Chris Broad’s Abroad in Japan is what happens when an Englishman in his twenties is dropped into the underbelly of rural Japan with no cultural compass, a camcorder, and a mild resentment toward other humans. It’s not a travel book. It’s an accidental anthropological field report delivered by someone who wandered into the experiment by mistake and decided to vlog it.

To call it a memoir would be both accurate and insufficient. Yes, Broad recounts his ten years in Japan—from being a disillusioned JET Programme teacher in the forgotten snowbanks of Yamagata to becoming one of the most recognizable British voices in online travel media—but the throughline isn’t transformation. It’s estrangement. At every turn, Broad maintains a healthy distance from both Japanese and British cultural pretensions. He is the anti-YouTuber: allergic to enthusiasm, suspicious of spectacle, and constantly undermining the very notion of awe. The result is a travel narrative that feels more like a slow, ironic deflation of every naive expectation people bring with them to Japan.

Broad is not interested in teaching you about Japan. He’s interested in showing you what happens when you live there long enough to find the cracks. The absurd bureaucracy. The performance of politeness. The social isolation that hides behind the orderly smiles. It’s not mean-spirited, but it is unvarnished. His greatest gift is in his ability to translate culture shock into comedy without falling into cruelty. He avoids the well-worn tropes of anime obsession or sushi rhapsody and instead fixates on things like overpriced fruit, unbearable summer humidity, and the grim psychological toll of being treated like a guest for ten years straight.

In that sense, Abroad in Japan is more aligned with the work of Karl Pilkington than, say, Pico Iyer. It’s a book that refuses to pretend cultural understanding is easy or desirable. Broad never becomes fully fluent, linguistically or socially, and that stubborn foreignness becomes the point. He turns his outsider status into an aesthetic. Even the most profound moments—a student’s suicide attempt, the Fukushima disaster—are presented with a mix of dry restraint and the implicit discomfort of someone unsure whether they have the right to tell this story at all.

And yet, the book works. It works because Broad is willing to make himself look bad. He is, at times, petty, bitter, judgmental—and refreshingly self-aware. This is not the story of a Westerner who found his place in Japan. It’s the story of someone who never really did and decided that maybe that’s more honest. He peels back the ‘quirky Japan’ veneer and exposes the loneliness beneath. He acknowledges the country’s elegance without pretending it’s utopia. That ambivalence—toward Japan, toward himself, toward the whole idea of having a “journey”—is where the book finds its depth.

The second half of the memoir shifts toward his rise as a content creator, and while the narrative pacing occasionally falters in these sections, it also gives us a glimpse of the strange new media economy that rewards disaffection. Broad didn’t become popular because he loved Japan, but because he refused to romanticize it. His audience trusts him precisely because he doesn’t try to sell them anything, least of all an idealized version of Japan.

Unlike most expat memoirs, which veer toward either reverence or rejection, Abroad in Japan does something far trickier. It hovers in the middle, suspended in ambivalence, animated by deadpan humor and an unwillingness to resolve into either gratitude or regret. It’s not a love letter to Japan. It’s more like a long voicemail from someone who can’t decide if they’re staying or going—but keeps hitting record anyway.

Rating: 8.8/10
The rare travel memoir that trusts its reader enough to be both unimpressed and unafraid of saying so. Wry, weary, and far more insightful than it pretends to be.

by Johny McFliggen, PhD Literature & Business, Oxford

Ah, "Destinations of a Lifetime: 225 of the World's Most Amazing Places," a tome ambitiously curated by the venerable staff of National Geographic. It's akin to that scene in "The Wizard of Oz" when Dorothy steps from monochrome Kansas into Technicolor Oz—a visual odyssey that promises to transport readers from the comfort of their armchairs to the planet's most breathtaking locales. But does it, like Dorothy, ever get to the heart of these destinations? That remains debatable.

This book is a veritable feast for the eyes, a gilded invitation to a banquet of global splendor. The pages are saturated with high-quality photographs that would make even Ansel Adams raise an appreciative eyebrow. Each image serves as a passport stamp in the mind, an evocative snapshot that captures the ethereal beauty and wonder of our world. But much like a perfectly styled Instagram feed, one must wonder if it sacrifices depth for surface-level allure.

The structure is thoughtfully organized into sections that guide us through natural wonders, urban landscapes, and cultural sites. This is not unlike a carefully curated Netflix playlist, where each destination is presented with just enough flair to keep you clicking "next episode." The descriptions accompanying these visuals are insightful enough to whet one's appetite for adventure, yet they occasionally fall short of the depth found in more narrative-driven travelogues.

The book's authors, the illustrious team at National Geographic, are no strangers to crafting compelling content that spans geography and culture. Their pedigree lends an air of authority to the work, akin to having David Attenborough narrate your travel plans. However, this expertise sometimes feels overshadowed by the book’s emphasis on visual splendor. It's like attending a Michelin-starred restaurant only to find the ambiance overshadowing the culinary experience.

Critics have largely lauded "Destinations of a Lifetime" for its stunning photography and comprehensive breadth, and rightly so. It stands as an inspirational beacon for dreamers and travelers alike. Yet, it hasn't quite eluded criticism for occasionally prioritizing aesthetics over substance—much like James Cameron's "Avatar," where visual effects dazzle but the narrative remains somewhat pedestrian.

When placed alongside other travel tomes such as "Lonely Planet's Ultimate Travel" or "Atlas Obscura: An Explorer's Guide to the World's Hidden Wonders," National Geographic's offering shines brightly in its category. However, while "Atlas Obscura" ventures into the quirky and obscure and "Lonely Planet" offers pragmatic travel advice, "Destinations of a Lifetime" remains firmly in the realm of the aspirational—a coffee table book par excellence.

In conclusion, if you're seeking an aesthetically pleasing catalyst for wanderlust, this book delivers in spades. But for those craving a deeper cultural immersion or practical travel nuggets, it might feel more like a tantalizing appetizer than a fully satisfying main course. It's a celebration of beauty that beckons you to explore further—just don't forget your ruby slippers when you do venture beyond its pages.

Purchase Link: DESTINATIONS OF A LIFETIME on Amazon

by Johny McFliggen, PhD Literature & Business, Oxford

In the whimsical yet decidedly perceptive world of travel literature, Bill Bryson's "The Road to Little Dribbling" emerges as both a love letter and a mild admonishment to his beloved Britain. Imagine if David Attenborough, with his profound passion for the natural world, decided to trade in the Serengeti for the Cotswolds, bringing his meticulous attention to detail but infused with the wit of Monty Python. This is Bryson's gift: he sifts through the mundane, mining comedic gold from the eccentricities of everyday life in Britain.

The book is, in essence, Bryson's sequel to "Notes from a Small Island," a nostalgic pilgrimage that crisscrosses from Bognor Regis to Cape Wrath, whimsically dubbed the "Bryson Line." As if channeling the curious spirit of a modern-day Phileas Fogg, Bryson observes the landscape with both reverence and irreverence. His journey is not just a geographic one but also temporal, contrasting the Britain he first encountered decades ago with its current incarnation. It's akin to watching an episode of Doctor Who—familiar yet transformed.

Bryson's American origins lend him an outsider's perspective, which is simultaneously endearing and exasperating to his British readers. He navigates this dual identity with the precision of a tightrope walker, often leaning into the quintessentially British love for self-deprecation and dry humor. His observations are as sharp as a well-brewed cup of Earl Grey, seasoned with the occasional grumble about modern inefficiencies—a nod perhaps to Victor Meldrew rather than Jane Austen.

The reception of "The Road to Little Dribbling" has been warm, though not without its detractors. Some argue that Bryson occasionally channels his inner curmudgeon, reminiscent of Holden Caulfield's disdain for phonies. Yet, it could be posited that these critiques overlook the nuanced affection hidden beneath his sardonic veneer. The comparison to Paul Theroux's introspective journeys or Peter Mayle's Provençal escapades is inevitable, yet Bryson stakes his claim in a distinctly different territory. His humor—never forced, always genuine—elevates the narrative beyond mere travelogue into something more resonant.

While it might not blaze new trails so much as meander through familiar ones, "The Road to Little Dribbling" remains a charming exploration of Britain's idiosyncrasies. Bryson's ability to capture an entire scene with a single sentence is akin to a master painter with a brush—a skill that no amount of geographical familiarity can replicate. In this work, one finds not just a sequel but an affectionate reaffirmation of what makes Britain, in all its stubborn glory, truly unique. And as we close this literary journey, we are reminded that perhaps it is not the novelty of travel but the depth of observation that defines a truly great travel memoir.

Purchase Link: THE ROAD TO LITTLE DRIBBLING on Amazon