayed at home.
I am, however, happy to report that Bryson has shown a definite progress in his writing ability and worldview over the years. In chronological order, of Bryson's books I've read Neither Here nor There (1993), Notes from a Small Island (1995), A Walk in the Woods (1998), In a Sunburned Country (2000), and A Short History of Nearly Everything (2003). And in terms of quality, I would rank them in the same order. So however immature he may have been, at least he's shaped up; and it's a great sign when people are able to change for the better. -
Descubrí a Bill Bryson en un viaje a Inglaterra, hace ya muchos años. Pregunté por él a la vendedora, y me comentó maravillas del escritor. Lo compré, lo leí, y me gustó mucho. Se trataba de “Notes from a small island”. Desde entonces he seguido sus libros con bastante asiduidad, y lo considero un escritor genial y divertido a partes iguales.
En “Neither here nor there” nos recrea un viaje en plan mochilero que realizó por Europa en la década de los setenta, empezando por Noruega y acabando en Estambul. La verdad es que no tiene desperdicio. Algunos pasajes son auténticamente hilarantes, otros contienen reflexiones ridiculizantes de algunos colectivos que se ha ido encontrando, todo servido con unas dosis de humor muy británico. Pero, ¡no confundir con una especie de guía de viaje! Bryson no suele dar grandes descripciones de los lugares que ha visitado, ni te servirá para que no te pierdas en cualquier gran ciudad europea. De hecho, él suele hacerlo a menudo, (perderse), a veces con consecuencias nefastas. No, se trata de una divertida narración de anécdotas, salpicadas con un poco de su mala leche habitual en este tipo de narraciones. ¡No busquéis tampoco datos culturales en este libro, tampoco los vais a encontrar! Yo, que he procurado viajar por Europa con asiduidad, coincido plenamente con muchas de sus reflexiones, incluso las no políticamente correctas, que de esas tiene unas cuantas.
¡Lástima que en ese viaje no llegara hasta España! ¡Me hubiera gustado reírme a gusto con sus disparates! Divertida y recomendable lectura. No la colocaría entre las mejores obras de Bryson, porque las tiene mejores, sin duda, pero he pasado un buen rato con ella. -
Why bother to actually travel when you can just regurgitate stereotypes that have been passed around since man invented borders? Honest to God, he really complains about haughty Parisian waiters. I didn’t find anything in this book of essays to be even remotely insightful and I don’t ever find Bryson to be funny. Most of what I have read by him is just a collection of his gripes against the rest of humanity.
I've never read any of his travel stuff where he actually meets an interesting person who has something worth saying. When I first read this several years ago I just figured that it was the first thing Bryson wrote, perhaps when he was a college student back-packing around Europe. It was published when he was 4o years old. It is completely lacking in the sort of wisdom you would expect from a writer of that age.
I like most of his non-travel books, just so you won't think that I have it in for this guy. He just seems to hate to travel and he despises everyone he meets along the way. Stay the fuck home. -
Three and a half stars rounded up.
It’s never a good idea to read Bill Bryson on public transportation. Stifling belly laughs can be painful and the resulting noise sounds like something between strangling an aardvark and air rapidly escaping from a balloon.
The benefits: Fellow commuters won’t look you in the eye and go out of their way to avoid you, so I practically have the whole train car to myself.
This is one of Bryson’s earlier books, so it’s long on humor, random observations and anecdotes, and short on insight. He comes off as a lightweight Paul Theroux; however, I was in the mood for laughs and there are plenty contained here.
My previous Bryson book was A Walk in the Woods, so it was nice to hear more about everyone’s nightmare travelling companion, Stephen Katz, even it was via flashback. Not only does Katz have awful luck with bird’s crapping on his head, but he has the singular worst pick up line ever. -
This book hits the sweet spot: Bill Bryson travels around Europe, entertaining us with his humor and thoughtful observations, and also sharing memories of a similar trip he took in the 1970s with his bumbling friend, Stephen Katz.
Ah, poor Stephen. If you have read Bryson's book A Walk in the Woods, which is about hiking the Appalachian Trail, you will remember Mr. Katz as the comic foil, the ridiculously overweight guy who complained a lot and who threw away critical supplies because they were too heavy in his pack. Here is how Bryson introduces Stephen in Neither Here nor There:
"Katz was the sort of person who would lie in a darkened hotel room while you were trying to sleep and talk for hours in graphic, sometimes luridly perverted, detail about what he would like to do to various high school nymphets, given his druthers and some of theirs, or announce his farts by saying, 'Here comes a good one. You ready?' and then grade them for volume, duration, and odorosity, as he called it. The best thing that could be said about traveling abroad with Katz was that it spared the rest of America from having to spend the summer with him."
Hahaha! This book frequently made me laugh out loud and want to read passages to friends, but of course I had trouble getting the words out because I couldn't stop laughing.
It wasn't just stories about Katz that I enjoyed. Bryson toured all over Europe -- he started in Hammerfest, Norway, to see the Northern Lights, then jetted over to Paris, then Brussels, Cologne, Amsterdam, Hamburg, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Rome, Naples, Florence, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Austria, Yugoslavia and Istanbul. (That isn't even a complete list, but you get the idea -- he literally traveled from one end of Europe to the other.)
While in Istanbul, Bryson decides he is finally ready to return to England:
"I had come to the end of my own road. That was Asia over there; this was as far as I could go in Europe. It was time to end this long indulgence and go home ... And I was, I admit, ready to go. I missed my family and the comfortable familiarities of life. I was tired of the daily drudgery of keeping myself fed and bedded, tired of trains and buses, tired of existing in a world of strangers, tired of being forever perplexed and lost, tired above all of my own dull company. How many times in recent days had I sat trapped on buses or trains listening to my idly prattling mind and wished that I could just get up and walk out on myself? At the same time, I had a quite irrational urge to keep going. There is something about the momentum of travel that makes you want to just keep moving, to never stop."
This book was first published in 1992, but Bryson's comments and anecdotes were so thoughtful and entertaining that it still felt relevant. I listened to this on audio, read by the author, and as I have said many times before, Bryson is a delightful narrator. The next time you get the blues, get yourself a Bill Bryson book and it will cheer you right up. -
Seriously - this book sucks. Big time.
Bill Bryson is as funny as ever; you can't avoid guffawing at some of his observations: but this is a book-long exercise in sarcasm. It's as though the author is saying: "Look, compared to these brain-dead Europeans, see how clever I am!" Being a sarcastic SOB myself, I can understand the attitude - but find it difficult to sustain 200+ pages of it.
And really, for a travelogue, it does not give the reader what he/ she wants - information on the country traversed. We are treated to pages and pages of descriptions of the dreary hotels the author stayed in (it seems that he cannot find one meeting his exacting standards anywhere), the bad and expensive food he had to stomach (except Mac Donald's, of course), the totally unappealing people he had to deal with and (towards the middle of the book) his pornographic dreams which run as subtext in stream-of-consciousness. I felt that ol' Bill here was trying to squeeze humour out of his trip like one trying to get that last dollop of toothpaste from the tube.
And having visited Istanbul, I can tell you that his impressions of the city are the diametric opposite of what I experienced in 2011. Either the city has drastically changed in two decades, or it shows different faces to the entitled, holier-than-thou American and the inquisitive Indian, on the lookout for fresh experiences.
Give this book a miss. Bryson's other books are better. -
Bryson writes hysterical travel books. In this one he sets out to re-create a backpacking trip of Europe he made during the seventies when he was twenty. His descriptions of people and places will have you falling out of your chair. The beer he is offered in Belgium, for example, defies his palate. He just can’t associate the taste with any previous experience, but finally decides it puts him in mind of a very large urine sample, possibly from a circus animal. (He should have stuck with Coca-Cola, nicht wahr, Wendell?)
Bryson has truly captured some of the giddy enjoyment that I experience when traveling in a foreign country where one does not speak the language. “I can’t think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything. Suddenly you are five years old again. You can’t read anything. You have only the most rudimentary sense of how things work. . . . Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting
guesses.”
At the Arc de Triomphe, some thirteen streets come together. “Can you imagine? I mean to say, here you have a city with the world’s most pathologically aggressive drivers -- who in other circumstances would be given injections of valium from syringes the size of basketball jumps and confined to their beds with leather straps -- and you give them an open space where they can all go in any of thirteen directions at once. Is that asking for trouble or what?”
Interspersed are salient comments about traveling on European trains. “There is no scope for privacy and of course there is nothing like being trapped in a train compartment on a long journey to bring all those unassuageable little frailties of the human body crowding to the front of your mind – the withheld fart, the three and a half square yards of boxer shorts that have somehow become concertinaed between your buttocks, the Kellogg’s corn flake that is unaccountably lodged deep in your left nostril,”. . .and rude comments about the Swiss: “What do you call a gathering of boring people in Switzerland? Zurich.”
He reveals some funny stories about himself. “I had no gift for woodworking. Everyone else in the class was building things like cedar chests and oceangoing boats and getting to play with dangerous and noisy power tools, but I had to sit at the Basics Table with Tubby Tucker and a kid who was so stupid that I don't think we ever learned his name. We just called him 'Drooler.' The three of us weren't allowed anything more dangerous than sandpaper and Elmer's Glue, so we would sit week after week making little nothings out of offcuts, except for Drooler, who would just eat the glue. Mr. Dreck never missed a chance to humiliate me. 'And what is this?' he would say, seizing some mangled block of wood on which I had been laboring for the last twenty-seven weeks and holding it aloft for the class to titter at. 'I've been
teaching shop for sixteen years, Mr. Bryson, and I have to say this is the worst beveled edge I've ever seen.' He held up a birdhouse of mine once and it just collapsed in his hands. The class roared. Tubby Tucker laughed so hard that he almost choked. He laughed for twenty minutes, even when I whispered to him across the table that if he didn't stop it I would bevel his testicles."
It used to be -- not as common now as formerly -- that each public washroom had an attendant whose job it was to keep everything clean, and you were expected to drop in some change for his or her income. The sex of the attendant was irrelevant to the sex of the washroom and Bryson had difficulty getting used to the idea of some cleaning lady watching him urinate to make sure he didn't "dribble on the tiles or pocket any of the urinal cakes. It is hard enough to pee when you are aware that someone's eyes are on you, but when you fear that at any moment you will be felled by a rabbit chop to the kidneys for taking too much time, you seize up altogether. You couldn't have cleared my system with Drano. So eventually I would zip up and return unrelieved to the table [in the restaurant:], and spend the night back at the hotel doing a series of Niagara Falls impressions."
Bryson does not mince words, and his perspective on former Austrian president Waldheim echoes mine but is perhaps more trenchant. “I fully accept Dr. Waldheim’s explanation that when he saw forty thousand Jews being loaded onto cattle trucks at Salonika, he genuinely believed they were being sent to the seaside for a holiday. For the sake of fairness, I should point out that Waldheim insists he never even knew that the Jews of Salonika were being shipped off to Auschwitz. And let’s be fair again – they accounted for no more than one third of the city’s entire population (italics theirs), and it is of course entirely plausible that a high-ranking Nazi officer in the district could have been unaware of what was happening within his area of command. Let’s give the man a break. I mean to say, when the Sturmabteilung, or stormtroopers, burned down forty-two of Vienna’s forty three synagogues during Kristallnacht, Waldheim did wait a whole week before joining the
unit. . . . Christ, the man was practically a resistance hero. . . .Austrians should be proud of him and proud of themselves for having the courage to stand up to world opinion and elect a man of his caliber, overlooking the fact that he is a pathological liar. . .that he has a past so mired in mis-truths that no one but he knows what he has done. It takes a special kind of people to stand behind a man like that.” -
In this book travel writer Bill Bryson wrote about a whirlwind trip through Europe that seemed designed solely to give him something to write about rather than a journey he actually wanted to take. I didn't take notes so Bryson's stops in Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Lichtenstein, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Austria, Italy, etc. blended together into a continuous blur of traveling, finding hotels, walking around, looking at things, eating, drinking, and so on. I could hardly distinguish one city from another.
Leichtenstein
Bulgaria
Bryson's observations are meant to be humorous (and sometimes are) but they're almost always snide and critical. Again and again Bryson complains that the cities he visited were dirty and filled with litter; had menus he couldn't read; served bad food that cost too much; harbored surly, unhelpful or purposely obstructive service workers (clerks, waiters, hotel staff); sported poor transportation with inconvenient schedules; wouldn't accept whatever kind of money he happened to have; allowed panhandlers in the streets; sold useless merchandise; and on and on and on.
Käsknöpfle from Leichtenstein
Kachamak from Bulgaria
Bryson has a (probably well-deserved) animus toward Germany for the Holocaust and Austria for electing a former Nazi to be president - but his extreme hostility is a jarring note in what's supposed to be an entertaining romp. The book is also heavy with sexual innuendos, has numerous comments about prostitutes, describes lots of excessive drinking, and contains 'dirty' language that's off-putting in the context of a light-hearted travel story (and I'm no prude).
On the positive side Bryson's descriptions of some of the sights he sees are interesting: the northern lights, museums, parks, historic sites, artworks, and so on. Still, I had to force myself to finish and was glad when he finally went home. Not one of Bryson's best efforts.
Northern Lights
You can follow my reviews at
http://reviewsbybarbsaffer.blogspot.com/ -
Huh. Turns out Bryson is a dirty ol' bugger!
This travel-across-Europe journal is fun, educational and entertaining. I love travel and I like learning about far-off places. Europe has been done and overdone, yet I still find it fascinating.
Bryson's recollections are from when he wrote the book in the '90s as well as from a previous trip he and his friend Katz took. Regardless of when the reminisces come from, details ring true from the experiences I've had of the same places, such Paris and parts of Italy. Apparently some things never change. However, it was cool to get his take on the place.
At times he gets a little grumpy, but overall this is lighthearted and goodnatured. He has a adequate store of patience and his take-it-as-it-comes attitude keeps most of this from sinking into endless gripes.
Fun as this was, it's not my favorite of the six or so of Bryon's works I've read to this point. I haven't found this in his later books, but earlier on his writing seems to show a distracting obsession with sex. That's fine. I mean, I'm a dirty bird too, but I really don't want to know about the fetishes of a mid-aged man. I am one and it's not pretty. Hey, I'm sure that's someone's bag. Somewhere out there some sad sod is thinking, "I wonder what gets boring, bald and wrinkled old Phil from accounting off?" But that's not me...not yet anyhow. Who knows maybe someday my sexuality will warp in an unexpected way.
Oh, who am I kidding...*zip* -
I'm not sure I'm going to finish this book because I'm only on page 41 and I can barely focus on the words because I'm overwhelmed by the desire to to punch him very, very hard. I was trying to let some other ignorant comments go but then the chapter on Paris began. He goes on about how lights in French hotels are on a timer causing people to grope around in the dark if they do not find their room quickly enough:
"And from this I learned one very important lesson: The French do not like us. On my first trip to Paris, I kept wondering: 'Why does everyone hate me so much?'....The other thing I have never understood about the French is why they are so ungrateful. I've always felt that since it was us that liberated them--because let's face it, the French Army couldn't beat a girls' hockey team--they ought to give all Allied visitors to the country a book of coupons good for free drinks in Pigalle and a ride to the top of the Eiffel Tower. But they never thank you."
Seriously? They should thank us and give us free things? His arrogance and sense of entitlement is disgusting. It's the same thinking that caused people (who had never been to Paris) to tell me prior to my trip abroad that French people hate Americans. As I expected, this statement was completely wrong and everyone I interacted with was polite and helpful, many friendly (gasp!).
I can't imagine I will learn anything useful from this book other than how sorry I am for every person who encountered (and will encounter) Bill Bryson on his travels. -
Fun read!!
-
"Hugely funny (not snigger-snigger funny, but great-big-belly-laugh-till-you-cry-funny" - Daily Telegraph.
Hmmm... I think that review is a trifle misleading falsehood. Sure, some parts were funny, but it wasn't the sort to make your belly hurt and make you cry.
I can sum up the book with this: Mr. Bryson goes from one country to another and:
1. Finds himself a hotel. Always expensive. So he ends up complaining.
2. Finds a restaurant/bar. Finds it expensive and/or food is terrible. So he ends up complaining.
3. Walks around the city. Always finds flaws here and there. So he again ends up complaining.
4. Finds himself in a crowded train station, and again complains about the long queues.
In the book's 22 chapters, that was almost always the scene. Not one part of the book gave me the sense of excitement; which I believe it should have! It is a book about traveling anyway... in Europe!!
What Bill Bryson did was not traveling at all. He lacked the whole sense of it. Traveling is not just about roaming around, stopping by bars, getting drunk, noticing how awfully constructed a building is, or how noisy and dirty the streets are. It is about getting into the heart of a country... id est, its culture.. its people. He missed that. -
I have to admit that Bryson is a funny man and I chuckled several times while reading this book BUT he is also very snarky and not politically correct. This book covers his travels in Europe from Norway to Istanbul and his complaints about everything, including the tourists....hey, isn't he a tourist?
Sweden....... beautiful people and the women try to catch what sun there is while sunbathing topless.
Paris...loves the city, hates the people who "needed the Americans to help them win the war".
Germany.....he made so many Nazi related comments(!) that I don't have the space to include them. But they have good beer
Austria.........the women are ugly
Capri.....loved it but the people were strange.
And ad nauseam.
I am probably in the minority since his books are extremely popular but I felt that many of his comments were unnecessary and biased, He can be a very entertaining writer but this book was not worthy of his talents. -
I always assumed that Bill Bryson was someone only people my dad's age would find funny, and although I appear to have amassed a selection of his books on my kindle, I've never felt like I wanted to start any of them.
The other day I found a paperback hidden down the side of my bookcase - it was 'Neither Here Nor There' Bryson's account of his trips round Europe. I decided to just read the first chapter to see what he writes about. All I can say is - I have missed out on reading Bryson at times in my life when it would've really helped to have something this gentle and funny to laugh at. I now know that I will have to read a good portion of his back catalogue because this man is seriously funny.
His exploits into tiny villages with no hotel booked, his trips to the local police station when he's mugged in Florence, his desperation for some 'proper' food when he is confronted with a terrifying 'date sausage roll' - the list goes on.
I howled with laughter at some of his adventures, he has such a brilliant way of looking at things. -
‘Notes from a Small Island’ and ‘Neither Here nor There’ are Bill Bryson’s early travelogues concerning his journeys through Britain and other European countries respectively.
Both of these books are the strongest and the funniest of Bryson’s earliest work and undoubtedly established his reputation (at that time) as a travel writer and commentator of repute, producing engaging and very entertaining travelogues.
Now very much the Anglo-American (having lived at times in the UK and now holding dual UK/US nationality) Bryson writes here very much as ‘a young American abroad’ – with all the cultural and language based misunderstandings that predictably ensue. Whilst all this could certainly have been trite, pedestrian and clichéd as well as probably unfunny and verging on the xenophobic, what Bryson does here though is very much far from that – the joke more often than not is on him and just as importantly, the jokes are more often than not very funny.
What also comes across in addition to the humour, is the open mind and love (although admittedly occasionally hate) that Bryson has for travel and exploring other countries and cultures.
Bryson’s more recent books are now no longer limited to the ‘travel’ genre and have been of varying quality; he still however produces some great reads every now and then (most recently see: ‘One Summer: America, 1927’) – but this was where it all started. -
I am a fan of Bill Bryson's. Like so many of his other books, this book did not disappoint me. Occasionally his humor is a bit over-the-top, but I love it anyway!
When Bill Bryson was in college he toured Europe with his friend Stephen Katz. In this book, Bryson is much older, married with kids, and follows in basically the same footsteps, in a sense trying to recreate his earlier tour. He is alone this time, going from Scandinavia to Turkey, mostly by train and bus.
Bryson makes the trip in order re-familiarize himself with the places and cultures of the countries he visits. He has no reservations about telling you what he really thinks. And his remarks are usually steeped in humor; he knows how to turn lemons into lemonade.
What did I learn from this book? Well, in the future I will always prefer American Express travelers checks to those from Visa. I will avoid Austria. I will avoid gypsies, especially the kids. Communism is an economic system to avoid.
This book kept me entertained; most definitely! And I definitely recommend the audiobook. Bill Bryson himself narrates his book, and he is great! He does the various accents with zest and his humor, sarcasm and wit come through with flying colors in the audiobook. -
I've been dying to read some Bill Bryson, and unfortunately I did not care for this at all. I kind of blame myself, because I saw many reviews that said his later work is much better. I was bored, and it barely held my attention. I just mindlessly let it play on in the background for much of the book. Some things I found slightly entertaining, but it just seemed like all he did was complain and criticize about everything in every single country. I'm still going to give some of the more popular works a go at a later date!
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I don’t know if it was lockdown blues that prompted me to pick up a Bill Bryson book but I’m sure glad I did, I needed a reminder that the world still exists beyond my Local Government Area (it’s been a long lockdown here in Sydney) this is my best and safest method of travel for now so I think I enjoyed this book even more because of it. I had to keep reminding myself it was written back in 1992 so I could forgive some of it’s dated commentary. Not only was this a fun way to travel but I learnt lots of fun facts and tidbits of trivia along the way. Fun and not to be taken too seriously as Bill Bryson displays his usual ascerbic humour.
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Bill Bryson is, without a doubt, one of my favorites. His writing simply flows off the page. The Daily Telegraph summed this book up perfectly: ‘Hugely funny (not snigger-snigger funny but great-big-belly-laugh-till-you-cry funny)’. Yes, this is what I experienced also. There were a few parts where I honestly could not stop laughing for the life of me and felt pain in my stomach and had tears rolling down my cheeks.
Here’s one example of his visit to Istanbul, “The one truly unbearable thing in the city is the Turkish pop music. It is inescapable. It assaults you from every restaurant doorway, from every lemonade stand, from every passing cab. If you can imagine a man having a vasectomy without anaesthetic to a background accompaniment of frantic sitar-playing, you will have some idea of what popular Turkish music is like.” As with all of Bill Bryson’s travelogues, I’m so sorry that it ended. Some may be offended by his language – not a problem for me. -
Amusing enough, along the lines of
The Innocents Abroad: or, The New Pilgrims' Progress, but of course Mark Twain's version is far more amusing. Some funny observations about various places and people throughout Europe, many of which, nay, most of which he did not like or enjoy. Tries too hard for the laugh. Stick with the original:
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An American turned Brit re-does the travel of his youth …
With only one exception I have visited the same cities, and find it very hard to recognize them through the pen/eyes of Mr. Bryson.
If he wasn´t trying sooo hard to be ironically funny in every second paragraph I just might have enjoyed the trip more.
Clashing cliché upon cliché about European cities and citizens doesn´t make a travel writer, at best it makes a moderately entertaining stand-up comedian. -
I find Bryson a very skilful author, easy to read, enjoyable while it lasts and then completely forgettable. It is the the snack you can read between books and not spoil your appetite. All I can definitely remember from this one is the 'pick-up' line his sidekick used in pubs and clubs .
It is an OK, middle of the road, Bryson effort. The middle of the road is where Bryson aspires to be, and that is the key to his writing. It is not challenging, there is flow, he creates a genial atmosphere. In it's own way it is almost perfect writing, demonstrating a consistently easy facility. From another point of view it's strengths make it highly unsatisfying, it is lazy, makes no connection with the people or places he visits and provides no insights into other lives. It is the literary equivalent of easy listening, perfectly providing the experience of having a pleasant time without actually engaging the reader in a substantive way.
This book is neither enlightening nor informative, I would recommend
Notes from a Small Island as the best example of his work. -
This book is terrible. I listened to it on CD, and the writing was so predictable that I found myself completing each sentence before it was spoken. That was, in fact, the only way I managed to keep my attention on the book rather than contemplating the fascinating landscape of Indiana visible out my window. But the book wasn't just boring, it was also embarrassingly bad. I was a huge Bill Bryson fan in high school. I decided to hike the Appalachian Trial after reading A Walk in the Woods. But I think if I went back and read that book, I would find it just as obnoxious, boring, and lame. Anyone with more than 15 years of life experience would have to. His jokes are in bad taste, which would be ok if they were funny, but they are not. He is so self-deprecating as to make it obvious that he actually has a huge ego that he's trying to conceal so the audience will like him. I wish I had never listened to his book, because my opinion of him is forever tainted. Also, who writes a travel book that describes the meals, repeatedly, with "I dined lightly," or "I dined heavily," and the buildings with "It was lovely," or "It was disappointing"? Wow. That really makes me want to go to...nowhere.
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Leaving his comfort zone thousands of miles away Bill explores Europe accompanied only with his curiosity and happy smile.
Buying bread...
You would go into a bakery and be greeted by some vast slug-like creature with a look that told you you would never be friends. In halting French you would ask for a small loaf of bread. The woman would give you a long, cold stare and then put a dead beaver on the counter.‘
No, no,’ you would say, hands aflutter, ‘not a dead beaver. A loaf of bread.’
Reservation problems...
‘There must be some mistake. Please look again.’
The girl studied the passenger manifest. ‘No, Mr Bryson, your name is not here.’
But I could see it, even upside-down. ‘There it is, second from the bottom.’
‘No,’ the girl decided, ‘that says Bernt Bjornson. That’s a Norwegian name.’
‘It doesn’t say Bernt Bjornson. It says Bill Bryson. Look at the loop of the y, the two ls. Miss, please.’ But she wouldn’t have it. ‘If I miss this bus when does the next one go?’
‘Next week at the same time.’
Oh, splendid.‘Miss, believe me, it says Bill Bryson.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘Miss, look, I’ve come from England. I’m carrying some medicine that could save a child’s life.’ She didn’t buy this.
‘I want to see the manager.’
‘He’s in Stavanger.’
‘Listen, I made a reservation by telephone. If I don’t get on this bus I’m going to write a letter to your manager that will cast a shadow over your career prospects for the rest of this century.’ This clearly did not alarm her. Then it occurred to me. ‘If this Bernt Bjornson doesn’t show up, can I have his seat?’
‘Sure.’
Why don’t I think of these things in the first place and save myself the anguish? ‘Thank you’, I said, and lugged my bag outside.
Stereotypes or how to insult Europeans...
The French, for instance, cannot get the hang of queuing. They try and try, but it is beyond them. Wherever you go in Paris, you see orderly lines waiting at bus stops, but as soon as the bus pulls up the line instantly disintegrates into something like a fire drill at a lunatic asylum as everyone scrambles to be the first aboard, quite unaware that this defeats the whole purpose of queuing.
The British, on the other hand, do not understand certain of the fundamentals of eating, as evidenced by their instinct to consume hamburgers with a knife and fork. To my continuing amazement, many of them also turn their fork upside-down and balance the food on the back of it. I’ve lived in England for a decade and a half and I still have to quell an impulse to go up to strangers in pubs and restaurants and say,
‘Excuse me, can I give you a tip that’ll help stop those peas bouncing all over the table?’
Germans are flummoxed by humour,
the Swiss have no concept of fun,
the Spanish think there is nothing at all ridiculous about eating dinner at midnight,
and the Italians should never, ever have been let in on the invention of the motor car.
The Danish Police...
Two police officers, a man and a woman, both young and blond and as gorgeous as everyone else in the city, were talking softly and with sympathy to a boy of about seventeen who had clearly ingested the sort of drugs that turn one’s brain into an express elevator to Pluto. Disorientated by this sudden zip through the cosmos, he had apparently stumbled and cracked his head; a trickle of blood ran from above his hairline to his downy cheek.
The police officers helped the boy to his feet and led him to the patrol car. The small crowd dispersed, but I found myself following them, almost involuntarily. I don’t know why I was so fascinated, except that I had never seen such gentle police. At the patrol car, I said in English to the female officer,
‘Excuse me, what will you do with the boy?’
‘We’ll take him home,’ she said simply, then raised her eyebrows a fraction and added: ‘I think he needs his bed.’
‘Will he be in trouble for this?’ I asked.
‘With his father, I think so, yes. But not with us. We are all young and crazy sometimes, you know? Good-night. Enjoy your stay in Copenhagen.’
How to cross the road...
Even Roman drivers won’t hit a nun – you see groups of them breezing across eight-lane arteries with the most amazing impunity, like scraps of black and white paper borne along by the wind – so if you wish to cross some busy place like the Piazza Venezia your only hope is to wait for some nuns to come along and stick to them like a sweaty T-shirt.
Added excitement...
I can’t think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything. Suddenly you are five years old again. You can’t read anything, you have only the most rudimentary sense of how things work, you can’t even reliably cross a street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses.
Bill Bryson is the ultimate arm chair traveler's writer. He takes you into the very homes of Europeans and gives you his personal point of view.
Enjoy!
