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As with Franz Kafka, I am afraid that I just did not "get" this book. While there were some interesting musings about cities (and life), in the end I was simply left with an odd sense of emptiness. The back cover is instructive - words to the effect that, Marco Polo purports to describe to Kublai Khan all the cities that he has passed though on his travels, but, in the end, one realises that he is describing only one city - Venice. Well, this "revelation" is made halfway through the book, and then Polo simply continues in the same vain? There is little else one can say about these ramblings, which, altho occasionally throwing up an interesting observation, for me, ultimately disappointed.