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A CLASSIC FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF UNDER MAGNOLIA
A Year in the World is vintage Frances Mayes—a celebration of the allure of travel, of serendipitous pleasures found in unlikely locales, of memory woven into the present, and of a joyous sense of quest. With her beloved Tuscany as a home base, Mayes travels to Spain, Portugal, France, the British Isles, and to the Mediterranean world of Turkey, Greece, the South of Italy, and North Africa. Weaving together ...
A CLASSIC FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF UNDER MAGNOLIA
A Year in the World is vintage Frances Mayes—a celebration of the allure of travel, of serendipitous pleasures found in unlikely locales, of memory woven into the present, and of a joyous sense of quest. With her beloved Tuscany as a home base, Mayes travels to Spain, Portugal, France, the British Isles, and to the Mediterranean world of Turkey, Greece, the South of Italy, and North Africa. Weaving together personal perceptions and informed commentary on art, architecture, history, landscape, and social and culinary traditions, Mayes brings the immediacy of life in her temporary homes to readers. An illuminating and passionate book that will be savored by all who loved Under the Tuscan Sun, A Year in the World is travel writing at its peak.
“Mayes displays a gift for conveying everyday life through her writing . . . and presents a simpler, less frantic version of how to live one’s life.”
“Frances Mayes is, before all else, a wonderful writer.” —Chicago Tribune
“Armchair travel is rarely this astute and fun.”
—Scripps-Howard News Service
“Nobody is better than Frances Mayes at giving the sharp sensory details that take you immediately into a place: colors, sounds, smells, tastes…Her writing captures the whole experience…This is travel writing of high quality, focused on beauty.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
"Befitting her gifts as a poet, Mayes's prose shines with evocative imagery, bringing life to every subject she encounters across her peripatetic year."
Who cut down the moon's stem?
(Left us roots
How easy to pluck flowers from
This infinite acacia.
—Federico García Lorca
January, old Janus face looking left at the past year and right toward the new. I'm for the new—no mournful backward glance. Make tracks, I write one night on the steamed kitchen window.
The year began with a break-in at my house while my husband and I were finishing dinner. Ed had just tipped the last of a vino nobile into our glasses. Laughing, we were talking about the turn of the year, with Nina Simone crooning "The Twelfth of Never" to us. We'd cleared the plates, the candles were burning down, and outside the dining room window we saw only our potted lemon trees, swaying snapdragons, and yellow Carolina jasmine, for January in California is a blessed season.
In a flash, everything changed. A man crashed through the living room window, screaming that he wanted to die, then loomed on the middle of the rug, his bundled body in ski jacket, droopy pants, and homeboy hat pulled down around his moony face. Even as I write this, my heart starts to pound.
"Give me a knife," he shouted. "I've never done this before, but I'm doing it now." I thought, not does he have a gun will we die, but he's goofy. Then terror pumped through every vein in my body. This can't be happening! Somehow, we'd stood up. Run. My chair tipped over. He lunged into the dining room. I threw my glass of wine in his face, and as he wiped his eyes, we ran out the back door. "I want to die," he shouted to us as we fled into a street darkened by conscientious neighbors in the middle of the latest corruption-engineered energy crisis. Our house was blazing like the Titanic; lights flared in every window. Our intruder had been drawn to us like a fluttering moth toward the screen door on a soft southern night.
Ed grabbed a phone on the way out and somehow called 911 as he sprinted across the street. We ran to separate neighbors, hoping to find someone at home on Saturday night. Startled new Chinese neighbors brought me in and handed me the telephone, though they must have thought I was mad, while the intruder followed Ed across the street to our neighbors Arlene and Dan. Interrupted in the middle of a dinner party, they pulled Ed in and slammed the door. Then our intruder broke through their door—just as the police drove up.
That was the beginning. The drugged young man was on the street again in a month. I found his sunglasses in a flower bed. Expensive. I threw them in the trash. The year rolled on and doesn't bear thinking about. Suffice to say the words surgery, hospitals, deaths. As the sublime September weather arrived, we all experienced the mind-altering, world-shaking attack on America. Go, bad year. May the stars realign.
Now, Janus, my friend, I am going to Spain for a winter month in Andalucía. Andalucía, land of the orange and the olive tree. Land of passionate poets and flamenco dancers and late-night dinners with guitar music in jasmine-scented gardens.
Ed flew to Italy a week ago because, as always, we have some complicated building project in progress. En route to Spain, he has detoured to Bramasole, our house in Cortona, to see about the drilling of a well for a nine-hundred-year-old house we have bought in the mountains. We want to accomplish a historic restoration on this stone house built by hermit monks who followed Saint Francis of Assisi. When I last talked to him, the dowser had felt his stick bend in exactly the spot where I did not want a well and had drilled down a hundred meters without finding a drop. We are planning to meet in Madrid.
From San Francisco, I board a flight to Paris and am happy to see my seatmate take out a book instead of a computer. No white aura and tap-tapping for the ten-hour flight. She looks as if she could have been one of my colleagues at the university. Is she going to Europe to research a fresco cycle or to join an archaeological team at a Roman villa excavation? I take out my own book, ready to escape into silence for the duration. She smiles and asks, "What are you reading?"
"A biography of Federico García Lorca—getting ready for Spain. What are you reading?"
"Oh, a book on John three thirteen."
"Three thirteen. I don't know that verse. We used to sing 'John three sixteen, John three sixteen' in rounds at Methodist Sunday school."
The flight attendant comes by with champagne and orange juice. "Just water," my seatmate and I say in unison. We begin to talk about travel and books, chatting easily, though I am, at first, waiting for a chance to retreat. We know nothing of each other and will part when the scramble to exit at Charles de Gaulle begins.
She asks a lot of questions. I tell her I am a former university teacher, now a full-time writer. I tell her about living part of the year in Italy, and that Italy has given me several books, written with joy. She probes. Are my books published? Are they popular? And if so, do I know why? What do I try to accomplish with my writing? How do I feel about people's responses to my books? On and on. I tell her that I'm embarking on the first of many travels and that I hope to write a book about my experiences. Why? What will I be looking for? I am drawn into lengthy explanations. I say I'm interested in the idea and fact of home. I'm going to places where I have dreamed of living and will try to settle down in each, read the literature, look at the gardens, shop for what's in season, try to feel at home. I'm talking more openly than usual with a stranger. Is she a psychiatrist?
"And you've never felt God's hand on yours?" She looks quizzically at me.
"No. I've felt lucky, though."
"Maybe you are bringing happiness to people through the will of God. Maybe." She smiles.
She answers my own questions evasively. She is holding something back, even in the basic exchanges, such as whether she is on vacation, that simple opening into conversation. Our little equation is out of balance. Finally, I ask bluntly, "What do you do?"
"I . . . I guess you could say I'm a speaker."
"On what subjects?"
Silence. She is gazing out the window. She is a very still person. "I'm part of a foundation. We try to help in communities with severe problems."
Vague. She sees my questioning look. She frowns. "We're involved in education, and orphanages, and churches."
"Oh, so it's a religious foundation? What religion are you?" I assume she is a Presbyterian or Methodist, a good volunteer for good works, or is involved in Catholic charities.
"I know this is strange, but I have a strong sense about you. I'll just tell you my journey." She then describes the surprise of her conversion, her subsequent adoption of six children from all over the world, her work in Africa and Russia. Her husband, a prominent lawyer, eventually had his own revelation and joins her in her missions. Dinner is served and we talk on.
"You've probably never met anyone like me, anyone who hears the voice of God."
"I think I haven't. You hear the voice of God?" Oh, mamma mia, I think.
"Yes, he's talking to me right now, all the time."
"What does he sound like?" I wonder if she is speaking metaphorically, living out a grand as if.
She laughs. "He's funny sometimes. Sometimes we dance. He's telling me about you, but I don't want you to think I'm a psychic with a neon sign in the window!"
I start to ask sarcastically if he is a good dancer and what kind of dances he leads her in—rhumba? But I don't. As a doubter with strong spiritual interests, I'm tantalized by her big holy spirit visitations. I imagine it feels like a mewling kitten being lifted in the jaws of an enormous mother cat and taken to safety. I'm ready myself but have never felt the slightest inkling that anything out there in the void is the least bit interested in the hairs on my head or the feathers of small sparrows. "If God is talking about me, I'd like to hear what he says because I've never heard from him before tonight." Where's the flight attendant? I'd like a big glass of wine. This is getting surreal. I'm thirty-five thousand feet above terra firma with someone who dances with God.
"Well, I will tell you that He says you have the gift of divine humility. How did you get that? It's so rare."
"Maybe it's a lack of confidence!"
"No, I've seen it in one priest, someone I consulted when I felt the urge to prophesy."
Whoa! Prophesy? "Oh, you're a prophet?" I toss this off casually, as though it were Oh, you're from Memphis.
She looks out the window. Sighs. "I know how it sounds. It's so simple." I see her struggling to explain. "I just wait to speak. I wait for God. Sometimes it's just sounds."
"Glossolalia?" She nods. "I've seen that. My friends and I used to peer in the windows at the holy roller and snake-handling churches way down in South Georgia." I don't say that those people fell to the floor writhing and drooling. That we ran away, scared out of our socks. This woman in her Dana Buchman suit and good haircut seems as sane as the United pilot of this plane.
"Have you ever heard of a Charismatic Prophet? That's my calling. I knew I was going to sit beside someone on this flight who would change my life. I always wanted to write. Now I hear how you do it and it frees me to try. God put me beside you. Someone, he says, with a holy approach to writing."
Now I'm really fascinated. Someone who not only hears the voice of God but speaks in the tongues of angels and knows what's coming toward us. And I like hearing God's perception that my approach to writing is holy. No one ever has talked to me about the nature of my involvement with words. I've heard plenty about the words themselves but not about the vocation I have. Turbulence starts to shake the overhead compartments. A queasy flyer, I begin to wonder if maybe she is an angel sent to accompany me to the afterlife when the plane spirals down into the Atlantic. But soon the seat belt light flicks off, and the long flight across the waters, black, then leaden, then streaked with sterling light, continues.
As we start our descent into the rainy skies of Paris, she says, "I don't do this. I don't like to debase my gift, but I will tell you something. You are travelling with three angels. One is ministering, one is protecting, and I don't know what the other one is for."
"Oh, no," I say, instantly pessimistic. "Angel of death."
She laughs. "God tells me you are too fatalistic. The third angel is something very good."
Maybe it's the skipping across time zones or the cabin pressure or the lack of sleep, but I willingly close my eyes and try to sense the presence of three angels. Privately, I'm shaken because when I first went to Italy and bought my house, I had a dream that the house held one hundred angels and that I would discover them one by one. Metaphorically, that came true. Starting my travels, I have been given by a stranger three angels to go with me. Without a shred of belief, I can't deny that I am touched.
I give her a list of books I've mentioned and a card with my first name printed on it. I start to write my address but decide that if she wants to reach me, God will direct her.
Madrid. All the connections worked. I find Ed waiting in baggage claim. He looks forlorn—he has arrived with a sinus infection, exacerbated by the changes in pressure while landing. I touch his forehead and find him hot and clammy.
"When I left Bramasole, I was feverish but determined to go. I had to—you'd be waiting. At the ticket counter in Rome, I discovered I'd left my passport at the house. I wanted to climb into a luggage cart and go to sleep. I couldn't face a two-hour drive up to Cortona and two hours back—besides, Giorgio had dropped me at the curb. I asked about the next flight and it was in three hours. I was totally screwed. Then—I don't know why—the woman handed me a paper to sign. And she said, 'You're going on this flight.' "
"You mean. You flew. Out of Italy. Without a passport?" I'm so shocked I can't utter a whole sentence. This seems impossible, but here he is, his steady eyes smiling at the thought that he slipped freely across international boundaries. We're waiting for my bag, but the remaining ones looping around the claim belt are fewer and fewer.
"Scary, isn't it?"
"After September 11 they let a man on a plane with no papers."
"Maybe it was because I was wearing an Italian suit. Another guy, badly dressed, was trying to get on, and they didn't let him."
My bag has definitely stayed behind in San Francisco or Paris. And I can't find the envelope with the claim check tacked on. Where's my damn ministering angel? I have been travelling twenty hours. We queue with a dozen others. Because I changed carriers in Paris, the pouty-mouthed Air France clerk assures me they have no responsibility for my lost bag, especially since I have no proof that I even checked a bag. A big Spanish man with a Zapata mustache takes my side, and two Australian boys start chanting "Air Chance, Air Chance." Finally, Miss Cool decides she'll take my hotel number and send out a tracer. As our taxi spins out of the airport on two wheels, Ed says, "Not for nothing is that etymological connection between travel and travail." The rain looks sooty falling on lead-gray buildings. Suddenly the driver swings around a circle with an enormous fountain; then we're on a tree-lined street along an esplanade lined with one grand building after another. Ah, Madrid. The hotel lights, blurry in the rain, look festive and welcoming. In our room we find a chilled cava, Spanish sparkling wine, sent by Lina, a thoughtful Italian friend.
Ed falls into bed after stoking himself with various antihistamines. I pop open the cava, pour a glass, empty both little bottles of bubble bath into the tub, and immerse myself. Since dinner is late in Spain, we planned to drift out at ten-thirty, but we're exhausted and instead decide to order room service. Ed feels dizzy. At eleven, the miracle of my suitcase occurs—there it is, wet, dirty, but delivered. I want comfort food. My first meal in Spain: spaghetti with Bolognese sauce.
2. Throughout the book, Mayes talks about her lust for travel, using the German word Wanderjahr (their year of wandering in their youth). Do you think everyone should indulge in a year of youthful travel? Would it be better to experience this type of travel while young and impressionable, or at an older age, with more experience and wisdom?
3. Even though this is a book about travel, the concept of home is a consistent theme. Mayes writes, “The need to travel is a mysterious force. A desire to go runs through me equally with an intense desire to stay at home. An equal and opposite thermodynamic principal.” What does she mean by this? Deep down, do you consider Mayes to be a traveler or a homebody? Do both of these driving forces coexist within you? If so, how do you balance them?
4. Mayes describes Andalucía as an “ancient quest” for her because some of the music and poetry she enjoyed in her youth conjured up strong images of this place in her mind. So Andalucía is the first place she visits on her journey. Do you have a “first memory” of a place that you have never visited? Do you have preconceived notions about places, based on experiences or conversations you’ve had? Does a song, book, or poem “take you away” to a particular place?
5. While in Andalucía, Mayes falls prey to a scam. She is surprised but not outraged. Would she be so tolerant if this happened on her home turf? Have you ever made allowances for behaviors or attitudes while traveling that you would not normally have tolerated if you were at home?
6. Mayes describes herself as “a doubter” and yet she is fascinated by churches and other religious customs. She wears an ivory horn and other religious amulets under her skirt to ward off the “evil eye” and lights candles in Catholic churches for her sick friends. What do you make of this? Is Mayes a religious person deep down? How much do you think growing up in the American South has shaped her religious outlook? How has where you are from influenced your spiritual self?
7. Favoring to live like a local when she travels, Mayes makes obvious her disdain for tourists and how upsetting it is to her when a place is geared so obviously towards tourists. Isn’t Mayes herself a tourist? What makes someone a tourist? What makes someone a local?
8. Mayes talks about being driven to visit places by the books she reads. How do you decide where you’d like to travel?
9. Mayes says she fears retirement “in places where the climate is the lure.” What do you think she means by this? Would climate play an important role in your choice of where to retire? What other factors would play into your decision?
10. Naples has long been typecast as dangerous and corrupt. Mayes scoffs at these stereotypes. Have you ever felt discouraged to visit a place based on its bad reputation? Have you ever ignored a city’s bad reputation and visited there anyway? Did any of the stereotypes hold up? How did your preconceived notions about the place affect your experiences once there? Whose advice do you trust in choosing where to travel?
11. People love to buy souvenirs to help them remember a place they’ve visited. In Naples, Mayes buys a Neapolitan cookbook and her husband searches for a CD of local music. What do these purchases say about the buyers? What souvenirs have you purchased in the past that evoke special memories for you?
12. Mayes spends a lot of time describing food and drink. We hear in great detail about fabulous meals, Ed’s search for the perfect coffee, desserts that are unique to a certain location, and the wonderful marketplaces they encounter. Does experiencing the local cuisine enhance your visit to a particular place? Would you choose a lace to visit based entirely on the local fare?
13. Mayes and her husband choose many of their lodgings in order to more fully experience the local flavor. Some of the places they select turn out to be fairly undesirable–cold, cramped, sometimes even hazardous. When you travel, do you prefer to stay in a local dwelling or a touristy hotel? How much do your accommodations enhance or detract from your enjoyment of a particular place?
14. Why do you think Mayes chooses Georgia for the location of The Yellow Café? What did you think of her reaction when her daughter asked her about this? What do her answers and explanations tell us about Mayes and her ideas on home vs. Rome?
Posted August 7, 2007
This book was extremely boring. She talks in the beginning about using her travels as an opportunity to discover what home is to people of different cultures but failed to address this topic in any part that I read. The first chapter was so boring I skipped to the chapter on Greece, as I am planning a trip there and was excited to soak up any more information on their culture. I was very disappointed to learn that she was on a boring, basic cruise and had only pre-planned travel agency style day trips around the islands! I like to immerse myself in the culture more than that when I travel and was surprised you could get away with writing a serious book about your travels while on a standard cruise surrounded by mid-western retirees.
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Posted March 11, 2012
Posted April 20, 2010
Frances Mayes is an avid traveller-both in person and on the page. In her memoir, A Year in the World: Journeys of a Passionate Traveller, she embarks on a series of exotic adventures which span the globe and transports the reader along with her via sensory details. We can see, hear, taste, touch, and smell what she describes, and we also get a clear sense of her persona-what she thinks, likes, dislikes, and dreams of. In addition, Mayes weaves in a significant amount of historical, cultural, literary, and culinary references into her writing as she travels, and thus captures the sense of expansion and discovery that travel brings. We travel along with Mayes to many exciting locations and gain a wealth of knowledge about her destinations, and the author herself.
Mayes accomplishes the above by first capturing sensory and reference details, and then passing them through the filter of self--we see what she sees in the way that she sees it--and therefore, we come away with a sense of the author by reading about how she interacts with her world. She begins her memoir by telling us what lures her about travel-the spontaneity, personal growth, and the chance to be the observer. "You open, as in childhood, and-for a time-receive this world. There's a visceral aspect, too-the huntress who is free. Free to go, free to return home bringing memories to lay on the hearth" (xviii-xix).
As I read, I found myself saying: Yes! At the end of her introduction Mayes says: "Only in looking back do you find those crumbs you dropped that mark your way forward" (xxii). Here she reinforces her theme that travel brings a new understanding of oneself and one's world. By ending her introduction with such a quote, Mayes makes a promise to the reader: my travels have changed me, as yours will change you.come and see.
In the simple detail of the following: "I'd like to drop my coat in the water rather than lug it along" (25), Mayes immediately connects me to the moment. Who hasn't been weighted down by a garment when the weather changes and not in the mood to be burdened? Details like this convey information about both environment and character. As I read this memoir, I was inspired to comb through my own work and seek out the moments where I could add such details into my writing.
Mayes also uses evocative and amusing descriptions-about a cathedral in Spain: "Even the pigeons look holy" (31); about Portuguese speech: "This language uses many sounds that previously I have heard only from the washing machine" (90); about Italians and their coffee: "They take their espresso as though they're having a shot at a clinic" (141). Such language choices convey both Mayes' observation skills, personality, and sense of humor. She reminds us to access the five senses, observe ourself and our world, and deepen our writing so that the reader can get closer to our experience. This blend of insight, character, and experience deepens our joint discoveries: yes, the journey changes us.come and see.
Posted August 8, 2009
Posted November 7, 2010
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Posted July 10, 2012
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Posted March 16, 2009
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