From the moment this book arrived in the mail it felt like a gift. I took it out of its cell-wrap envelope and noticed at once the beautiful paper: thick, textured. It smelled nice. Open it. The stories unfold one after another, separated by contemporary art that also folds out, spills out from the borders of the book--clouds, mostly, and skyscapes, and landscapes that are arresting and disturbing, both at once, much like the stories between the art. Indeed reading this, turning the pages, felt much like visiting an art gallery. I've used that metaphor for reading before, here. But in this case I mean it quite literally: this book is a work of art to be held in your two hands, and turning its pages is an act of sensual discovery that goes beyond story and touches me in ways beyond the words on the page.

The seven stories here are perfect recreations, for me, of the disorientation I have often felt, while traveling, as a relatively wealthy (white) woman who has come to a less-wealthy-less-white part of the world. The solitary female traveler in these stories is confident enough to travel alone, and yet she never escapes the feeling that something bad is about to happen. The stories capture the anxiety of being new to a place, while not having enough knowledge to be able to know just what level of danger you are in.

The effect of reading this small book is one of profound disorientation, a kind of disorientation that made me feel very alert as a reader. Every word and moment mattered. It was not like reading at all. It was as if the book was recreating a feeling in me, inviting me to fully remember a feeling I've have often had when traveling, and have always tried to push past and move on from, instead of learning from it. ( )