I read this on a flight from Boston to San Francisco, and found it very much to my taste. It's Mike's favorite book, and he graciously loaned me his copy, even though I haven't returned the books I borrowed from his fiancee about a year ago (yikes!). Calvino's "book" reads much like poetry, and I feel that I've only skimmed the surface of its depths. As I travelled to San Francisco and then on to Honolulu last week, the book constantly reminded me of how much these cities are similar to my home city of Boston, in spite of their outward differences. Not a profound observation, perhaps, but one worth considering.