I couldn’t read past the first chapter, instead wanting to take to the streets like an Evangelical grasping a paint paddle and duct tape sign: this book is a lie that’s not how the story goes repent! What I meant was: this is not how my story goes.įive years ago, I studied abroad in Florence, Italy, as do thousands of students every year. I chalked up this difficulty swallowing and sweaty palms to disagreeing with Newman’s central argument: that by traveling alone instead of settling down, she found herself, and only then could she walk off into the sunset she’d been destined for. The jacket copy not only summed up the countries she visited, but also the men she met: “Israeli bartenders, Finnish poker players, sexy Bedouins, and Argentinean priests.” My throat constricted, heartbeat erratic, as I slipped a copy in my bag. Squinting for a moment, I recognized the red blob beneath the title - What I Was Doing While You Were Breedin g - as a lipstick kiss on an airplane window. I was a bookseller when I first encountered Kristin Newman’s travel memoir nestled among the morning delivery. Sign up for our newsletter to get submission announcements and stay on top of our best work.
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