The book is intermittently redeemed by moments of genuine humor and the occasional belly laugh, but its premise quickly grows tiresome. A middle-aged, thoroughly helpless man moves to France, fails to learn the language, depends on others for EVERYTHING, even the most basic tasks (including cleaning) even after he’s lived there for years, and then recounts his trials and tribulations. His account unfolds as a litany of obvious cultural observations, delivered in a formulaic style of lists and contrasts—“the good news is,” “the bad news is”, and a perpetual set up, I thought this, but it was that, over and over again. It quickly becomes exhausting.That said, some of these observations are surprisingly sharp for a character so persistently needy and whiny.
The greater failing, however, lies in the narration itself. While the frequent mispronunciations of French are somewhat understandable, the mispronunciations in English are not, nor is the exaggerated cadence and breathless intonation, which at times sounds almost childish and utterly naive. Rather than enhancing the contrast between American and French culture, the narration amplifies it to a grating degree. Ultimately, it does the book no favors and may even impart a tone the author never intended.
I finished the book because once started I was committed. But I am dumbfounded. Why so many like this book.