Now that I've read Flaubert's Parrot and A History of the World in 10 1 2 Chapters - both incredibly clever and wonderful books, I like this novel even less than I did when I read it as my first Julian Barnes a few years ago. Everything I remember about it is cringe-worthy, though I must admit I don't really remember that much - a lot of gratuitous badly written sex and something about Englishness, American tourists and culture as entertainment. It's just bizarre and somehow spiteful coming from England's most Francophone contemporary writer. There are better Julian Barnes books one could read instead of this one.