The Lost Continent: Travels in Small Town America

I really wanted to like this book - the premise of reliving old family vacations while also searching for the quintessential small town is so nostalgic. Bill Bryson is also an entertaining and detailed writer - or at least that was my perspective having previously read a couple of his books about “everything” and “home life.” The Lost Continent starts off promising: the author leaves his childhood home town and follows the well-worn roads to his grandparent's town, and so begins his journey. In this part of the book, called “East,” he mostly sticks to what is promised in the introduction - offering up assessments of small towns and a bit of humor on the drudgery of life on the road. He tries to walk around towns and give a feel for life there - hitting up a restaurant and bar before retiring to a hotel room that is either awful or fantastic. There are quite a few laugh-out-loud moments in this part of the book. In the second half of the book, “West,” he seems to have forgotten the point of the exercise. The story becomes a series of complaints about weather, roads, and national parks. Most western towns are “small,” but they seem to be ignored in favor of decrying dreary drives and lack of food service. It really could have been a good book - I'm disappointed.

I didn't enjoy his bored, critical time. I may have finished it if that ess my only complaint. At the end of chapter 3, he refers to a town north of Quincy as downstate and southern Illinois. As someone from southern Illinois, I can assert Quincy is not southern. I would have expected Bryson or his editor to see that by simply looking at a map. I also took exception to his treatment of the pronunciation of Cairo. Bryson talks about the time he has spent in England. I thought he would understand the difference of pronunciation. (Bath vs. Bah-th). Maybe his tone and treatment changes later. I didn't want to stick around to find out.

Why set out to travel the country if you don’t want actually experience the people, places, or things? This reads like 300 pages of the absolute worst Seinfeld fan fiction you can imagine. I can’t even finish it. I kept waiting for him to have a revelation about his slur disposition and repent, but I went and read a couple other reviews and realized he does not. I only picked this up because Bill Bryson, and this book in particular, have been recommended dozens of times. I read one other of his books years ago and didn’t remember not liking it, but now I realize I don’t remember it at all. I will be leaving this one in the first Little Free Library I encounter. Good riddance.