From high rise horror on the Spanish coast to the uncertainties and tensions of war torn Croatia, from giddy Tunisian teenagers to distrustful Israeli soldiers Theroux meandered around the Mediterranean in an almost desultory fashion, and while this "grand tour" lacks the fir flung glamour of his trips across the remoter outposts of Patagonia and China, there is also a kind of strangeness to be found in the odd corners of the old world, and Theroux finds it, circles it warily, and then describes it in that glittering cut glass prose of his. He is the most opinionated of travel writers, and he lets rip on his pet hates tourists and tourist architecture with somewhat irritating frequency pretty easy targets, surely, given the recent history of certain areas of the Mediterranean, but when he throws in one of his little gems of information, or pulls back the veil of mystique to muse upon the pointlessness, or otherwise, of travel writing as an occupation, there is still nobody to beat him.
