The Pillars of Hercules

To be cured of any desire to visit the Mediterranean, read Paul Theroux’s account of his lengthy plod around its borders. Following the accounts of authors whose remarks (excepting Joyce) seldom inspire, he boards almost empty ferries and trains or hikes in the offseason and in dismal weather, striking up conversations with strangers who usually warn him to beware of crime and thievery.

Here and there the scent of herbs, a snow-capped mountain, the star-lit surf hint of something worth seeing, but more often cheap overconstruction of vacation accommodations, seedy vendors, and rain, rain, rain predominate.

Actually I could not bear to finish the travelogue.