A blog-buddy of mine posted an entry, recently, in which she stated that she’s not having a good relationship with books right now. I know what she means – I go through stages where I’m just not in the mood to read anything, and when I try I end up wanting to fling the book away from me and spend a week in a Hawaii bed and breakfast doing nothing but sunbathe, swim, and sleep. No books, no computer….well…no books.
Except of course that travel makes me want to read. I don’t know what it is. We went to France a few years ago at Christmas, and what I remember most (other than the gay potters who adopted me) are the long evenings in the 2nd floor lounge, curled up near the radiator, reading and sipping tea. I’d brought seven novels with me, intended for my mother to bring home with her. Instead, I re-read all of them while we were there, handing each to her as I finished.
One of those books was a favorite of mine, Bread Alone by Judith Ryan Hendricks. I reviewed it here a while ago, I think, but I can’t be bothered to look up the link at the moment. Reading about bread making in a funky house in France is the height of literary romanticism.
Although Hawaii would be warmer…