The Books We Choose. Or Do They Choose Us?

I will admit I picked up this memoir based solely on the words “...In Spain” in the title. Having recently returned from Spain, I was eager to read about someone else’s experience in that country.

I checked it out of my local library even as I asked myself: What could I possibly find in common with a US ambassador’s wife? How could her experience resonate with mine?

The answer: it didn’t. Not in the teeniest, tiniest way.

I do not like to give bad book reviews, because I know that writing a book, putting it out there, is tough, vulnerable work. I also do not like giving up on books, although I was tempted many times with this one. But while reading this, it took me down a path of questions, not the least of which being: What on earth was this book doing on the shelves at my local Oakville library? That it was there said it had garnered some attention and readership. Why? Only because she was an ambassador’s wife? 

I’ve heard it said that there is almost no market for quiet memoirs. Shelves in bookstores where space is reserved for memoirs are limited to those by celebrities, or in some cases, unknown authors if they have some deep, dark, dramatic, family secrets. 

What is a reader’s relationship with a book and how do we choose which books we read? There could be any number of reasons: Because they’re best sellers; because of recommendations from trusted readers; the blurb on the back cover; because it’s an automatic read from a favourite author; because of our mood or the season or…or…a myriad of motivations for picking up a book. Or because it has the words “...in Spain” in the title.

We may read a book differently when it is fiction versus memoir or autobiography. We read differently depending on what’s going on in our own lives and what stage in life we are in.

I thought that with the ambassador’s wife being a middle-aged woman in Spain, I might be able to, in some way, connect with her story. 

But for the almost four years she spent there, it was in a Spain that I never experienced. Upon arrival, she was whisked through a VIP lounge and transported in a motorcade to their embassy/residence. Never any commuter trains or buses. She spends a lot of pages lamenting her lack of an official role, feeling homesick, and bemoaning the fact that she was a ‘businesswoman’ with skills that remained under-utilized. She often felt thwarted by embassy staff when trying to get her initiatives off the ground that weren’t a priority for the embassy or its protocol.

I did perk up at the food descriptions. Sea urchins! Yes, what were those like? But sadly, she declined them. Most food encounters took place in exclusive by-invitation-only food conferences for world-renowned chefs, at back tables in Michelin-star restaurants, or at lavish private dinners. She does find time to traipse off most weekends to explore other towns and cities in Spain, security always around. The reader hears about the endless parade of friends and friends of friends who come to visit, and she dutifully notes how she graciously extends her invitation to all, but then also resents this intrusion. Okay, that I can understand. An endless parade of houseguests? Shut the door! Oh wait - she lived in the heart of Madrid, in a palatial apartment with private suites, common rooms and a large staff. There was little danger of running into guests in her bathrobe.

Who was this woman with not one but two personal chefs, with access to the best foods in Spain, and yet arranged for the Weinermobile to arrive on the embassy grounds with hotdogs to surprise her husband on his birthday?  Who was this woman who name-dropped with abandon - Antonio Banderas, Joan Baez, a Bruce Springsteen concert in San Sebastian, where she sat sheltered in a private covered patio while the throngs were drenched, gleeful that she had ‘no long lines to suffer through’.  

Did I envy her private tour of the Sagrada Familia (again no long lines to endure) with the lead architect of the restoration project? Why did she whine at having only an onlooker’s role in the pomp and ceremony of her husband’s meeting with the King of Spain? And why were her only observations of this event that, while she was in the background, her husband was “making important remarks and meeting people.” She reminds us often how ‘important’ her husband is, how handsome, how overworked. So overworked that she is angry and in tears one day, walking down the streets of Madrid, because he is late for their Friday night date.

When she met tennis great, Rafael Nadal, my flagging interest in her story perked up. But all I got was that he was "exceptionally handsome, in exquisite shape, and…gentle in spirit.” And that when she posted a picture with him on Facebook, she got 98 likes but when Rafa posted the same picture, he got 29,000!

I became further enraged when she and her husband travel to Oviedo for an award ceremony, presumably to Americans, but she really wants to meet Leonard Cohen, who, she claims, though “technically a Canadian” did live in LA so was "kind of American” and she and her husband “couldn’t miss the opportunity to see him." Did she mean opportunity or opportunistic?

So, even while reading this, I was surprised at my scathing inner critic. I did not want to dump all over her just because she was a privileged white woman, with a book that does not have a compelling story, nor is it well written. There’s a lot of that kind of dumping going on, and while I may not be a privileged white woman, I do consider myself a somewhat privileged brown woman. Yes, there is such a thing. So, what was at the root of this harsh criticism? 

When a reader opens a book, she makes a pact: I will invest my time and immerse myself in these pages. I will ignore household chores and emails and people. The reader says to the book, “Take me along on a journey. Let me find a character I can root for, a story that engages me, one that I can resonate with.” If a book disappoints, it does not damage a reader’s relationship with books. That relationship is solid, unbreakable. We pick up another book and start again. We fall in love with books over and over again. It is a relationship like no other. 

Was it envy then? I wasn’t envious of her lifestyle, or her important, handsome husband, or her sojourn in Spain. Her published memoir then, when the chances of my quiet one getting out into the world were slim to none? Granted, hers was from a small, independent publisher. I looked them up. The website says that it only publishes ‘innovative non-fiction’ from authors who are leaders in various fields - politics, business, philanthropy. They say they publish books that present ‘big ideas’ and ‘start conversations’.

Well, this one certainly did start a conversation. Inside my head. Perhaps then, the book filled its purpose.