There was a time – the early part of his writing career – when I waited eagerly for every new novel by Salman Rushdie.  Midnight’s Children, Shame, The Satanic Verses: these were the books I recommended to all my friends in the 1980s.  I loved the exuberance, energy, and inventiveness of those early novels.  Then something happened.  I stopped loving Rushdie’s books.  I was reluctant to admit it at first, so I persevered.  It felt more and more like hard work. I found them too self-regarding, too self-conscious, too showy.  I couldn’t see what he was trying to do with all that brilliance.

With The Golden House, I feel to some extent that “my” Salman Rushdie is back.  The brilliance and “look at me” cleverness hasn’t gone away.  He still loves to cram as much life into a single sentence as most novelists manage in an entire book.  But, just as he did with The Satanic Verses, here he’s found a subject worthy of all that snap, crackle, and pop – the USA in the early 2000s or, more specifically, New York in the final years of the Obama presidency.  Rushdie moved to New York many years ago and The Golden House, like his earlier Fury,  is very much a meditation on the state of his adopted home town and country.

Like all his novels, this one is stuffed full of references to other books: the New Testament, ancient Greek classics, Hindu sacred writings, F. Scott Fitzgerald, P.G. Wodehouse, T.S. Eliot, and many, many more.  Unless he wants us to believe that his narrator is precociously well-read for a young wannabee movie director, it’s tough to shrug off the feeling that Rushdie can’t resist trying to impress us with his erudition.  The many allusions to the giants of cinema – Bergman, Altman, Kurosawa and others – are more forgivable, but it can all get a little wearing after a while.  Rushdie has never been one for “less is more”.  But, come to think of it, neither has New York, the ultimate “look at me” society.

This is by no means a perfect novel.  It’s too long and should have been pruned by an editor courageous enough to call Rushdie when he becomes a showy windbag.  But there’s a much bigger problem, for which I can’t blame the author.  America and New York in 2017 have become so grotesque that they stand beyond parody, beyond satire.  Maybe it’s simply too soon to write the definitive novel about the ascent of Trump and the shameful conditions that made it possible.

I remember when I first moved to New York many years ago feeling confused and uneasy about the American flag.  It seemed to be everywhere: on most suburban houses, in every public building, and in my kids’ classrooms.  Its ubiquity puzzled me at first.  Only later did I start to understand the powerful position the flag occupies in the stories that Americans tell themselves and the world all the time.  How do you unify more than 300 million people with roots in every country of the world?  How do you hold together a relatively new nation?  By telling stories over and over again, by promoting icons and symbols around which people with little else in common can congregate.  Stories are the glue that stops America fracturing under the pressure of so many conflicting expectations.

No American artist has thought about the flag more than Jasper Johns.  He has painted it time and time again in a career lasting more than sixty years.  When the Royal Academy in London announced its retrospective of his career, the first in the UK for more than forty years, I realized I couldn’t think of a single one of his paintings that wasn’t a representation of that flag.  Is there another contemporary painter so closely identified with a single image?

Good exhibitions should disrupt what you think you know about an artist and this one certainly does.  The flags prove to be a small part of his oeuvre and were concentrated in the earliest phase of his career (in the late 1950s).  I had no idea about the diversity of his work: the bronze sculptures and aluminum casts, the incorporation of household items (coat hangers, spoons, and string) into later canvases, and so on.

I know a lot more about Jasper Johns than I did (thank you, RA), but I keep thinking about those flags.  What this extraordinary artist made me realize was that the flag has no objective meaning.  It’s simply a colorful surface, an arrangement of shapes, onto which we project our own meanings and feelings.  It’s worth thinking about that for a moment in these days when flags and anthems are very much in the news, and it’s worth considering what can happen when those who are powerful, corrupt, and manipulative try to convince us that symbols can only have one, “true” meaning.

This is the seventh outing for fictional psychotherapist-cum-detective, Frieda Klein, and I’ve been with her for every one so far.  Now that the series has reached Sunday, I wondered whether the authors (Sean French and Nicci Gerard, aka Nicci French) would bring it to a devastating climax, but they seem to be having too much fun or making too much money.  The final words of the novel (“Make me disappear”) might suggest we’re at the end of the road, but I don’t think so.  Surely we have to have the long-anticipated confrontation between Klein and her nemesis, Dean Reeve?

Like all the earlier titles, Sunday Morning Coming Down is a wonderfully compulsive read.  Of course, the plot is implausible and occasionally downright silly, but who cares?  Frieda and her friends, not to mention the unseen, menacing presence of Dean Reeve, are as entertaining as ever.  I’m already anticipating the next one, but there’s one thing that puzzles me.  Now that they’ve run out of days, what will the title be?

Whatever image first pops into your mind when you think of Ireland, I’m quite sure it isn’t the squalid underworld of pimps, addicts, and crazies that’s the setting of Lisa McInerney’s award-winning debut novel.  This isn’t the Ireland peddled to tourists – the Blarney Stone, Burren, and Book of Kells.  It’s the other Ireland: the one blighted by homelessness, poverty, petty and not-so-petty crime.

Although first published more than two years ago, I was completely unaware of the novel until I spotted it in a bookshop recently.  It’s had its fair share of accolades and attracted some criticism for its searing exposure of a slice of Ireland some would prefer was kept under wraps.

It’s a familiar enough story: murder, prostitution, drug abuse, and much more in a decayed urban setting.  What sets this novel apart is not the plot or the setting.  It’s the black comedy that infuses every line, the vitality, and the author’s unmistakable affection for her grim characters that make it so memorable.  I’ve heard there’s a sequel in the works and I’m looking forward to it already.

I almost tossed aside Bernhard Schlink’s latest novel.  Even now, having finished it, I’m not sure whether my persistence was a good thing or not.  It is, for the most part, a dull book.  The prose is generally flat and lifeless.  I felt nothing for its unnamed narrator, a buttoned-up, somewhat smug German lawyer, who finds himself embroiled in an unconvincing ménage à quatre with a celebrated painter, his muse, and the muse’s wealthy husband. But here’s something strange.  The final fifty or so pages – the denouement – are poignant and moving.  I can’t say they rescue the book.  They don’t, but I would have been sorry to have missed them.

An attitude worth fighting against as one gets older is underestimating the young.  Every generation, as it ages, should resist the temptation to think it understands what motivates young people and confront the tendency to simplify and generalize what matters to them.  Looking back today at the 1960s as the counterculture gathered momentum in places such as London and San Francisco, it’s hilarious to see how the middle-aged and elderly of the time missed the zeitgeist, misjudging completely the extraordinary creativity, energy, and commitment of the emerging generation.  The same risk is present right now: the lazy generalization that nothing more than consumerism, celebrity, and computer games motivate the young.

These thoughts were in part provoked by watching my own children react to political developments such as the Trump presidency and Brexit, but they intensified after spending a few days this month in Santiago de Compostela.  This small, beautiful city was crowded, as it often is, with those completing the Camino de Santiago, the ancient pilgrimage (it dates from the 9th century) that ends at the resting place of St. James the Great in the cathedral.  It’s estimated that as many as 300,000 people each year complete the Camino on foot or by bicycle, traveling hundreds of miles from their homes or from one of the traditional starting points in France, Portugal, or Spain.

I’ve known for years about the Camino, but this was my first time visiting Santiago and seeing it for myself.  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I was very surprised and impressed by the huge number of young people in their teens and twenties among the peregrinos.  What motivated them?  For some of them it must have been tied to a religious or more widely spiritual impulse.  Perhaps for others it was the opportunity to be part of something ancient, to test their own endurance, or simply strenuous exercise in a beautiful setting.  Whatever it is that explains why so many young people walked or cycled hundreds of miles and to join in this ancient tradition, it was impossible not to impressed by them, by their commitment, energy, and sense of purpose.

The tiny town of Urueña (population 200) stands on a hill in the province of Castile and Léon, a couple of hours drive north of Madrid and a little way off the main highway.  Although it’s a pretty, picturesque place with its medieval walls, stone houses, and narrow streets, Urueña has one particular and very special distinction.  It’s a Villa del Libro, a town with an unusually high concentration of bookshops.  To be exact, Urueña has twelve – one bookshop for every sixteen inhabitants.

“Book towns” – magnets for bibliophiles like me – are nothing new.  You can find them in many countries around the world, though most are in Europe. They even have their own international organization.  Few are as charming as Urueña.  I loved my short stop there recently.

I spent my birthday on one of the Cíes Islands, Monteagudo.  The islands – three in total –  lie off the coast of Galicia in northwest Spain.  They’re celebrated for the beauty of their beaches and it’s not difficult to see why.  The main beach on Monteagudo has fine, white sand and stretches in a picturesque arc from the harbor.  Only the waters of the Atlantic, freezing cold even on a hot August day, spoil the idyll.

I usually get bored quickly on beaches, but I enjoyed my birthday on the Cíes Islands:  hanging out with the family, reading, and having tapas in a simple café overlooking the gorgeous beach.  An improvised birthday cake – a slice of tarta de Santiago – was the delicious finishing touch.

I was last in Montréal in 2008, so another trip was long overdue.  Something had happened in the intervening years that erased almost all the memories of that earlier visit.  I had very young kids with me at the time, so perhaps it was exhaustion.  On this occasion it was adults only, so I’m hoping this time the memories will stick.  If they do, I’ve a hunch some of them will be memories of the gastronomic kind, because we had some wonderful food, as you might expect in a city with such strong French influences.  Top of the pile was dinner at Damas, a restaurant in Outremont serving outstanding Syrian food.  The cuisine of the Middle East is one of my all-time favorites and it’s done superbly at Damas.  I can’t imagine I’ll ever forget the fattet mozat I had there – layers of lamb, rice, yoghurt, pita, and nuts, accompanied by an amazing Lebanese red wine (Chateau Kefraya, 2011).  Montréal has a vibrant Arab community and it was great to be among French-speaking Lebanese and Syrians enjoying the traditional dishes of the Middle East.

Not all my memories will be of food and wine.  I was very impressed by the city’s investment in its art and cultural history.  All over the city, even in its subway stations, I found publicly-funded artworks being installed and celebrated, and it was impossible to overlook the sense of civic pride in its artists and craftspeople.  The use of technology and social media to educate visitors about the city’s history is impressive, and I loved the Cité Mémoire app which allows users to trigger the projection of videos onto historic buildings and monuments at night (see below).  I loved my short visit to Montréal and look forward to going back.

Forty years ago.  That’s when it started.  London, Salzburg, Belgrade, Thessaloniki, Thassos, Istanbul, and back.  That’s when I first realized.  To experience the world, all I had to do was move.  To put one foot in front of the other, to get on a bus or a train.  That’s all it took.  Mozart’s birthplace, a deserted beach in the Aegean, Hagia Sophia.  The world and its wonders wouldn’t come to me, but with a little effort and and occasional discomfort I could reach them.  Everything was so accessible.  All I had to do was move.  Forty years, six continents, sixty-five countries, and millions of miles later, I’m still moving.  Now more than ever, I’m in thrall to the simple experiences of exploring, discovering, moving around.

Like almost everyone who travels, I have sometimes traveled to see something specific: a building, monument, or place.  Angkor Wat, Petra, Luxor.   This kind of traveling – let’s call it focused, functional tourism – has occasionally been rewarding.  It has also been hideous sometimes.  I remember particularly a horrible visit to the Parthenon a few years ago. Moving around the monument with hundreds of others, I felt I was part of something destructive.  Bruce Chatwin’s famous remark “Walking is a virtue, tourism is a deadly sin” felt right that morning.  I notice as I get older that I can arrive somewhere, for example a new city, and have no desire whatsoever to visit its “sights”.  That’s partly because I don’t like crowds and organized tours, but mostly because I don’t want my experiences to be defined by someone else’s checklists.  More than ever, mass tourism is about checking boxes, recording one’s presence with a tweet or selfie, and moving on to the next place on the itinerary.  The destructive impact of this type of “hit-and-run” traveling on fragile, precious places (Venice, the Great Barrier Reef, and so on) is incalculable, to the point that some governments, such as Iceland’s, are doing something that would have been inconceivable just a few years ago – discouraging tourists.  It’s not simply a question of the visible, physical damage that can be inflicted.  There’s also the less apparent, and therefore more insidious, impact of organizing the world and its environment to suit the needs of this type of tourist.  This can be seen in parts of Africa where entirely artificial environments are created, at the expense of naturally occurring habitats, to meet the Disney-esque expectations of those on safari holidays.

Much better (at least for me) is the wandering around, the serendipity, the follow-my-nose meandering, the sitting-and-watching that has led to so many unforgettable encounters with places and people.  That’s my particular strain of wanderlust, the itch that only moving can soothe, the kind of traveling I love.