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** spoiler alert ** Some of my favorite works of fiction are based on fantasy (Memoirs of an Invisible Man by H.F. Saint, and the movie “Groundhog Day�� come to mind) so there’s no need to oversell the fantasy, the “magic�� or whatever. I never really got why visiting with her own mother when she was thirty would be cool and fun. It seems like voyeurism more than anything, a violation of the mother’s privacy. The manner in which this fantasy was presented seemed like a clumsy knock-off of a Star Trek episode.

Just about the treacliest thing I've ever read, like a novelization of a Hallmark romance movie. Recommended for women who have never had an orgasm, who are married to slobs, and who have never traveled anywhere. It’s for people whose lives are so clichéd that they’re immunized against clichés, and for readers not looking for even the faintest shred of insight.

I hadn’t looked at the New York Times—or any other—bestseller list in years which is where I found this novel near the top. Note to self: stop looking at bestseller lists; they are just too depressing. I can’t believe this book is popular.

To all of the women raving about this novel, my suggestion is that you need to go see Italy and the rest of Europe for yourselves. Instead of that huge plasma TV, or the new SUV, or Botox treatment, buy a ticket and go see these places for yourself so you won’t have to rely upon these tired and rejected Conde Nast descriptions of places that savvy travelers avoid at all costs. In the words of Yogi Berra, no one goes there anymore, it’s too crowded. Positano is gorgeous, but there are other places where you won’t have to enter into a rugby scrum every time you want to find a seat at a café.

As far as the protagonist and her husband, I missed the part where someone put a gun to her head and forced her into marrying when she should have been screwing her brains out with any and every dude she fancied. But she gets married way too soon and obviously regrets it as she can’t wait to hook up with literally the first guy who talks to her in Italy. If her husband has any sort of sex drive, I hope he’s hooking up with some babes back home. Sorry, I don’t believe in the myth of monogamy.

Her prose never rises above this:

My dead mother is standing in front of me at a seaside hotel on the coast of Italy. Do I feel better? I feel insane. I feel ecstatic. I feel like something might be seriously wrong with me.

“What are you doing here?�� I ask her.

She laughs. “Right place, right time, I suppose,�� she says. “Joseph was helping me with a package. I rent a little pensione not far up the road. It’s just a room, really.��

I feel a smile spread over my face, too, mirroring her own. It’s so simple and wonderful and obvious. A room of her own. I rented this little pensione up the street from Hotel Poseidon. We slept until noon and drank rosé on the water.

I’ve found my mother in her summer of freedom. I’ve found her in the time before me or my father. I’ve found her in the summer of Chez Black, days on the beach and long nights spent talking under the stars. Here she is. Here she actually is. Young and unencumbered and so very much alive.
I got her back, I think. Come to me.

I’ve found my mother in her summer of freedom? This is a sad indictment on the rest of her mother's life, like what "happy hour" says about the remaining 23 hours of your day, but at least that involves alcohol.

Get your own life and quit trying to cock-block your mom. Stop trying to relive the life your mother chose—or was trying to choose. The protagonist pretty much wrecked her own life already. The author never sold me on the fact that the protagonist was stepping back into the past. Wouldn't she have known this? Showing readers that this was thirty years ago might have been part of the fun, but it wasn't explained at all. All she could say was puerile doggerel like, "I’m struck by the timelessness of Italy.��

" And then he kisses me. He kisses me like he’s done it many, many times before. A professional kiss."

Like he's done it many many times before? That was so stupid that I had to pause reading until I stopped laughing. The guy was mid-30s, not thirteen. "A professional kiss" sounds sorta gross, too, like something an old, fat pervert gives out at the carnival to teenagers (boys and girls, of course) behind a cardboard cut-out of Brad Pitt.

And then: " This is Italy. Shit happens." I’m not sure, but I’m almost certain that "shit" happens everywhere. I haven't traveled all that much in my life, but everywhere I've been, shit was happening. I was waiting for her to say, "What happens in Positano, stays in Positano." Like if you murder a hooker or your best friend ODs on coke.

Her descriptions of food are some of the worst I’ve ever read, and I’m not even trying to be an asshole, I swear. Stuff like "red wine that is so delicious I drink it like water" which doesn’t sound like good red wine to me; sounds like water. The woman is thirty and she seems to have never had a decent meal in her life.

There is so little story outside of the silly tagline for the novel. Most of the book is spent describing mundane non-story stuff like walking around and eating and raving about how good the food is. Who-gives-a-shit stuff like this:

"I take out some sandals. The ones I bought at the Century City mall with my mother two Augusts ago during an end-of-summer sale. I didn’t like them. I still don’t. Why did we buy them then? Why did I bring them? They’re my shoes. They’re my feet."

Have you ever met someone who verbalized every thought that went through their head? You either say "���徱ó��" or you leave then in a shallow grave. I had an ex-girlfriend who used to mock me if I vocalized even a single mundane thought...or maybe I started the teasing and she was just a lot better at it than I was. Anyway, my point is, bitch, no one gives a shit about the sandals you bought two fucking years ago, especially not readers.

The protagonist and her zombie mom having dinner complete with a totally insipid conversation is not much of a narrative. So, she meets her mom when she was thirty, and she spends her time trying to hook up with Mr. Rando instead of hanging out with her dead mom? You don't need to go back in time to get your freak on, at least the last time I checked (note to self: time to get my freak on). Then she instantly becomes this horrible and judgmental half-wit, accusing her mom of abandoning her as a child.

The side story of the hotel about to be purchased by some evil capitalists was super-lame. No one is forcing them to sell. The evil capitalists are ruining a precious gem! Sorry, the locals are the ones selling out. I had this argument with a strident neighborhood advocate in Barcelona's Gracia district who claimed that tourists renting Airbnb flats were driving up the rents for locals. I told her that she needed to scream at the locals cleaning up on rental flats and not the people visiting.

And as for life in Positano, I’ve never been to a hotel in my life where the proprietors knew my name, and I wouldn’t want that sort of familiarity, to be honest. The lady at the store knows Carol’s name, a tourist who speaks only a few words of Italian? Un-freaking-likely! Maybe in Kansas people will call you by name, but I’ve never found that in all my years in Europe. I mean, people who see you often will recognize you and treat you well, but being on a first name basis with tout le monde is fantasy. As I said, zero insights in this novel. It's like the author spent a day there when her cruise ship stopped and she spent the morning looking for a Starbucks.

I’m sure they’ll make a lousy movie out of this just because Hollywood is as clueless as the publishing industry.

I shouldn’t have bothered with this, but I read about half of her last novel and DNF due to awfulness. I didn’t write a review of In Five Years so this review will be a warning to my future self to avoid her books.

The whole time travel thing really didn't add up, or at least not for me. I didn't get it. She went back in time thirty years? It would take someone about one minute to realize something was amiss when no one on the street has their face planted in their phone. I don't need a logical explanation, because that's not possible, of course, but give me something. The protagonist simply asks the date? There was nothing fun about this aspect of a novel that was no fun at all.