Many people will adore this book. Those people are attracted by Mayes previous books; they fell in love with them, and dream of having her life. This book is a voyeuristic sequel to the first two; the adoring reader can now live out the fantasy of 'every day' of Frances Mayes' life in Tuscany.
For the uninitiated or the less star struck, this book is the equivalent of a rambling blog, random thoughts, observations, and events that Frances Mayes has strewn together.
Every Day in Tuscany: Seasons of an Italian Life, tries to be many things. The book tries hard to be a story, a travel guide, a recounting of the author's personal trials and tribulations, a cook book, an Italian language course, and art history. Sadly it doesn't do a particularly good job at any of these tasks. It even fails at recounting the passage of time and seasons.
The title hints at a romantic view of life in utopian small town Italy. I expected some insight into Italian life and culture, or at least a small thread of story to weave that fabric of all things Italian. Instead the book is a rambling series of paragraphs disconnected from one another. Interesting stories are started and never finished. People come and go, flow in and out of the book for no apparent reason, except that Frances Mayes met them and finds them interesting for a moment. Italian artists, towns, and areas are all mentioned with the expectation that the reader knows these things, or that they are simply common knowledge. Recipes are presented willy nilly, some are fabulous, some are impossible to make. At first the recipes are described in incredible detail, gradually they become vague descriptions, and then finally they devolve into restaurant menus. The book attempts to be an Italian language course, Ms. Mayes has an annoying habit of including Italian phrases in italics and then translating them into English after a comma. This artifact is cute early in the book, but becomes annoying as the book wears on.
The great news for the Mayes fan, she uses so many towns and street names, the rabid fan can actually follow her everyday life around central and northern Italy. They can probably even locate the carefully built and heated pizza oven in her backyard, or the enormous rock table lovingly built during the bocce terrain construction, or the man wearing the wife beater t-shirt near the tranquil piazza, or the apartment floor that looks like a yacht deck in Portofino, or some minute detail of a painting by Signorelli. All these details were mentioned in the book, but none were given context, or story, or a life that had any meaning to me. They were random things that I was supposed to understand and adore.
The book turned a particularly bad corner for me during a diatribe about `ex-pats,' or foreign tourists invading the private world of Frances Mayes and her husband Ed. She describes how the `ex-pats' arrive, don't speak Italian but insist on speaking loudly in English, don't work hard with their own hands, spend too much money, and have no Italian friends. Based on what Ms. Mayes has written in this book it is very difficult to swallow her disdain for tourists. She and her husband purchased two houses that no Italian would buy. They then hired people to do the renovation. Her Italian friends mostly appear to be people with something to sell to her, from the wine merchant to the various chefs. She may well speak Italian, and that seems to be the only difference between her and the tourists. Frances Mayes has exactly one job, to be entertained every day.
Good literature engages my imagination, transports me to another place, and excites me to read every word the author has written. Very subtly, it parades the questions in front of me without answering those questions. This book is very far from that type of literature. Instead this book is many pages of the musings of a ne'er do well that is on eternal vacation. I was never engaged even when she described places I know well.