In 2015, I took a trip to Iceland with my sister, boyfriend (now husband), and a friend. For ten days we traveled the Ring Road that encircles the country. It was an adventure unlike any other I’d been on, not only because of the beautiful and primal landscape we explored. It was also because I spent the second night of our trip in an Icelandic hospital, and got to learn about the Scandinavian health care system first hand. But that’s another story altogether.

I bring this all up because I wanted to explain how the book Butterflies in November landed in my lap. Technically, I did pick this book, just not for myself. I bought it for my sister, who re-gifted it back to me. I got this book specifically for her because it’s about an Icelandic woman making an unexpected trip around the Ring Road, and the people she meets along the way. It had been praised in reviews, and I thought it would be fun to relive our trip through a book where the protagonist takes the same route we did. My sister said that the book was “okay” – not exactly high praise – and passed it on to me.

One unusual thing about Butterflies in November is that very few characters have names, including the main character. For this review, I’ll be referring the her as “Kvenhetja,” the Icelandic word for “heroine.” At least, I think it is. Google Translate is far from perfect.

Here’s the basic plot: Kvenhetja is a linguist and freelance editor and translator. She’s been married for almost five years, but has been having an affair with one of her clients. Shortly after being dumped by both her husband and lover, she becomes the reluctant guardian of her best friend’s child. Tumi is four years old, deaf and largely mute, and Kvenhetja doesn’t have a mothering bone in her body. After Tumi picks the winning numbers for the largest lottery jackpot in Icelandic history, he and Kvenhetja set out on a  journey on the Icelandic Ring Road that encircles the entire country.

The plot isn’t anything we haven’t seen before. Someone unlucky in love who takes in a child (bonus points if they have special needs) and goes on a journey of self-discovery. The main difference between this book and stories like No Reservations, Raising Helen, and this way-too-accurate trailer for every Academy Award-winning movie ever is that it’s set in Iceland. But what really drew me into the book was how similar I was to the protagonist. Scarily so.

‘It’s as if you just don’t want to grow up, behaving like a child, even though you’re thirty-three years old, doing your weird and careless things [. . .] You’re always forgetting things, arriving the last at everything, you don’t wear a watch. And to top it all, you always seem to choose the longest route anywhere. [. . .] Words, words, words, exactly, your entire life revolves around the definition of words. Well here you go, impulsive: abrupt, hasty, headlong and impetuous. [. . .] Having a child might have changed you, smoothed your edges a bit. But still, what kind of mother would behave the way you do?’

It was bound to reach this point, the baby issue. But I’m a realist so I agree with him, I wasn’t made to be a mother, to bring up new humans, I haven’t the faintest clue about children, nor the skills required to rear them. The sight of a small child doesn’t trigger a wave of soft maternal feelings in me.

I have never felt so called out by a book before.

But in that outlining of Kvenhetja’s traits and quirks, there is one thing I am that she’s not. Impatient. I was promised a travelogue, but it took several chapters of set-up to get her and Tumi on the road. Granted, the chapters tend to be short, but it felt like forever to get to. When Kvenhetja and Tuni finally get to their journey on the Ring Road, I kept reading and waiting for…something to happen.

I’ve read some non-fiction travelogues, and they’re often a series of anecdotes as the narrator travels form Point A to Point B. This makes sense. Our lives don’t follow the structured five stages of plot (though sometimes it feels like they do). Telling a true story about your life isn’t going to be like telling a story in a novel.

Once Kvenhetja and Tumi are on the road, the story is mostly composed of anecdotes of people she and Tumi meet along the way. There are definite characters she meets, like a falconer and an Estonian men’s choir. There is a through-line to the plot, at least:  Kvenhetja is on the road to receive a prize she won, and Tumi is along for the ride.

The road trip was the part of the book I was most interested in, because it was a way to re-visit my trip around the Ring Road. All the people on the road that Kvenhetja meets are helpful and friendly, something I probably would have scoffed at if I hadn’t seen the kindness of native Icelanders and tourists firsthand. Iceland is a rugged country, and being stranded on the Ring Road can be dangerous. I think that’s one of the reasons why it feels like everyone has each other’s back.

I also liked to see  things on the page that had enchanted me in real life: black sand deserts, lava fields, hot springs and one-lane bridges. These are landscapes you can get lost in, perfect for resetting your life. The novel makes a lot of use of metaphors reflecting on the Icelandic landscape and travel on the Ring Road.

The reviews promised a quirky and funny story, but most of the time I read it, I was just bored. Despite the similarities between Kvenhetja and me, as the book went on, I just didn’t like her very much. She’s impulsive and makes poor decisions that are potentially dangerous for the child in her care. Granted, Iceland is generally safer than the U.S., but I don’t think that it’s a good idea to have sex with a stranger in a lava field while a four-year-old charge is sleeping in the car. Half the time Tumi may as well not even be in the story, considering how much of the prose is devoted to Kvenhetja’s introspection.

This book also hit on one of my pet peeves when it comes to writing child characters: children who don’t act like children. I don’t mind a precocious character every now and then, and Tumi is meant to be an “introspective oddball.” I liked how he has an interest in words and could read and write a little. It helped bring Kvenhetja and Tumi connect, not just for the purposes of communication. She might not have any inkling of what to do with a child, but their shared interest in words helps build their relatiomship. But for an entire trip, Kvenhetja never had to deal with Tumi wetting his pants, throwing a tantrum, or trying to eat rocks. Tumi isn’t just introspective; he’s the most un-childlike four-year-old I think I’ve seen in fiction.

Overall, I didn’t really care for Butterflies in November. I didn’t seem to get the wry humor that reviews promised. The prose is descriptive and fantastic, but it ultimately wasn’t enough to save the thin plot.

I don’t think it was a bad book. It certainly got plenty of love from critics. It just wasn’t a good book for me. If Butterflies in November sounds like something you’d enjoy, I encourage you to check it out!