The Lost Continent: Travels in Small Town America

by Bill Bryson

I crossed over into New Mexico—one of the high points of the day—and sighed at the discovery that it was just as unstimulating as Colorado had been. I switched on

I found his narrative quite negative.

I had expected it to be a sweet little artists’ colony, full of people with smocks and easels, and it was just a tourist trap, with slow-moving traffic and stores selling ugly Indian pottery and big silver belt buckles and postcards.

Everywhere you travel on the beaten path you will find tourist traps but I also found New Mexico charming with sweet little artists' colonies.

I was entering a land of drifters: dreamers, losers, vagrants, crazy people—they all always go west in America. They

Sorry, I took offense at this one as I live in the west, California to be exact

togas, even if they were old and overweight, which most of them were, so their thighs wobbled as they walked. It was like watching moving Jell-O. I wandered

No matter where you go in the world, you will always find overweight people

flagged down another ample-hipped vestal virgin

awful lot of fat people in Bermuda shorts.

food dolloped onto your tray by lumpen, shapeless women—women who looked as if they were on day release from a mental institution, possibly for having