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I am not so bothered by the author's griping about Italy (I've been to Italy twice and I don't even speak the language but I loved every minute of it), but more by her general attitude about life and other people. The nagging undercurrent of low self-esteem and insecurity says obviously that this woman's problem is not about travel or Italy. She is probably just as unhappy in her back yard. The mix of envy and resentment toward her fellow writers, the quickness to take offense to a passing joke, the constant apology to her new husband for ruining his vacation, the hysteria over her children, the "I expect you to divorce me because we had a less-than-perfect vacation." I used to think Italy can make the shallowest and most picky travelers happy. Guess I was wrong!
