Everywhere else feels like an afterthought with the occasional exception revisiting her London home and the scene in Rome on top of the Spanish Steps and more focused on the people she either met or ended up traveling with, and even then the people towards the end become lackluster and dull, despite being, I'm sure, great people. The entirety of the Paris section felt electric, there was reasoning behind her visit, who she wanted to pay tribute to, the way she wanted to absorb the city. I think it works much better as a memoir as it does a travelogue since, while she does travel a lot, there really isn't anything here to say what was so great about certain places once she leaves Paris about a third of the way in. I'm having a hard time deciding how I feel about this book - falling somewhere between neutral and wishing it was a tiny bit different. Beautifully illustrated with postcards Steinbach wrote home to herself to preserve her spontaneous impressions, this revealing and witty book will transport readers instantly into a fascinating inner and outer journey, an unforgettable voyage of discovery. of defining myself in terms of who I was to other people and what they expected of me." Who am I, she wanted to know, away from the things that define me-my family, children, job, friends? Steinbach searches for the answer to this provocative question in some of the most exciting places in the world: Paris, where she finds a soul mate in a Japanese man Oxford, where she takes a course on the English village Milan, where she befriends a young woman about to be married. "For years I'd made my own choices, paid my own bills, shoveled my own snow, and had relationships that allowed for a lot of freedom on both sides." Slowly, however, she saw that she had become quite dependent in another way: "I had fallen into the habit. "In many ways, I was an independent woman," writes Alice Steinbach, a single working mother, in this captivating book.
Love, Alice In the tradition of Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea and Frances Mayes's Under the Tuscan Sun, in Without Reservations we take time off with Pulitzer Prize winner Alice Steinbach as she explores the world and rediscovers what it means to be a woman on her own. In a way I too am a novice, leaving, temporarily, one life for another. It reminds me of the bell that calls to worship the novice embarking on a new life. From my room, which is just off the winding staircase, I can hear it clearly. In this case, the bell marks the opening of the hotel door.
A cheerful sound, it reminds me of the bells that shopkeepers attach to their doors at Christmastime. Paris Dear Alice, Each morning I am awakened by the sound of a tinkling bell.
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