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Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything across Italy, India and Indonesia

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Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything across Italy, India and Indonesia Cover

 

 

Excerpt

1

I wish Giovanni would kiss me.

Oh, but there are so many reasons why this would be a terrible idea. To begin with, Giovanni is ten years younger than I am, and, like most Italian guys in their twenties, he still lives with his mother. These facts alone make him an unlikely romantic partner for me, given that I am a professional American woman in my mid-thirties, who has just come through a failed marriage and a devastating, interminable divorce, followed immediately by a passionate love affair that ended in sickening heartbreak. This loss upon loss has left me feeling sad and brittle and about seven thousand years old. Purely as a matter of principle I wouldn't inflict my sorry, busted-up old self on the lovely, unsullied Giovanni. Not to mention that I have finally arrived at that age where a woman starts to question whether the wisest way to get over the loss of one beautiful brown-eyed young man is indeed to promptly invite another one into her bed. This is why I have been alone for many months now. This is why, in fact, I have decided to spend this entire year in celibacy.

To which the savvy observer might inquire: 'Then why did you come to Italy?'

To which I can only reply—especially when looking across the table at handsome Giovanni— 'Excellent question.'

Giovanni is my Tandem Exchange Partner. That sounds like an innuendo, but unfortunately it's not. All it really means is that we meet a few evenings a week here in Rome to practice each other's languages. We speak first in Italian, and he is patient with me; then we speak in English, and I am patient with him. I discovered Giovanni a few weeks after I'd arrived in Rome, thanks to that big Internet cafÈ at the Piazza Barbarini, across the street from that fountain with the sculpture of that sexy merman blowing into his conch shell. He (Giovanni, that is—not the merman) had posted a flier on the bulletin board explaining that a native Italian speaker was seeking a native English speaker for conversational language practice. Right beside his appeal was another flier with the same request, word-for-word identical in every way, right down to the typeface. The only difference was the contact information. One flier listed an e-mail address for somebody named Giovanni; the other introduced somebody named Dario. But even the home phone number was the same.

Using my keen intuitive powers, I e-mailed both men at the same time, asking in Italian, "Are you perhaps brothers?"

It was Giovanni who wrote back this very provocativo message: "Even better. Twins!"

Yes—much better. Tall, dark and handsome identical twenty-five-year-old twins, as it turned out, with those giant brown liquid-center Italian eyes that just unstitch me. After meeting the boys in person, I began to wonder if perhaps I should adjust my rule somewhat about remaining celibate this year. For instance, perhaps I could remain totally celibate except for keeping a pair of handsome twenty-five-year-old Italian twin brothers as lovers. Which was slightly reminiscent of a friend of mine who is vegetarian except for bacon, but nonetheless ... I was already composing my letter to Penthouse:

In the flickering, candlelit shadows of the Roman café, it was impossible to tell whose hands were caress

But, no.

No and no.

I chopped tvhe fantasy off in mid-word. This was not my moment to be seeking romance and (as day follows night) to further complicate my already knotty life. This was my moment to look for the kind of healing and peace that can only come from solitude.

Anyway, by now, by the middle of November, the shy, studious Giovanni and I have become dear buddies. As for Dario—the more razzle-dazzle swinger brother of the two—I have introduced him to my adorable little Swedish friend Sofie, and how they've been sharing their evenings in Rome is another kind of Tandem Exchange altogether. But Giovanni and I, we only talk. Well, we eat and we talk. We have been eating and talking for many pleasant weeks now, sharing pizzas and gentle grammatical corrections, and tonight has been no exception. A lovely evening of new idioms and fresh mozzarella.

Now it is midnight and foggy, and Giovanni is walking me home to my apartment through these back streets of Rome, which meander organically around the ancient buildings like bayou streams snaking around shadowy clumps of cypress groves. Now we are at my door. We face each other. He gives me a warm hug. This is an improvement; for the first few weeks, he would only shake my hand. I think if I were to stay in Italy for another three years, he might actually get up the juice to kiss me. On the other hand, he might just kiss me right now, tonight, right here by my door ... there's still a chance ... I mean we're pressed up against each other's bodies beneath this moonlight ... and of course it would be a terrible mistake ... but it's still such a wonderful possibility that he might actually do it right now ... that he might just bend down ... and ... and ... Nope.

He separates himself from the embrace.

"Good night, my dear Liz," he says.

"Buona notte, caro mio," I reply.

I walk up the stairs to my fourth-floor apartment, all alone. I let myself into my tiny little studio, all alone. I shut the door behind me. Another solitary bedtime in Rome. Another long night's sleep ahead of me, with nobody and nothing in my bed except a pile of Italian phrasebooks and dictionaries.

I am alone, I am all alone, I am completely alone.

Grasping this reality, I let go of my bag, drop to my knees and press my forehead against the floor. There, I offer up to the universe a fervent prayer of thanks.

First in English.

Then in Italian.

And then—just to get the point across—in Sanskrit.

2

And since I am already down there in supplication on the floor, let me hold that position as I reach back in time three years earlier to the moment when this entire story began—a moment which also found me in this exact same posture: on my knees, on a floor, praying.

Everything else about the three-years-ago scene was different, though. That time, I was not in Rome but in the upstairs bathroom of the big house in the suburbs of New York which I'd recently purchased with my husband. It was a cold November, around three o'clock in the morning. My husband was sleeping in our bed. I was hiding in the bathroom for something like the forty-seventh consecutive night, and—just as during all those nights before—I was sobbing. Sobbing so hard, in fact, that a great lake of tears and snot was spreading before me on the bathroom tiles, a veritable Lake Inferior (if you will) of all my shame and fear and confusion and grief.

I don't want to be married anymore.

I was trying so hard not to know this, but the truth kept insisting itself to me.

I don't want to be married anymore. I don't want to live in this big house. I don't want to have a baby.

But I was supposed to want to have a baby. I was thirty-one years old. My husband and I—who had been together for eight years, married for six—had built our entire life around the common expectation that, after passing the doddering old age of thirty, I would want to settle down and have children. By then, we mutually anticipated, I would have grown weary of traveling and would be happy to live in a big, busy household full of children and homemade quilts, with a garden in the backyard and a cozy stew bubbling on the stovetop. (The fact that this was a fairly accurate portrait of my own mother is a quick indicator of how difficult it once was for me to tell the difference between myself and the powerful woman who had raised me.) But I didn't—as I was appalled to be finding out—want any of these things. Instead, as my twenties had come to a close, that deadline of THIRTY had loomed over me like a death sentence, and I discovered that I did not want to be pregnant. I kept waiting to want to have a baby, but it didnt happen. And I know what it feels like to want something, believe me. I well know what desire feels like. But it wasn't there. Moreover, I couldn't stop thinking about what my sister had said to me once, as she was breast-feeding her firstborn: 'Having a baby is like getting a tattoo on your face. You really need to be certain it's what you want before you commit.'

How could I turn back now, though? Everything was in place. This was supposed to be the year. In fact, we'd been trying to get pregnant for a few months already. But nothing had happened (aside from the fact that—in an almost sarcastic mockery of pregnancy—I was experiencing psychosomatic morning sickness, nervously throwing up my breakfast every day). And every month when I got my period I would find myself whispering furtively in the bathroom: Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for giving me one more month to live ...

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subaru4me, January 21, 2013 (view all comments by subaru4me)
Loved it, I would like to experience it.
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goodwink, September 20, 2011 (view all comments by goodwink)
I read the book a few years ago, and spent a surprising amount of time laughing out loud. Last month, my husband and I listened to the audio book, read by the author herself. It is HILARIOUS! Hearing the book read in her own voice added so much to the experience. My husband isn't typically a fan of these sorts of books, but he was the first one to turn the CD on in the car! It was so much fun. We now bought copies for relatives, and are looking forward to listening to the sequel.
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pookita, September 1, 2011 (view all comments by pookita)
Top honors: feeling, spitiual, self aware. What happened to your old policy of free shipping anywhere (I live in Mexico) with purchase of $50 or more?
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Product Details

ISBN:
9780143038412
Subtitle:
One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia
Author:
Gilbert, Elizabeth
Publisher:
Penguin Books
Subject:
Literary
Subject:
Women
Subject:
United states
Subject:
Travelers
Subject:
Personal Memoirs
Subject:
Travel writers
Subject:
Travel
Subject:
Travel writers - United States
Subject:
Gilbert, Elizabeth - Travel
Subject:
Biography - General
Copyright:
Edition Description:
Paperback / softback
Publication Date:
20070130
Binding:
Paperback
Grade Level:
from 12
Language:
English
Pages:
352
Dimensions:
8.48x5.48x.78 in. .70 lbs.
Age Level:
from 18

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Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything across Italy, India and Indonesia Used Trade Paper
0 stars - 0 reviews
$7.95 In Stock
Product details 352 pages Penguin Books - English 9780143038412 Reviews:
"Staff Pick" by ,

Not long after her thirtieth birthday, on the heels of an ugly divorce, Elizabeth Gilbert traveled for a year, to Italy, India, and finally Indonesia. In Italy she wanted to explore the art of pleasure (pasta, wine, handsome men speaking a beautiful language); in India, devotion (waking at 4:15 a.m. to scrub the Ashram floor); and, the last four months she spent in Bali, trying to balance the two.

"The only thing wrong with this readable, funny memoir," one reviewer griped, "is that it seems so much like a Jennifer Aniston movie." Leave it to Hollywood, I guess, but Aniston isn't right for the part. Not earthy enough, too stiff. The traumatized, midnight weeping of Eat, Pray, Love's early pages might suit her, but could Aniston put on twenty-three pounds in four months — on camera — with a smile? And understand what she's smiling about? Since when do we blame authors for potentially misguided casting assignments, anyway? Here's the book that will finally put this critically acclaimed author on bestseller lists. Eat, Pray, Love — enjoy.

"Publishers Weekly Review" by , "Gilbert (The Last American Man) grafts the structure of romantic fiction upon the inquiries of reporting in this sprawling yet methodical travelogue of soul-searching and self-discovery. Plagued with despair after a nasty divorce, the author, in her early 30s, divides a year equally among three dissimilar countries, exploring her competing urges for earthly delights and divine transcendence. First, pleasure: savoring Italy's buffet of delights — the world's best pizza, free-flowing wine and dashing conversation partners — Gilbert consumes la dolce vita as spiritual succor. "I came to Italy pinched and thin," she writes, but soon fills out in waist and soul. Then, prayer and ascetic rigor: seeking communion with the divine at a sacred ashram in India, Gilbert emulates the ways of yogis in grueling hours of meditation, struggling to still her churning mind. Finally, a balancing act in Bali, where Gilbert tries for equipoise "betwixt and between" realms, studies with a merry medicine man and plunges into a charged love affair. Sustaining a chatty, conspiratorial tone, Gilbert fully engages readers in the year's cultural and emotional tapestry — conveying rapture with infectious brio, recalling anguish with touching candor — as she details her exotic tableau with history, anecdote and impression." Publishers Weekly (Starred Review) (Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc.)
"Review" by , "Gilbert's sensuous and audacious spiritual odyssey is as deeply pleasurable as it is enlightening."
"Review" by , "Gilbert's divorce and subsequent depression...are in fact more interesting than her year of travel. The author's writing is prosaic, sometimes embarrassingly so....Lacks the sparkle of her fiction."
"Review" by , "A probing, thoughtful title with a free and easy style, this work seamlessly blends history and travel for a very enjoyable read. Highly recommended."
"Review" by , "This insightful, funny account of [Gilbert's] travels reads like a mix of Susan Orlean and Frances Mayes.... Gilbert's journey is well worth taking. Grade: A."
"Review" by , "Eat, Pray, Love is in fact a meditation on love in its many forms: love of food, language, humanity, God and, most meaningful for Gilbert, love of self."
"Review" by , "No, I'm not going to spoil the ending, which is fantastic. All I can say is that it is a storybook ending. Let's just hope it's true."
"Review" by , "This deeply personal story is fun and inspiring. Join Gilbert as she eats, prays and loves. You will laugh, cry and love with a more open heart."
"Synopsis" by , A celebrated writer pens an irresistible, candid, and eloquent account of her pursuit of worldly pleasure, spiritual devotion, and what she really wanted out of life.
"Synopsis" by ,
This beautifully written, heartfelt memoir touched a nerve among both readers and reviewers. Elizabeth Gilbert tells how she made the difficult choice to leave behind all the trappings of modern American success (marriage, house in the country, career) and find, instead, what she truly wanted from life. Setting out for a year to study three different aspects of her nature amid three different cultures, Gilbert explored the art of pleasure in Italy and the art of devotion in India, and then a balance between the two on the Indonesian island of Bali. By turns rapturous and rueful, this wise and funny author (whom Booklist calls “Anne Lamott’s hip, yoga- practicing, footloose younger sister”) is poised to garner yet more adoring fans.
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