May 2011

Paris's Pigalle district: seedy red-light zone dominated by the Moulin Rouge, flanked by sex shops and lingerie boutiques. A neighborhood undergoing massive transformation, shedding its bohemian soul for bourgeois respectability. Plantagenet captures this shifting landscape with sharp observation.

Let me level with you: without my friend Sylvie pushing it, this novel probably never crosses my threshold. But a fellow reader's recommendation carries weight. Plus, the premise intrigued me - the entire narrative revolves around art, mapping, and representation. Houellebecq doing what he does.

What remains after we're gone? That's the question haunting this novel, specifically haunting Georges Crosby as he dies slowly from kidney failure. Lying in his living room, surrounded by family gathered for this final vigil, he drifts through memories, searching for meaning in the remnants.

I'm devoted to Italy. Visit every couple years. Latest trip just wrapped - still recovering. Tuscany this time: sublime landscapes, effortless living, overwhelming artistic heritage. Here's a small collection of moments captured between gelato stops and museum marathons.

Beautiful summer day. Hector and Aisha host family, colleagues, friends for a classic Australian barbecue - laid-back, multicultural, everyone mixing. Then something ugly happens. An adult slaps someone else's kid. Everything explodes. The fallout reveals the fractures beneath suburban civility.