Author: Marina McCarron

Most of what makes a book good is that

we are reading it at the right time for us.

…Alain de Botton

On a recent trip to Canada it was brought to my attention that I often make book recommendations to friends. As I shared a book I was reading and enjoying during a coffee outing, a friend said he kept a running list of my recommendations on his phone, while another told me how much she enjoyed a book I had recommended to her. The new participant in the conversation took out a pen and a notepad to write down the title of the book I was reading and liked, and I felt a tiny thrill at this. Later, when signing my own books at an event, I suggested another title to someone purchasing my book. The bookstore employee laughed and thanked me for supporting other authors. I shrugged. I like books. I like talking about books. It feels very natural to me, perhaps because books have always been a huge part of my life and have provided a blueprint for living that I very much needed. As I read about people going through desperate times I have found myself thinking if they can survive this… But that’s another blog I’m not quite ready to write.

Over the years my recommends list has changed, and sometimes I provide caveats, like with the Catcher in the Rye. I loved it when I was younger (see opening quote) but my all-consuming love for Holden Caulfied has waned over the years as life took away some of my own softness, I think. There are other books that I think have a distinct audience. I recommended The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing to a lot of female friends who claimed not to like to read, knowing it would sway them, and it did. I don’t think I ever recommended it to a male friend.

I have some books that live inside me that I don’t so much recommend as almost force people to read. Books that spoke to me, changed me, made me think, and books I return to for comfort. Some where the writing skill left me in awe, some that helped me become a better person. A few of which I consider friends. I’ve written about some of them here.

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath.

It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.

How is that for an opening line? As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t get any better. The reader meets Esther Greenwood, a young woman from a poor background suddenly working at a fashion magazine in New York. Her story of trying to find her way spoke volumes to me, and not long after I moved to England I drove to Hebden Bridge in Yorkshire where she is buried to pay my respects to a woman who left this world far too young, and who had similar taste in men as myself. I own several copies of the Bell Jar and have bought it endlessly as gifts. The writing is sublime from beginning to end, with the last line of the book as powerful as the first: I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.

The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O’Farrell

I don’t know how this book came into my possession. I think an old boss of mine said she liked the author, Maggie O’Farrell. My copy is slightly banged up and looks like it may have been exposed to the rain. Usually this bothers me, but I think the wear and tear adds to the impact of the off-white jacket with red lettering.

The premise for the story is simple – while at work one day Iris Lockhart gets a call that changes everything she knows about her family. She learns she has a great aunt who has been locked away in an asylum for years and Iris needs to find her a new place to live. She brings her to live with her in Edinburgh and soon family secrets come to the surface. It is a look at how society treated women who dared not to conform, and how perceived shame and the lies told to cover it up twists lives for generations. A thousand thumbs up.

Six Graves To Munich by Mario Puzo

Once upon a time as a publishing sales rep, I had the supreme good fortune of selling books chosen by the legend that is Christopher MacLehose. Six Grave In Munich was written by Mario Puzo (of The Godfather fame) under the name Mario Cleri. It tells the story of an intelligence officer named Michael Rogan captured by the Gestapo who survives being tortured and returns to Germany ten years later to seek revenge. I don’t want to ruin the story for anyone but let me tell you in this story, recollections indeed vary. Cleri has a handful of characters involved in the same event who have entirely different memories and interpretations of what happens – a strong reminder that you never know what someone else is thinking.

I remember setting the book down and wondering what kind of wizard Puzo was, that he could have one straightforward act of evil be so nuanced and misunderstood in its retelling. I’m still in awe of his understanding of human nature and his writing skill.

I know This Much Is True Wally Lamb

This is an enormous doorstop of a book, and I’ve read it twice. Another perfect opening line: On the afternoon of October 12, 1990, my twin brother Thomas entered the Three Rivers, Connecticut Public Library, retreated to one of the rear study carrels, and prayed to God the sacrifice he was about to commit would be deemed acceptable.

As we say in the Martimes, Gentle God. This book ripped my heart out and even as I clutched the tissues, I could not stop reading it.

I Know This Much Is True tells the story of twins Thomas and Dominick Birdsey, one who has schizophrenia and one who does not. They are being raised by their mother and stepfather, a man with questionable parenting skills. As a reader you feel for both brothers for different reasons, and you wonder just how much a person can deal with and survive. It is a story about family loyalty and (for me perhaps) a look at how seemingly small events leave deep, lasting scars.

The world would be a better place if we all had a brother like Dominick Birdsey.

Anna Karenina

One of a handful of books I have read more than once. On the surface it is a story of a married woman who leaves her husband when she falls for a younger man. Not exactly groundbreaking now, but at the time this was a slap in the face to all societal norms. Each time I read it, I see something new. As a sixteen-year-old reading it in high school, I felt deeply for Anna and wondered why she couldn’t trust her love with and for Count Vronsky. In university I started to think about the destructiveness of passion and guilt in life. The last time I read it I thought about how destructive relationships can be, and how Anna’s life would have been easier had she stayed home the night she met Vronsky, but that comes from my own life experience now.

Recently I found myself wondering if Tolstoy’s editor asked him to change the ending, to make it more palatable and filmable perhaps. Again, life’s experiences coming into the mix.

Travels with My Aunt by Graham Greene

I like Graham Greene. I liked Our Man In Havana although I didn’t really understand it the first time I read it. I think Dr Fisher of Geneva, a story about a man who invites people to a dinner party who can either win a million dollars or be struck down by a b*mb was clever, a literary precursor to Survivor.

Travels With My Aunt is a story of a retired bank manager who meets a woman he believes is his aunt at a funeral and embarks on a European adventure with her. I read it sitting in the library of my high school and found in inspiring. Greene’s other books seem to have more acclaim, but this was his best for me. Perhaps because I didn’t have to ask anyone about Cuba and the Missile Crisis to understand the different paths we take, or how we can be done in by our own fears and settle for too quiet of a life. It shows us how the people we meet change our lives – for better or worse. It is yet another story dealing with family secrets but to me it was the main character’s move from tending his dahlias to embarking on smuggling as a career choice that spoke to me as I sat in my high school library, biding my time. 

Lean On Pete by Willy Vlautin

Willy Vlautin is a modern-day Steinbeck, telling stories of the poor and marginalised with a touch that keeps it genuine and eye opening without being too heavy. Victor Hugo could have learned a few things from Mr Vlautin (and yes, I know he died long before Vlautin was born). I read Les Miserables when I was too young and found myself worrying about Fantine when I should have been paying attention in math class.

Charley Thompson is a young man left orphaned after the death of his father. He befriends an old racehorse named Lean On Pete and decides to save him when he is going to be put out to pasture for good. Charley also wants to find an estranged aunt of his as he does not want to end up in care. It is a coming of age story that reminds you how hard some people have it, and how much we all struggle.

Rilla of Ingleside

A young read perhaps, but I have yet to outgrow it.

Rilla is the daughter of Anne Shirley, better known as Anne of Green Gables. Anne married Gilbert Blythe and had seven children (only six of which survive into adulthood)

before moving to Glen St Mary and living in a big house called Ingleside. Rilla was born Bertha Marilla (And why would you do that to a kid?) which was shortened to Rilla; she came of age as World War one raged.

The book opens at a lighthouse party where news of war in Europe breaks out, exciting the young men and boring the young women. We then spend four years with Rilla as she navigates growing up while watching three of her brothers and so many of her chums go off to fight. It staggers me to this day how much I learned about World War One reading this book, and when I saw Courcelette, where tanks were first used in battle, it was of an imaginary character named Walter Blythe, son of Anne, who I thought. As I stood at Langemark German Cemetery in Belgium I thought about being twelve years old and reading about the Days of Langemarck (spelled with a ‘c’ back then).

The book introduced me to battles of the war, the world leaders at the time, and how Canada changed as a result of the conflict. As I read about the horrors and the heartache and grief of so many, it taught my twelve-year-old self empathy too, although I wish that was a lesson I learned after high school. Maybe after university, too.

Apart from Bill Bryson’s travel books, I don’t tend to read humour, but if that is your thing, I recommend The Stupidest Angel by Christopher Moore or anything by Carl Hiaasen. Because as we hear in Rilla of Ingleside, ‘A good laugh is as good as a prayer sometimes’.

Others for another post:

Lucy By the Sea Elizabeth Strout

The Magician’s Assistant Ann Patchett

The Art of Mending by Elizabeth Berg

Thin Places Kerri ni Dochartaigh

It’s been a while since I’ve added to my travel snippets, and although I have not been traveling as much as I would like to (I’m not sure that is even possible) I have been a few places recently.

Italy

Verona (April 2026)

Where I stayed in a very nice hotel that looked out onto Juliet’s balcony. The mini fridge was filled with complementary booze and there was a drawer of snacks that was replenished daily. The market was mere steps away and I was reminded that fruit in Italy is the best.

Valpolicella

Where I learned that it is not only acceptable but recommended to keep some red wine in the refrigerator. This was huge for me, as I have always kept summer reds in the fridge. I wanted to call a few friends and let them know but decided to be a bigger person and write about it here instead.

On the tour I met a lovely Canadian couple and talked about hockey while sampling wine. Good day.

Lyon (May 2026)

Where I was reminded that I have a wonderful friend after a bad night. Let me explain.

Getting the train from the airport to the city was a challenge, and my friend and I walked a lot of steps and tried several ticket machines that did not work before finally finding the right one and getting onto the shuttle and into the city. From there we grabbed a tram before making it to our hotel. I was reminded of how great it is to travel with someone who can read a map and has a keen sense of direction. As he studied the map and I daydreamed, I remembered a time I asked a local for directions, who started off with ‘you want to head east’ to which I replied, ‘If I could tell which way was east, I probably wouldn’t be lost.’

We walked around Lyon until we found one of the few places still serving food at 3 pm, proudly announcing they served food all day. This is something I will never fall for again as several hours later I was trying my hardest to not wake my travel friend as I was sicker than I have ever been in my life. When I knew what was coming, I slipped from bed and moved in the dark to the bathroom, where I closed the door and put down a towel to keep the light out. I will spare everyone the details, but after a few hours his light snoring made me furious and I kicked opened the bathroom door, letting the light and the toilet flushing wake him. When he asked, ‘Are you ok?’ I informed him in a croaky voice that I was not and needed water. Immediately he sprang into action, filling a bottle from the machine in the lobby then heading to a pharmacy and getting me tablets, which did not settle well, which resulted in him going to the front desk, and not knowing the French word for mop, miming the action. He was told it was not his responsibility to clean but we still did our best.

I spent the day in bed with a cold cloth on my forehead while he texted from the hike we had planned to check on me. He brought me a coke from McDonald’s, and it was the first cola product I’d had in maybe two decades. It was delicious. I drank it sitting on the rooftop terrace of our hotel while my friend ate his tenth or twelfth croissant of the day.

I thought I was over it. I was wrong.

Macon

Lovely day spent walking the streets and feeling better if not well. Had dinner outside (he ate, I watched) serenaded by a German shepherd dog sat at a nearby table that did not stop barking. I watched as the dog loving French diners threw dirty looks at the owners, who gave their pup chew toys and treats perhaps as distractions, but which functioned more as rewards for barking from where I was sitting. A woman sat down with a wee Dachshund that looked at the barking dog with absolute disdain from the safety of under his owner’s chair. It was both brave and adorable.

Entre Deux Lacs

My friend likes to book gites and local accommodations. He found one that looked charming, and in a very remote area. As we pulled up I despaired at the many things dotted on the lawn, but that was just a taste of what was to come. The house was cluttered with stuffed animals from fairs perching on shelves and chairs, including a large gorilla sitting on a piano bench that really creeped me out. As he went on a bike ride while I enjoyed another day of having an upset stomach, I asked him to please be back by dark. ‘I’m not staying here by myself!’ I added.

Rumilly

Where we stopped for a bite and a wander only to find most things closed – like a shop with a pair of shoes I still think about.

Annecy

Where I remembered why I love French pharmacies. My friend said if I was not feeling better he thought we should visit a doctor. I took myself to another French pharmacist and said I had been sick, I thought it was fish I had eaten, explained my illness and she gave me what I consider to be miracle powders. Little sachets of lemon flavoured magic that I tipped into my mouth right there on the street in Annecy. Within an hour I was feeling more human than I had in days, so I visited another pharmacy to buy skincare.

Later we went out for pizza and I had an entire slice by myself! There was a young couple sitting next to us and my friend was curious about what language they were speaking. Eventually he asked and we learned he was speaking Lithuanian. We then had a great chat about the history of his country and we both learned a lot. 

Note:

I am sad that I did not feel up to tasting the local beer, called biere verte, as my stomach being dodgy I nursed ginger beer the entire trip. If I ever find myself in Annecy again I will return to the pizza place and wash it down with the local drink.

Grenoble

We stayed in a lovely hotel and had a wonderful time exploring what is very much a university city. We took the cable cars known as ‘les bulles’ for their round shape from the city centre to the Fort de la Bastille, where we saw many people hiking, running and being very healthy on a cold rainy morning.

And then, we tried to leave the carpark. I still have flashbacks as my normally relaxed, gentle friend took the two cards the hotel gave us and tried and failed – repeatedly – to get the barrier to rise so we could be on our way. Eventually we reversed out of the exit, me craning my neck certain we’d hit something, as my friend inched back the way we came. We then drove against the arrows to the other exit where we were again thwarted. We asked locals for help and were surprised by the number hanging out in a multi storey car park who didn’t have cars and had never used the structure before. We tried to find a number to call. Eventually I observed we were wasting the day and I would tap my credit card and maybe that would work. My friend was not having it as we’d already paid and instead marched back to the hotel, where he learned three cards were needed. It was a remarkably complex and stupid system and when the barrier finally opened I doubted I would return to the cute hotel with the ridiculous desk staff again.

From Grenoble we returned to Lyon, where we dropped off our rental car only to be told we dented it although we both had no clue how (it’s an ongoing process right now). We then made our way to the end of one of the metro lines and were met by a friend who took us to her gorgeous home in a remote French village where she made fabulous meals and we took lovely walks before returning to the airport and bidding adieu to France, but not before a visit to duty free where I explained why Longchamp bags are so expensive to my lovely travel friend.

As we sat waiting for our flight, we pondered our next trip and threw out suggestions. I want to do an Irish road trip and he wants to see more of Scotland. We both agree we want to see Orleans. Next time I won’t eat the fish, and we will take the train.

This is what I see:

A nice handbag. I have my eye on a few. Tom Ford’s Jennifer and Prada’s Aimee are at the top of the list.

Inside the bag is my old coach wallet, bought in Florida a long time ago. It’s a bit scarred and battered, stained from a slice of pizza bought in Sete, France. My friend put it in my bag, thinking the paper sleeve would protect it, and the grease spread. I was mad at him all day when it happened.

In my vision – or dream snippet of my future reality, I’m not sure – the weathered leather wallet is filled with cash: Twenties, fifties. Hundreds. I see Canadian, American, Sterling, euros and Aussie dollars spilling out of it, haphazardly, the way tissues fall out of my current non-Prada purse during allergy season.  

I throw the bag easily on the floor of the passenger’s side of my shiny SUV. Sometimes it’s a van, but one that is always easy to park. Whatever it is, I always see myself stepping up to the driver’s seat, as the new car smell wafts over me.

In this little snippet of my life’s dream, the sun is always shining and I’m always wearing comfortable shorts and a white tee shirt. My footwear alternates between flipflops and sandals – ones I can easily kick off as I love driving in my bare feet. Usually I’m parked under some trees, my van is clean and organised, the gas tank full, my bag full of money, and I am off on an adventure. The road beckons, and finally, I am on my way. I see this scene easily, and it comes to me often, unbidden, usually when I am tired or discouraged. Sometimes when I am trying to fall back to sleep. It pops up when I need some peace, some solace. To believe there are good things coming.

The best days of my life have been spent on road trips – finding places for coffee, seeing tourist sites, hiking parks, pulling over randomly to simply see the view. My first long, non-family road trip happened one summer when I drove with a partner at the time from New Brunswick to Vancouver, British Columbia, via the US. I camped in Acadia Park in Maine, spent a very hot and emotional day at Arlington Cemetery, had my picture taken outside the Fred Flintstone house in Bedford, Arizona; climbed the Grand Canyon, had fried chicken in Winslow, Arizona (Eagles fans will get this) biked and hugged trees in the Redwood Forest, and spent two days seeing everything in San Francisco. I remember changing my clothes in a jeep in a car park long before the days of CCTV. The 90s were the best time to travel.

Later I travelled through France on three different occasions with my friend Andrew, seeing Paris and Normandy and the chateaus of the Loire Valley.  I introduced him to the Doors in a small bar in Tours, cried my way across the battle sites of the Great War, and happened upon villages that were so small people stopped what they were doing to stare at us as we drove by. One time we were parked at a small road reading a map, trying to sort which way to go, when a local woman stuck her head in the car window and we ended up talking for almost an hour. She had on lovely earrings and her lipstick was perfect – and she lived in a town that had one old church, one street, and maybe two dozen homes. I joked with my friend as we drove away that she had dressed up for our visit. We sang along to Lobos I’d Love You to Want Me in a French restaurant after perhaps one too many glasses of Cotes du Rhone. We played Cribbage and drank cold beer and have had so many good times that we still talk about.

In 2018-2019, I visited Australia for the first time. I drove through the Blue Mountains and small towns in Australia, sleeping in shorts and a tee, too tired from the sun to change. I fell in love with Bellingen, Mullumbimby, Tweed Heads – places I only discovered because I was travelling with a local. I can’t wait to return, and I think that is why in my vision I see Aussie dollars. I am coming, Adelaide, one of these days.

The year is coming to an end and like most people I am reflecting on what transpired as I anticipate the reset that comes with an arbitrary date. Me, I can’t quite figure out 2025 – a lot of stuff that could be seen as being bad happened, but it didn’t really bother me much. Maybe some changes are like that. I did have a wonderful trip to Rome in April the weekend they buried the Pope. It was humbling and overwhelming to be a part of such history. I will always remember standing with a big crowd outside a large church, wondering what was happening and learning the Pope was being interred inside, and the crowd was standing vigil, while I was eating hazelnut gelato. It felt disrespectful, but that’s the Catholic still in me, I guess.

I spent the month of June in Canada, seeing friends in BC and taking a road trip through Vancouver Island. I signed copies of my books in Tofino and spoke at the library in Gabriola and had a wonderful event in Chapters in Nanaimo, where I made some new friends. I walked a beautiful beach (I can’t remember the name) and took a spill in Lighthouse Park. As I picked myself up my friend said, ‘I won’t tell anyone’ while I laughed. I’ve told a lot of people, and am telling many more now, here. I flew across the country and had an event in Indigo in Bedford, Nova Scotia. Later I played on a trampoline with the smaller members of my family after a glass of wine. All I can say about this is remember to point your toes, and that is harder than it looks.

In September I visited Naples and took the train to Pompeii. I’ve always wanted to see the place, but it was how the sun shone and the blue of the sky, how Vesuvius is smaller than I anticipated, and how good an ice-cold beer tasted that I remember more than the ruins – and wouldn’t it be nice if life worked that way, too? I thought about the woman we met travelling alone, who needed help with train times and knowing what exit to take, and how my friend helped her, and how we ran into her later that day and heard of her adventures. As we spoke, I thought perhaps she was lonely, travelling on her own, and after she walked away I mentioned to my friend that perhaps we should have invited her for a drink. He said he thought so too, but it was too late by then. I thought about her over the following few days, hoping she was okay, as we saw new places. We took a day trip to Sorrento, and I saw the hotel where Caruso had lived and for the thousandth time since he died wanted to call my dad and tell him all about it. He wasn’t much to travel, but he loved opera. I loved Sorrento, and finding new places to love has always counted as a win in the great ledger that is my life.

As this year has played out, and my publishing life has not shaped up how I had hoped – (see bad things that I think are good, noted above) I have thought about the ultimate road trip, also stated above, when the funds are unlimited and the whole world awaits. My way of visualising the perfect life for me: a nice handbag, money to travel, the open road. That is my idea of freedom, of happiness, a sign that I have made it. One day I believe it will be more than a snippet in my imagination, it will be my reality. That’s what keeps me going, some days. Until then I have trampolines to master, hills to climb without falling, and so much to learn.  

Here’s to 2026 and the kind of joy and life’s experiences, road trips and nice handbags bring – for me, at least.

Many years ago, when I was a very young child, my mother gave me vitamins from a brown glass bottle, kept on the door of the fridge. That sounds a touch ominous, like the start to a Flowers In the Attic style tale, but it wasn’t. I got my spoonful of orange vitamins and then my cod liver oil tablet before sitting down to whatever cereal was on offer.

The liquid vitamins came in a bottle with a label featuring two children playing. The girl was wearing a yellow sweater and the boy a pumpkin-coloured shirt, if memory serves me correctly. They were jumping on a seesaw of sorts made from a spoon balanced over half an orange. I remember the taste of the potion well, although they were eventually replaced by Flintstones Chewables. I was reminded of these vitamins on a recent trip to Italy, when I had my first Aperol Spritz on a hot day spent walking around the ruins of Pompeii.

We’d arrived in Naples the day before, after getting up at three thirty in the morning to catch a 6:20 flight. We were flying business class, me tagging along on my friend’s pass. It was only my fifth time flying business class, and already I was jaded. The lounge’s breakfast buffet did not have eggs. The champagne on the flight was warm. Oh, the troubles I have seen.

My friend was snoozing by the window when a woman across the aisle stood up and opened the overhead bin. This always fascinates me, as I have flown a lot, on very long flights to places are far flung as Thailand, Australia, Nepal and New Zealand. Not once have I ever opened a bin to rummage around, yet this was the second time this woman had stood up, trying and failing to find something. As I watched, eyes gritty with tiredness yet wide awake with the excitement of soon seeing the Amalfi Coast, she hoisted her skirts around her hips, then stepped onto the armrest of the seat where a man was sat, ignoring her even as the hem of her skirt fell on his arm. I was captivated by the dynamic. If it was her husband, why was he ignoring her? If he was someone randomly seated next to her, wouldn’t he object to her standing on his armrest? As my thoughts swirled I poked my sleeping friend so he could see what I was seeing. I have flown a lot but he flies endlessly, for work and for pleasure. Let’s just say he came to quickly as the flight attendant rushed down the aisle, asking the woman to please get down, as what she was doing was very dangerous.

‘Whatever you need, madam, I will get for you,’ he said. ‘Please get down.’ She completely ignored him and carried on digging around in the bin until she pulled out a book and stepped down, her skirt catching on the arm rest as the man in the seat it was attached to continued to ignore her, and the flight attendant pulled himself together. I don’t know what would have happened to him if she fell, but he was taking it very seriously.

We landed in Naples then walked from the aircraft to a bus where we stood a while longer before boarding, while a man who had five gin and tonics (he was sat near me, and I counted) made jokes about needing tickets and tried to get a sing song going. Eventually the bus took us to what amounted to a holding pen where we stood endlessly in the baking heat while trying to figure out exactly what was happening. Slowly we made our way into a very grey arrivals area. I watched, clutching my UK passport and cursing Brexit, as everyone with an EU passport sailed by me.

We found the shuttle, made our way into the city and found our hotel, which let us check in early, which was fabulous. We dumped our bags, my friend found a map on his phone to navigate, and we set off.

Naples… I don’t really know what to say. Search the Internet and you will hear it described as raw, pulsing with life, and authentic. For me this translated to covered in graffiti with garbage littering the streets. Having been to Rome in April I was shocked by the difference in the two cities. As we walked along I kept my opinion to myself – heaven forbid anyone say anything negative these days – until my friend said, ‘I’m not digging the graffiti everywhere’ – to which I quickly agreed.

 After buying tickets to see the Sansevero chapel housing the Veiled Christ, a masterpiece in marble that defies description no matter how long you stare at it, we sat at an outdoor café – really just a few metal tables lining the street – and drank ice cold Peroni and shared a slice of Neapolitan pizza. Eventually we moved along, walking through a city enthralled with Diego Maradona and stopping for dinner at what looked like a cute outdoor restaurant. I had the worst grilled courgette and aubergine (zucchini and eggplant) ever while my friend had mediocre risotto and we watched a group of young lads on what may have been their first holiday abroad without supervision knock back pints, inhale pizza, and laugh. We walked some more, and I ended up buying a postcard sized painting from an elderly man sitting outside his shop, smoking a cigarette and staring into the distance. He wrapped it in newspaper, and I smiled as I wondered how I was going to get it into my suitcase – then we returned to our nicely air-conditioned hotel room and made plans.

The following day we rose early and hopped the train to Pompeii. Now, I cannot say enough good things about Italian trains. The ticket system is easy to use, and the fare is cheap. Dirt cheap. Two fares for two adults for a 38-minute trip cost just over six euros. The trains arrived on time and left on time and maybe I just got lucky, but passengers were quiet and respectful. No loud phone conversations or obnoxious music. Nicely done, Naples!

Pompeii was magical, in the way seeing a place on your bucket list is magical. The sun was shining but there was some early September morning cool which I love. I basked in it as I saw first-hand the city destroyed in 79 AD, a place I studied when I was at the University of Ottawa, several lifetimes ago. After four hours of walking over old bricks, we found the restaurant and had an Aperol Spritz, me for the first time. I took a sip and immediately thought it tasted familiar. Another sip and I knew what it was, saying to my friend, ‘it tastes like the orange vitamins I had as a kid’ which brings us back to the start of this tale, in case you were wondering where I was going.

Walking back to our hotel in Naples that night, we decided to visit Sorrento the next day. And I am so glad we did. From the moment we stepped from the train (less than 20 euros, return, for two adults for a 78-minute journey) I knew I was going to like the place. The air smelled fresh. The streets were pristine. Palm trees, cool looking restaurants and sleek shops were everywhere. Sorrento felt like a pleasant dream, the kind that makes you want to pull the covers tight, squeeze your eyes shut and just revel in.

After an iced coffee we made our way to a park with a view of the beaches below. As I gazed into the clear water dotted with people swimming and floating around, I got the feeling I was in one of those glamourous old films where a woman wearing a crisp white dress, cinched at her waist and wearing impossibly large sunglasses, a silk scarf holding her hair in place, hurries through the streets, scanning the crowd while being chased by someone like Cary Grant. Sorrento felt like something from another time, and I was loving it. And who wouldn’t want to be chased by Cary Grant?

We had lemon ices as we walked through the cave-like path that led to the water and the beaches. Watched some swimmers and some sunbathers before heading back to the city centre. I tried on a pair of shoes and talked myself out of buying them, wanting to be fiscally responsible. We wandered the clean, meandering streets as I looked for a hotel where I might one day stay, when Sorrento was more than a day trip. Then we returned to the waterfront for a glass of Champagne. While my friend ate calamari I watched the fish swimming in the clear water and pondered writing something set in Sorrento – a simple romance, I thought, watching a handsome man in blue swim trunks walking into the sea.

As the afternoon drifted by, my friend ordered a second bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and the waiter told us he’d lived in England and Australia and Spain, and that each Monday he sits on the beach with a bottle of Moet and Chandon and some smoked salmon and avocado and watches the sea. I tucked this away for the romance novel that was already building in my mind.

As we sat on the train returning to Naples, I tried to find the vitamins I had as a kid on Google but had no luck. I could see the bottle so clearly in my mind, knew the taste, as I had preferred them to the Flintstones that replaced them. We gave up after a while, and I opened up Notes on my phone and scribbled a few lines for the romance novel building in my head. I showed them to my friend who said, ‘I like it!’

By now the train station felt familiar and comforting. I stopped at a shop and looked at a bag in the window that I liked, but talked myself out of buying it, too. We ate ice cream and as we headed back to our hotel and I thought about some of the things that had happened on my trip to a new part of Italy: I fell in love with Sorrento. I gazed on the Veiled Christ. I learned Aperol Spritz’s taste like vitamins my mother gave me in childhood. I pondered writing a romance novel. But I knew the story I would tell the most would be about a woman who stood on an armrest in business class while the flight attendant pleaded with her to get down and her husband ignored her. That, like the Italian coast, is not something you see every day. Especially in business class.

Last January a friend mentioned to me that he had a companion ticket he had to use up by the end of June and might I be interested in a city break. Having flown first class with him to Copenhagen I was indeed ready for a trip and said I wanted to see Rome again. He agreed as visions of British Airways first class lounge danced in my head.

We were careful booking, wanting to be there before it got too hot, not during Easter or when school children were on break. Rome is a busy place. We booked for the 24-27 of April, feeling quite smart. ‘We should be okay, as long as the Pope doesn’t die,’ he observed. I was at the gym when he sent me a text saying, ‘The Pope just died. Our trip should be interesting.’ It grew more so when it was announced his funeral would be on the Saturday that we were there.

I first saw Rome when I was 21, recently graduated from university and completely and utterly lost in life. I remember Rome being huge, the traffic being scary, and wishing I was with my friend Tiff. It was on this trip I learned to be careful about who you pick as travel partners, but I’ve had mostly good luck since.

I had champagne on the flight mostly to brace myself for what I was sure would be the chaos of Rome, but the airport upon landing was almost empty. We walked straight through customs, even without an EU passport. At the bottom of an escalator we saw a group of priests huddled together and I thought, I wonder what the collective noun for a group of priests is? A religion? A pod? Given the news in the past years, my mind went to a few dark places.

As we took the train – clean, cool, comfortable, delightful, really – from the airport to Termini, I looked out the window at the passing landscape, thinking about all the area had seen as the image of Russell Crowe in Gladiator, walking through the fields, hand brushing the wheat, flashed through my mind.

Soon we were at Termini, and I was shocked at how big the station was. I remembered it as being a tube-shaped building, open at both ends with a few bakeries and coffee shops. The Termini I landed at had posh shops, bars, lounges – it was more like an airport – a really good airport – or a shopping centre from where trains happened to arrive and depart. The crowds that were absent at the airport were plentiful at Termini.

As we left the station I looked up at the buildings lining the street, wondering if I would see the place where I had stayed many years earlier, but we were greeted with a row of rather lacklustre shops, not the tall, multi-storey, off-white building on a corner I remembered. I hoped it was on the other side of the station and had not been torn down.

Our hotel was two minutes away. The lobby was nice, the staff pleasant, and the room, while not sporting much of a view – was lovely. The bathroom was tiled and the shower ‘threw off some heat’ my friend would later say.

Of course we headed immediately to St Peter’s, distracted along the way by motorcades and ridiculously handsome police officers. Carabinieri, polizia, and the Guarda de Finanza which confused us, but it wasn’t really their job descriptions that caught my attention. Somewhere on the application I am convinced it states: ‘Gorgeous men will be prioritized.’ But then, I’ve had a thing for Romans since studying their empire in grade ten history class. 

One of the main reasons I wanted to see the Eternal City again was to visit the Mausoleum of Augustus, Julius Caesar’s adopted nephew who ruled after him and was one of the Twelve Good Emperors of Rome. While not as famous as his adoptive uncle, under his reign Rome flourished. (And the first thing he did when he took power was to go after the men who killed his uncle. Family loyalty. Wow.) I saw his mausoleum on my first trip, but it wasn’t open to the public. I remember it looked small and inconsequential considering his role in the creation of Rome, more like a large hut than a mausoleum.

We made our way there very early Saturday morning, mindful of the funeral starting at ten. While I remember standing on the street looking at his mausoleum with not much around, now there is a museum next door – white and shiny, housing the Ara Pacis, the Altar of Augustan Peace commissioned by the Roman senate to celebrate Augustus’s return from three years away in Hispania and Gaul. With my back to the museum, staring at the mausoleum behind a shabby fence, I saw a homeless man rolling up his sleeping bag, and thought about the parallels between Augustus and the man who was being buried later that same day, a man who wanted his coffin to rest on the ground, wanted to be buried not in the Vatican but in a nearby church that was special to him. Who wanted a simple grave, with just his name.

I felt something as I looked at what was before me: a burial place for a great leader long gone, a falling down fence, a dome of a church in the distance. And something else: an opening in the sky, a portal – both an entrance and an exit perhaps. I began wondering again about what happens when we die, if there is a Heaven, if we come back again and again until we get it right. Mostly I wondered if Augustus and Pope Francis were connected thought the light in front of me.

I took a photo with my phone and marvelled at how it looked, showing it to my friend.

‘It’s like the sky is opening up to receive him. Or sending down light to replace his.’

My friend said, ‘Good shot. Your phone has a great camera.’

Know your audience, know your travel partners. That’s a good rule for life. We moved on, heading to St Peter’s for the funeral, as I thought about all the people who walked the same streets I now trod. All the people around me. Usually crowds make me feel lonely. That didn’t happen in Rome. But then, I was distracted by the officials keeping us safe.

*

Sunday evening rolled around and we found ourselves back at Termini. I told my friend I wanted to find the other end of the station, so I could look for the place I stayed at so many years ago. We wound our way along, looking for a place to have a drink before catching the train, mindful of the crowd, scanning for pickpockets… and then it appeared. The hotel I stayed at. Where I had to pay forty Canadian dollars for a call I made to someone in Canada I wouldn’t cross the street for now. Where I looked out the window processing hundreds of emotions.

‘That’s it,’ I said, pointing.

‘Do you want to have a drink there? Some sort of full circle moment?’ he said.

I thought for a second then shook my head. ‘No. She’s not there anymore.’

‘Who?’ he asked, looking around.

Once again I was leaving Rome, my mind swimming with all I had experienced, all I had witnessed, all of the thoughts I had on death and Catholicism and travel and where I want to live and… everything.

Augustus was a good leader who made Rome a better place. Pope Francis was a good man who made the world a better place. Maybe they are connected in some larger, cosmic sense. But I’m starting to believe you can reincarnate while being in the same body. I felt that in Rome, staring at a place I stayed thirty years ago that still stands in a city that has changed and grown and expanded. Much like me.

As we settled into the airport lounge to wait for our flight, I said I felt like finding a quiet corner to have a cry. My alpha male friend looked like he wanted to hop out the window and take his chances on the wing of the aircraft departing. I’m not everyone’s dream travel companion, either.

*

I’ve been back for weeks now. My small suitcase has been emptied and my large suitcase is being prepared for my next trip, spending the month of June in Canada, a trip I also booked in January. My mind is still whirring, and I keep thinking about Rome, wishing I had stayed for the conclave, or spent a day queuing to see where Pope Francis now rests instead of watching from outside.

 I couldn’t get close enough to the Trevi fountain to throw in three coins, like I did last time. But I know I will return – the appeal of Rome is eternal.

There’s a 7-Eleven in Florida that is one of my happy places. It looks out onto what I guess could be considered a busy road. It’s wide and has four lanes but I don’t remember many cars. To the left is the beach and to the right is the place where I get my nails done. I know the shops, the restaurants, the houses well. I just don’t know the name of the street. It’s at the corner of Gulf Boulevard, in Treasure Island, if that helps.

I can’t remember the first time I went into this particular 7-Eleven. I think it was when I put gas in my rental car. There was a little sign saying you had to pay before pumping, so I trotted in, wallet in my hand, my mother’s voice about how easy it would be for someone to mug me ringing in my ears. I went years without a handbag, just carrying around my wallet, hearing her warnings. The closest I came to being mugged was in a parking lot in Stratford Upon Avon in England. I heard my mother’s voice then, too. But that’s another story.

When I tried to pay the tall male clerk said, ‘Yea, that sign doesn’t apply to you,’ and he chuckled.

Because I was Canadian? A woman? I had no idea what he meant. I just felt like I was special the way he said ‘you’. Later I saw the sign indicated this policy was in effect at night, but by then I’d already spun all my theories of what it could mean.

The second time I went in was very early in the morning in the week before Christmas. There was a time when getting out of bed for me took an act of God. I would curl up in warm sheets and hit snooze over and over. My father used to get up early and feed the birds until we complained at the noise they made. Dad was a fan of animals and mornings. In many ways he knew what was important in life, but he was not a fan of hot weather, although he rallied to trot through Disney World with us, and later with his grandchildren. After he passed away my mom, who loved hot weather, started renting a condo in Florida at Christmas. I fell in love with it and the neighbourhood it was in the minute I laid eyes on it. I loved the thatch roofed local bar called the Ka-Tiki. I loved the houses on the road that ran parallel to the beach, especially one that had an outdoor ceiling fan. I looked for it each time I walked by. I fall in love with houses all the time, but I’ve only ever fallen in love with two stores while travelling: A clothing shop in Bellingen, Australia called Retro Bello and a 7-Eleven in Treasure Island, Florida.

I think I was heading to get some milk for my mother’s tea when I ventured into the convenience store the second time, the air conditioning greeting me along with a hello from the clerk that marked my first visit. I saw the coffee pots at the back of the store and headed to them, telling myself convenience store coffee would be pretty dire. When it sits on those little burners is gets a wooden, scorched-earth sort of flavour. And it’s generally weak. So even as I walked toward it, I was preparing myself to be disappointed.

What I saw was not one pot, not two pots, but several pots of coffee. The handles announced the type and I perked up, impressed by the selection and finding my favourite dark roast. Then I saw something that truly thrilled me: International Delights creamers. Lashings of it in those cute little white pots with the covers you peel back.

I love International Delights coffee creamers. I love the French Vanilla flavour and the Bailey’s and the Hazelnut. I love going to American grocery stores and looking for new flavours. Once I saw After Eight and to this day I am disappointed I did not buy it.

I don’t think I can express the simple joy I had standing there in shorts and a t-shirt and sandals, pouring French vanilla creamer into a cup of coffee. As I stood at the cash I wanted to tell the clerk how happy I was, but those are the kinds of things that make people think you are weird. I know this, first hand.

When my sister flew in a few days later I took her to 7-Eleven and showed her the coffee station and the little creamers. Instead of being delighted, she couldn’t believe it as I poured them into my coffee. ‘They’re not good for you,’ she said, sounding much like my mother and her wallet warnings, rather aghast at my stupidity. I am very careful with my diet, but if International Delights cream was laced with arsenic, I think I’d still drink it.

‘I know. But they’re fabulous.’

She looked askance, added one to her coffee, and we walked over to the beach to drink it. It was one of those moments you know you will remember forever. Maybe not the day, or what you were wearing, but the feeling. That all was right in the world. That despite a dodgy bank balance (me) you were indeed pretty blessed. That life was good.

As Florida became a tradition, so too did the 7-Eleven. After a night out dancing at the local bar my brother and another sister and I went there for pizza and ate it on the beach walking home. We bought cold beer there and red wine when we ran out and didn’t have it in us to walk to the Publix. We had so many good times in that little patch of Florida.

We’ve logged many Christmas trips, and I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone how much I love the 7-Eleven, but I’m saying it now. It makes me happy, whatever I’m picking up and whoever I am with.

Maybe its crazy that I find so much happiness in a chain convenience store in Treasure Island, Florida. But I do. I think my Dad would, too. He liked coffee, loved air conditioning, and always enjoyed a chat with a stranger. Sometimes when I sit on the bench and drink coffee with my sister I like to think he knows where we are, and the happiness I feel.

I didn’t make it there for the holidays this year. I hope to return soon. But in the meantime, there’s a certain pleasure in knowing it is there, waiting for me. That the coffee is brewing and the waves rolling. Maybe I’ll find the After Eight flavour on my next trip.

May the coming days bring everyone good coffee, good times, and the simple joy I find at 7-Eleven in Treasure Island, Florida.

Happy 2023. #seveneeleven#7eleven#retrobello#bellingen#creamernation

Two of the characters in my very first book, The Time Between Us, fall in love at Maxim’s. So on a recent magical three day weekend in Paris, I returned with them in book form to revisit their old haunts. I am sure I felt them around me as I strolled the streets of my favourite city. Here’s to them, and to Paris.

I can still remember where I was when I said it. Part prayer, part desperate plea, part hideous, crawling fear that I was wasting my life and would never be happy.

I can’t remember the time of year but I know the kitchen of the house where I stood was dark, even though it was daytime, and despite the windows. It was a grey, rainy, windy kind of day where you could either curl up with a good book or a long-haired stranger in a white shirt and riding boots could knock on your door, looking for Catherine. With my luck the stranger would show up just as I was hitting the best part of the story, and he’d have a horrible cold. Perhaps an axe. Maybe both.

I don’t know what motivated my actions, but I do remember walking in circles as I said, ‘I just want to write a book, I want to be a writer. I want to be a published author. I don’t care if I ever get married, I just want to write books.’

It appears some omnipotent force was listening that day, for my debut novel is about to go live on Amazon. I’m not sure that’s the correct way of saying so perhaps I should be clearer. An agent signed me in July 2020. My book was edited and rewritten and cried over, mostly by me but perhaps by my editor, too – I’m not sure.  Last December, a London publisher made an offer. Two audio book companies bid for the rights. Contracts were signed. Germany bought the rights, and a translation is being worked on as I write this.

Still, I didn’t want to tell anyone. I waited for the email saying ‘Oops, we meant to sign a Martina McLennon who wrote a book called This Time Among Us’.

I started writing my second book. I worried about my third. But still, it didn’t feel real. Even as the jacket was designed. Even as the advance money started to roll in. I felt I was tempting fate when I wrote out my acknowledgments. But I kept going, because all I’ve ever wanted, since I started reading books at the school library years ago, was to be a writer.

Then, magical things started happening. People I’d lost touch with read about my deal in the trade papers and got in touch. Friends started asking when they could buy a copy. One heady day I was asked if I would be doing a signing in Canada.

So I sent out an email to all my friends who at one point had heard me say, head bowed, voice soft, that I wanted to write. Unless I’d had a glass of red wine in which case the strength of my voice and how I held my head varied.

And I was overwhelmed by the support and kindness and love shown me by the people I told.

I’m still not convinced that on November 11^th the digital version will drop. In eight days I will know for sure. And I’m still not married.