One trend we’ve noticed here at CR is how many pieces we receive that are set in foreign countries. Not a problem in and of itself, but all too often what we get, instead of an affecting narrative or poem, is a travelogue, a Rick Steves-esque report of where characters or speakers went and what they ate, peppered with the five foreign words they learned while interacting with charming locals. We hear all about what the light looks like from their hostel in Prague or the consistency and aroma of the coffee at the café on the plaza de insert-romantic-word-here. Though place can play a meaningful role in a piece (indeed, probably the only reason anyone watched the Drew Carey show was because it was set in Cleveland), we caution you not to make it the point of the piece. If you went to Rome last summer, we’re happy for you. Friend us on Facebook, and we’ll gladly look at your pictures. But please, don’t send us a story that demonstrates your familiarity with every apostolic nook and red-capped cranny of the Eternal City.
It seems, too, that the people who write these poems all keep traveling to the same countries, usually France, Greece, Italy, and Spain. The problem is that we “know” these countries. They have been presented to us countless times (for example, who wasn’t moved to tears by Meg Ryan’s 1995 vehicle 
French Kiss or Billy Crystal’s Forget Paris of the same year). This is not to say that excellent works can’t take place in these countries. Richard Hugo’s Good Luck in Cracked Italian is an amazing book. We’ve heard the Sun Also Rises is a good read. We just want to make sure that when authors are describing the how moved they were by dark, attenuated alleyways Venice, they don’t forget that places are not nearly as interesting as the lives that take place in them.
