YOU CAN T TELL THE COUNTRIES WITHOUT A BOOK

THERE is a certain type of American tourist who is so afraid that he will be taken for an American tourist that he refuses to be seen carrying a guidebook. If he has one at all, he leaves it in the hotel room or disguises it in the dust-jacket of the latest Taylor Caldwell novel. But he is the exception. The great majority of tourists want their guidebooks for advice, companionship and a sense of security.

Ever since travelers started traveling, they have been telling others how and where to do it. Herodotus in 450 B.C. described the wonders of the Nile, where the natives worshiped crocodiles and shaved off their eyebrows when their cats died. Mark Twain, who made the Grand Tour a century ago, wrote delightedly of the cheapness of Moroccan currency ("I bought nearly half a pint of their money for a shilling"). The package tour, credit cards and 21-day-excursion jet fares have made the wonders of the Nile less wondrous and even Moroccan currency a lot less cheap.

But as Americans succeeded the British and the Germans as the world's most tireless travelers, the proliferation of guidebooks has more than matched the tourist pace. U.S. bookstores now stock at least 50 guides to European countries, regions and cities which, despite the growing lure of Asia and North Africa, remain America's favorite tourist areas. There are also shopping guides, money guides and no-money guides; at least five paperbacks tell how to tour the Continent on the cheap. The Rich Man's Guide to Europe is due out next month, and there is already one guidebook instructing executives on how to do business in Europe while living it up on the expense account (Paris starting point: royal suite at the Hotel George V, which goes for $100 a day). Four books tell parents how to travel with their children without losing their minds--or their children. Two books tell girls how to catch a man in Europe (one ploy: look helpless). Two others tell men where to find "emancipated" girls. The advice is flexible; one guide tells the girls to travel first class, because that's where the interesting men are, while another book tells the men to travel tourist, because that's where the interested girls are.

In addition, there are guides to classic art, modern art, castles, pubs, inns and festivals, as well as to 840 gardens and 245 battlefields. There is even a bathroom guide, Where to Go in London, which meticulously rates the city's leading public facilities as "Good (*), Unbeatable value (**), Worth traveling out of your way to experience (***), or Royal Flush (****)." (Only Royal Flush: the latrines at Victoria Station, "a Xanadu of hygiene.")

From the Steam Age

Obviously, there are too many guidebooks to Europe. Unfortunately, there is not one that can match the oldtime, red-bound Baedekers. Karl Baedeker, who died in 1859, was an autocratic, uncompromising fuss-budget who personally inspected everything he wrote about--which was everything that he considered the traveler might need to know. He provided descriptions of all important celebrations, cathedrals, castles, monuments and masterpieces. He also rated Europe's decent restaurants and hotels, gave his opinion of regional dishes, wines and morals, counseled his readers on their health, and constantly warned them on the evils of everything from Paris prices ("Traveling here, one needs firstly, secondly and thirdly, money") to Italian beggars ("Firmly decline giving, with 'niente' or a gesture of disapproval").

It was a glorious part of the age of steam and the steamer trunk, and it was a remarkable performance. But not even old Karl Baedeker could have done it in today's Europe, although his descendants continue the guides competently enough. The Continent is simply changing too fast in too many directions for any single guidebook to keep up with it. There are 10,350 restaurants and 1,100 hotels in Paris alone, not to mention 110 nightclubs and 12,000 bars. Whether or not they could cover all the pertinent sights, smells and tastes, none of today's guides could consider printing them all. Air travelers need compact books.

Tastes have also changed. Tourists--with the possible exception of the Germans--no longer have the ambition to plow through such weighty tomes as the Guides Bleus, which describe every stone and tree in fine print. "To sell," says one London publisher, "you have to put out atmospherics. You have to provide a well-written feeling for the place, a lot of color, a lot of narrative." Such books are all to the good, for when they are done by sensitive writers, they can achieve an almost poetic understanding of places they cover. One such series is the Companion Guides to four European cities, the South of France and the Greek Islands. Another, less poetic but more of a guide, is H. V. Morton's lively historical tour of Spain, Italy, Britain and Ireland.

For basic meat-and-potatoes information, the tourist must look elsewhere. If he is in range, the best guides to most of his needs are produced by the French tire factory, Michelin & Cie. The Michelin Guides cover most of Western Europe in four languages and in two series. Michelin Green is an excellent illustrated sightseeing guide, heavy on history. Michelin Red, whose annual ratings can make or break any leading restaurant in France, is the undisputed arbiter of the world's finest cuisine. Unfortunately, Michelin covers neither entertainment npr shopping, and is no help at all to the tourist wondering how much to tip his shoeshine boy.

Gently by the Hand

That, among other places is where Temple Fielding comes in. Fielding sells more general guidebooks than any other American writer, cares not a whit about Europe's treasures. He dismisses the Louvre in 16 lines, half of which are devoted to its snack bar, and his principal comment about the ruins of ancient Rome is that "there's a remarkable permanency about the Colosseum." Fielding's forte-is leading his readers ("the normal Mr. and Mrs. Smith of Middletown, U.S.A.") gently by the hand to a real wingding of a time. He directs them to restaurants that will give them the red carpet and offers them personal introductions to a champagne magnate. He devotes whole sections to showing them how not to make fools of themselves, how to avoid being cheated, how to act with customs inspectors ("Keep your mouth shut"), and even how to beat the airlines out of excess-luggage charges (stuff heavy articles into coat sleeves, tie knots in the sleeves, carry the coat).

Fielding displays a spurious heartiness that can be depressing, and occasionally he may overplay the nursemaid bit. But the heart of Fielding's guidebook is his personal advice on where to eat, sleep, drink and be merry. It is current (this year's book contains 125,000 lines of revisions), caustic, and in reliable taste. Maxim's (ranked by Michelin as one of France's twelve*** restaurants) has been off Fielding's list since the death of Maitre d'hotel Albert Blaser in 1959, and he attacks Chez Denis (*) for serving "the costliest meal in Paris today." As for the London Hilton, it is "the closest version of a 'hotel machine' that America could export. It functions, it looks (and it is) sleek and modern; it provides food, drink, comfort, and even luxury. The only two vital ingredients it lacks are warmth and humanity."

Much gentler is 75-year-old Sydney Clark, whose All the Best books are pleasant introductions to 26 countries. Clark genuinely likes every place he goes, loves to lead his readers to spots that other guides ignore, such as the Buttes-Chaumont Park in Paris' 19th Arrondissement, but gives restaurants little more than a lick and hotels not much more than a promise.

Harvey Olson, a Chicago travel agent who lumps Europe into something called Aboard and Abroad (the latest edition of which was published in 1964), is more pretentious than Clark about his restaurants but hardly sounder. Olson's favorite restaurant "in all the world" rates only-- in Michelin, and third on his Paris list is a copy of Chicago's Gaslight Club. Olson is both a dictator and a square (his idea of Paris fun is going to the Folies-Bergere). As far as he is concerned, the only possible way for any American to enjoy Europe is as part of the herd. For their first trip, Olson sends his readers on a 39-day Grand Tour of ten countries, and their second can be only to England, Ireland, Scotland and Scandinavia. If they're still with him after that, he recommends a really daring "off the beaten path" tour to Chartres, Biarritz, Saint-Tropez, Rome and Paris.

Most prolific of all travel writers--and Fielding's chief competitor--is Eugene Fodor, who grinds out a fat Guide to Europe and individual guidebooks to 17 nations every year. Unlike Fielding, his books cover the full range of tourism, from historical background to such practical tips as how to kick a hangover in Paris (drink Fernet-Branca) and how to gamble in casinos (for the best odds, play trente et quarante). Trouble is, Fodor leaves the actual writing and research of his books to a staff of 100 contributors, and the results are wildly uneven. He is good on France and Austria, far behind on Portugal and Spain.

Really Swinging

Other members of the force de tour are the uninspired paperbacks by Pan Am and TWA, a surprisingly uninformative series by Holiday, a Rand McNally pocket guide. But the one that is making the biggest current splash is a brightly covered paperback called Europe on $5 a Day. Written by Manhattan Attorney Arthur Frommer, its cardinal rule is "Never ask for a private bath with your hotel room"--a stricture that has sent hundreds of thousands of Americans sponging their way through Europe. But the book is deceptive. Its clean family hotels may turn out to be flophouses or cathouses, and its 500 restaurants can be followed by $20 doctor bills. In addition, most of the legitimate establishments have become so overrun with tourists that their prices have soared and they are always full. Its greatest danger, however, is that it is likely to lead the unwary reader into taking a trip he cannot afford--and leave him strapped and stranded when his money doesn't stretch as far as Frommer said it would. Says one disillusioned follower: "Europe on Five Bum Steers a Day."

There are at least two budget guidebooks that are more helpful than Frommer's. Norman D. Ford's All of Europe at Low Cost is a thorough, realistic guide to cutting corners as well as to good inexpensive hotels and restaurants on both sides of the Iron Curtain. Shorter, hipper and absolutely fresh is Let's Go, published by the Harvard Student Agencies. Intended primarily for students, Let's Go really swings through Europe. But in addition to being up on what's in, it offers excellent pointers on such things as wine-tasting tours and how to buy European art, is a remarkably knowledgeable sightseeing guide as well.

Whatever their individual merits, all general guidebooks to Europe share one important fault: they lag far behind in reflecting the major tourist trends. One case in point is an almost generalized failure to report that the Iron Curtain countries have begun to welcome tourists--and are beginning to swing. Hungarian night life and restaurants are just about as gay as they were in the good old days. Bulgaria is plugging a two-week stay on the sunny Black Sea coast for $91, including air fare from Vienna. Another popular Vienna excursion: down the Danube by hydrofoil for a weekend in Budapest. In Berlin, Checkpoint Charlie has become a bustling portal for tourists who want a peek behind the Wall. But of the major writers, only the Hungarian-born Fodor seems to be aware that the Iron Curtain exists; Fielding dropped all his Eastern European sections.

Nor has any guide reported that London night life has become the most exciting in Europe, filled with excellent combos, excellent theater, excellent shows and even good food. In Paris, on the other hand, theater is down, ballet and opera were never up, and most of the city's celebrated naughty nighteries have become intolerably cheap and outrageously expensive. Yet as far as the travel guides are concerned, Paris is, was, and ever will be the gayest city in the world, while London is a stuffy place filled with stiff upper lips, bad food and sensible shoes.

Most professional guidebook writers still shape their books for the first-time tourists. But millions of Americans are now second, third and fourth-time tourists, and they are looking for new and exciting things to do. The guides will have to take account of this new reality or else risk losing an important part of their following. Many travelers already rely for their information on journalism, on the generally current calendars of events handed out by government tourist offices--and, above all, on a mass of excellent literary travel books, whose aim is not information but inspiration, not sightseeing but insight.

Still, there is nothing like a good travel guide, with its neat ratings, its tidy categories superimposed on a motley world, its flattering assumption that the reader is boundlessly curious and energetic, and its ability to recreate a trip after it is over. For one test of a good travel guide is not how well it serves abroad but how well it stands up back home. The returned traveler's particular pleasure is to read his guidebook to see where he has been. As he grows more experienced, he discovers an even greater pleasure--to argue with his guidebook and finally ignore it.

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