Few things are more fascinating than book collections comprised of the reading matter left behind by tourists who come to the same resort. My mother’s condo, for instance, has a robust collection of Dutch semi-pornographic bodice-rippers, a bunch of Evangelical theology books, some unavoidable Harlan Coben, a couple of biographies of US military generals, and the novel Ohio that I dragged away solely because of its title and its 500 pages of length.
In our condo, the previous guests left a bunch of home COVID tests, a pretty stunning quantity of unopened beer, wine, and hard lemonade in the fridge, and a gigantic brand-new jar of peanut butter. There is a vast leftover book collection but not a single book in it appealed to me which is pretty unusual. I’m very happy with my pilfered Ohio, though.
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