The book is literally about a dysfunctional American family that goes on vacation to the idyllic Spanish island of Mallorca. Said family are the Post's: Fran (mom who may possibly care more about food/cooking than everything else), Jim (father, recently fired from his lifelong career at a men's magazine because of an affair with an intern), Bobby (Fran & Jim's oldest child who behaves like someone 10 years his junior) and Stella (Fran & Jim's daughter who seems to be the most stable member of the clan, recent high school graduation about to fly the coop for college life). Along for the vacation are family friends Charles & Lawrence (married couple who spend most of 2 weeks hoping that their adoption in the states goes through) and Carmen (Bobby's much older girlfriend/personal trainer). A few minor characters included a Spanish virginity-taking tutor, a retired hunky tennis pro, a Harley driving pediatrician and the even more self-obsessed (really? is that possible?) owner of the home who rents it to the Posts for their quasi-doomed holiday, none of which really do much to elevate the plot to anything that would keep the reader compelled to finish the book.
This book is essentially about all of them and how their secrets come out and either redeem them or ruin them. There is no real plot. The characters are self-obsessed and don't really do anything noteworthy except exist. There are marital problems. Money problems. Career problems. Friend problems. It's as if the book is a suspended glimpse of how people interact with one another when forced to by proximity via vacation house in foreign country. (Side note: the descriptions of Mallorca were very enchanting)
I wanted to like this book, but I just couldn't. It felt like I kept waiting for something to happen, and it never really did.
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| photo courtesy of: Penguin group |
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