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 really, really wanted to like this book. I really did, but the so called humour and wit of this book was extremely disappointing, mainly consisting of complaining about everything that wasn't suited exactly to his tastes and objectifying women (and he does this quite a lot). Some of his jokes are less than tasteful, and he doesn't seem to actually enjoy himself anywhere. Everywhere he goes, he finds something to complain about - whether it is the food, hotel, people, or even the architecture of the city. In this book, Bryson acts the part of a typical entitled American tourist, and I would not recommend this book at all.

Whining about how things in foreign countries sure are different than back home and making fun of foreign people based entirely on old fashioned cultural stereotypes is not actually funny.

This is a profoundly unfunny book that makes me embarrassed to say that I am from the same country as Mr. Bryson.

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!

A European travelogue that is both gut-busting and surprisingly deep.

ENJLYED REVISITING PLACES I'VE BEEN.  BILL BRYSON MAKES ME LAUGH OUT LOUD, AND THAT'S NOT EASY!

Great read.  Bryson makes you laugh .