The opening of this book was intriguing: you didn’t quite know what was going to happen, but the anticipation of love, loss, and travel was enough. It was the consensus of the book club, however, that like Eaves, the reader frequently becomes lost. Not so much in the context but as to why we’re still talking about whatever it is we’re talking about. The writing was very descriptive, but we were constantly longing for Eaves to really psychoanalyze her obsession with traveling from continent to continent, and bed to bed, all the while putting herself in one dangerous situation after another.
The first romance we are treated to is Graham. We understand that he puts the bug in Eaves – the bug being: the desire to travel, feel wanted, and of always longing for something. You can tell that even in her writing she is looking for something, or trying to figure herself out; her heavy descriptions of places, and people seemed almost a cop out from actually talking about herself. We only get little tidbits of her soul. These times were usually my favorite and the moment I began really paying attention the moment was gone, then we were back to talking about the heat in Cairo, and feeling nothing for yet another conquest who was madly in love with her.
My review isn’t all bad though: Eaves is a wonderful writer, and wildly interesting. I wanted her to figure it out so badly that I was disappointed when she didn’t. She does tie a lot together in the last paragraph, where she realizes that she has definitely chosen a more difficult path than most. You come to the end feeling a bit sad for her, but also hopeful.
This book is great for the traveler or cultural anthropologist, but if you’re looking for some kind of love story or self-revelation: it is not here.