'Italian Affair' mostly a pleasant one

Associated Press Writer

The profile for Laura Fraser's travelogue-memoir has all the trappings of fiction.

Nursing a broken heart after her husband leaves her, a magazine writer from California travels to an Italian island and begins an affair with a married French art professor. They continue the tryst intermittently in exotic locales, partaking of gorgeous landscapes, gourmet meals and frequent sex.

But Laura Fraser insists it's all true (and quite possibly still going on) and that only the names and characteristics have been changed, to protect identities.

However, this tourist's diary gains grit with Fraser's heavy heart and the characters' realistic traits. (It would be hard to count the number of references and inferences to the narrator's "large bottom.") She also displays an ego so shattered that insults and disappointments just quietly seep in, arousing little reaction from her.

Her story is dotted with Italian expressions.

"Raccatami tutto," Fraser's friends and lovers say. "The Italians have that wonderful verb, raccontare, that means to tell a story. Tell me the story about everything."

You have broken my heart, she says to herself repeatedly, the theme of her narrative and European escapes. "Mi hai spaccato il cuore. ... You have broken my heart. ... You have cloven it in two."

Only in Italian does she use "I" to talk about herself. Narrating in English, she mostly uses "you." At times, the narrative voice sounds more like a reflection of the male characters. In the end the reader knows little about the author -- other than that she loves wine, olive oil, cappuccino, traveling, and speaking Italian. And that she's unlucky in love.

A scene in Morocco:

"You have pigeon pastilla, so delicate and savory, then a tender piece of lamb with lemons -- you are glad, after enough time with the professor, that you decided being a vegetarian was too boring."

Fraser, in her mid-30s, draws from a seemingly endless (but unexplained) bank account and free time, staying in exotic resorts and hideaways throughout Florence, London, Stromboli, Milan, the Aeolian Islands, Morocco and even California. It's a little odd for a free-lance journalist to not mention deadline or budget even once.

Some descriptions seem hastily recycled. "The word 'Casablanca' brings to mind intrigue and romance, a place where ceiling fans spin slowly over steamy bars, elegant former lovers toss off heartbreaking remarks, and sex and danger smolder just beneath the surface."

But the romance for this one is better left to the Humphrey Bogart film. Fraser's descriptions are most vivid when conveying the stings of romance.

"You just don't ring my chimes," writes one man in an e-mail. "I don't think I could live with you, but you are perfect for vacation," says her French lover. Another boyfriend disappears for weeks. When he returns he abruptly breaks up with Fraser, saying he really just doesn't love her at all. An Italian man refuses to call an American "Laura," insisting the name is strictly for Italian women (from Petrarch's "mysterious, beautiful muse") and proceeds to call her Molly (pronounced "Moley").

These scenes are colorful in their particularities, whereas the beautiful places are described as "magical," "authentic," "shimmering" and "charming." Not surprising, it's the insults that stick.

Despite its heavy-hearted narrator, the book has the lightness and flippancy of a magazine piece.

"Italian lovers, you realize, are as easy to pick up on Ischia as ceramic ashtrays painted with lemons," she says.

The story never gets below a superficial emotional level, but (just like Fraser describes her European affair) it's nice for what it is.