I have been ranting. Loudly, consistently, and true to form, repeatedly. I have been known to rant on occasion, being an opinionated Dutch woman predisposes me to such utterances, but I had been more composed of late. Age, boredom and a general effort on my part to be gentler have all contributed to a quieter and more composed version of myself. To the point where old friends have given me inquisitive looks, wondering where their feisty friend had disappeared to.
And then I started telling people I was going on vacation and my hard-won composure evaporated into the thin and polluted Cairo air. I had planned a nice, long vacation at that – four weeks of India. On my own for most of that time, meeting up with friends in a yoga retreat for one of those weeks. I was unpleasantly surprised with the reaction I got on my happy announcement; it was unexpected and highly disturbing. There was no shared joy in my immanent adventure, no good-for-yous were uttered nor did anyone wonder why I chose to do such a trip by myself. As time passed my displeasure turned into annoyance because the reaction seemed to be nearly universal. Almost every person I shared my gleeful anticipation with said: ‘Oh, because of the book?’
The popular book, also made into a movie, Eat Pray Love, tells the story of a woman in search of a deeper meaning to life. Or so the publishers will have you believe. Personally, I have a very different opinion. Hence the rant, and it has been getting more acerbic and sarcastic as time has passed.
Don’t get me wrong, I am all for finding yourself. Searching for a deeper meaning and yearning for a change if life is not giving you what you had hoped for is a noble cause. And this is what the woman in the book sets out to do. The way she goes about it, the choices she makes and the message it is supposed to convey to us, the public, irked me when I read it after having been given it by a friend. The way women worldwide seem to relate to it irritates me even more.
The book starts with the heroine explaining she has realized she has married the wrong man, a truth she finally admits to herself after having lain endlessly on the floor of the bathroom in her luxurious New York City apartment. That is tough place to be of course, both the bathroom floor and the realization. Many of us have had to face that truth and it is seldom easy. Wondering where to go from here, and after realizing the bohemian-rebound-boyfriend she picks up after leaving the husband is not the remedy to the ills in her life, she makes the courageous decision to travel – to leave home for a year in search of herself. So far so good, no scorn to be heaped on the premise of the story.
Being a writer for New York Magazine, a job that would make most of us bow down in gratitude on most days, she uses her contacts and convinces a publisher to fund her foray into the unknown and off she goes. How wonderfully convenient.
Her first soul-searching is done in Italy, for the profound reasons of learning the language, because it sounds so romantic, and to eat. Yes, you have heard me correctly, to eat. It made me wonder if that was a reaction to living in New York City, where who you are is directly related to your dress size and which usually results in women being on a starvation diet to keep themselves in size twos. On come the descriptions of apartments found and rented, friends made and sumptuous lunches and dinners cooked and eaten. All culminating in one of my favorite highlights of this part of our heroine’s harrowing journey: having to buy a pair of jeans two sizes bigger than the ones she came in. And she doesn’t care! How proud we are of her, for having succeeded in this wonderful feat.
Second stop is India, a stint in an ashram where scrubbing floors and chanting in not-understood Sanskrit forces our heroine to eagerly accept the job as guest relation manager for newcomers. A job that suits her better but is also further removed from what life in an ashram is all about: surrendering to something bigger than you are and accepting your own insignificance. She does learn to meditate though and with that knowledge embarks on the last leg of the journey. She returns to Bali on a quest to re-acquaint herself with a holy man she encountered years before. She had met him while being on a paid for, work related trip, and he had told her she would be coming back to see him.
After renting another beautiful apartment, no cheap shacks with cold-water-only for our heroine, she eagerly gets on her bicycle to present herself to this wise, old man. Full of anticipation we await the pearls of wisdom he will share with her; the meaning of her life will become apparent any moment now. Only to have him say: ‘I told you that you would come back to see me? Really? I don’t remember you.’
As our hero cries bitter tears I held my breath, is this the moment where she will realize her importance in the grand scheme of things? Sadly, no. The holy healer, who sees thousands of foreign visitors a year, cleverly indicates that he does remember her after all and so all is well in the world where me, myself and I matter most. On goes the tale of new friends made and time spent with her enlightened and wise old friend, leading up to the best finale of all: She Meets A Man.
Because as we all know, if there is no man to be met, the search for self will have been in vain.
I am not exactly sure what annoys me most about this book, but I will try to break it down for you. Embarking on a journey is all well and good, and having someone else pay for it is even better of course. The freedom to travel at will, rent apartments as a matter of course and indulge in persistent navel gazing for the greater good of self can be fun as well. How the general public seems to relate to this story in ways other than seeing it as a fairytale, where, after much hardship [i.e. gorging on delectable Italian cuisine and exploring the wonders of India and Bali], the prince shows up, baffles me.
In reality, most women who leave their husbands find themselves being single mothers, often holding down two jobs in order to try to make ends meet. All the Italian food they will ever see is take-away pizza and congratulating a woman on eating herself in a larger size pants is as far from their reality as being paid to eat is. Seeking spiritual enlightenment in an ashram is an age-old tradition that attempts to instill the virtues of stillness, acceptance and humility. Not much of that to be found with our heroine who flits around the globe on tickets of entitlement. To end this compelling journey with meeting a man, against the master plan and presenting the geographical differences of the lovers as near insurmountable difficulties, is plainly offensive.
Ever tried dating as a single divorcée? With often the care for a few kids, in the midst of adjusting to traipsing back and forth between parents, added to the equation? Websites galore are making their fortunes trying to provide prospective partners for just this category. If of course the challenge of finding time and money for a babysitter to actually go out on a date can be met. But oh, globetrotting is such a dilemma.
What probably irritates me most in this tantalizing tome is the complete lack of humility and the blatant sense of entitlement that the woman seems to have. At no point does she acknowledge that her self-indulgence is exactly that. Her starting point may be a place many of us know; yet her journey is as far removed from most people’s realties as winning the lottery is. Effectively making this book yet another chicklit/travelstory/beachread, and as such it is only mildly entertaining. Promoting it as the book women can relate to is insulting and crass, given the circumstances most women in similar situations find themselves in.
I would like to make a suggestion to the author, since she still does not seem that found to me. Take a month of unpaid leave and volunteer in a soup kitchen in NYC. Deal with reality for a while, as many people live it.
I guarantee, you will find yourself double-quick.
Reality rules 🙂 pretty well analyized .