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Under the Tuscan Sun was a confusing book for me. Confusing in the sense that the whole point of the book is so bizarre. Would Italians want to read about an Italian who came to North America and renovated a house and learned how to make burgers? Would they enjoy hearing the intricacies of how to make the perfect patty? And oh yes I get it. Italy is muchly much much more romantic than America and therefore easier to write romantically about. And all of us sun starved people far north of the equator are desperate for any type of warmth we can get even if it’s in Tuscan sun book form. And yes it’s her journal of their time in Italy I get it. I did enjoy reading about the Italian people although I was very sick of reading about the Estrucians or whoever those ancient people she kept drooling over. There were also pages and pages about her food. Which made me depressed because now I want to eat bread dipped in my own olive oil from my terraced hillside in the sun next to my 30 climbing rose bushes. The cabin fever is rapidly taking over. Send help