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Traveling with Ghosts one Haad Rin Nok, Ko Pha Ngan, THAILAND
August 9, 2002
THIS IS WHAT I REMEMBER about waiting at the temple—cold, bitter black coffee. Someone had pushed a tiny white plastic cup into my hands. A small dark pool at the bottom. The bitterness I expected, but the cold of the liquid surprised me. I can still taste it, thirteen years later.
It must have been around two a.m., but the temple was full of locals. It didn’t occur to me to wonder why. Women were passing out the cups of coffee and snacks, or sitting on mats spread on the rough tile floor. Men stood on the periphery, a small group of them gathered around a red Toyota truck in which the body of my fiancé lay, wrapped in a white sheet.
Two Israeli girls sat next to me on a low wall at the edge of the temple. They had ridden in the front of the truck with me on the drive from the clinic. These girls had been with me through the most intimate and terrible moments of my life. I didn’t even know their names.
We were waiting for a key. We had been waiting a long time. At the clinic, they’d explained that Sean had to be kept in a box at the temple. They said it was the only place on the island to keep his body cold. But they hadn’t been able to locate the key to the box.
“No problem,” someone would say every so often. “They will find the key soon. No problem.”
As we sipped the cold dark coffee, I watched one of the men reach into the truck and peel back the white sheet Sean was wrapped in. He gestured to the other men, who gathered in closer. They pointed to the red welts encircling Sean’s calves. Their conversation grew louder and more animated.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. The Israeli girls followed my gaze. One of them, the one with light eyes, jumped up, crossing the short length to the truck in a few strides. She snatched the sheet from their hands and tucked it around Sean’s body.
“Show some respect,” she said, motioning toward me with a thrust of her chin. “Leave him alone.” The men may not have understood English, but they understood. They backed away. Still, she continued to stand, blocking the opened tailgate with her arms crossed in front of her chest.
The other girl, the thinner, darker one, turned to me. “We don’t have to wait here. They’ll put him in the box as soon as they find the key. We can leave. Do you want to go home?”
“I want to stay with him. I don’t want to go back,” I said, avoiding the word “home.” Back in cabana 214, at the Seaview Haadrin, was the last place I wanted to be. Sean’s things spread all over the room, our sea view looking out onto the spot on the beach where he’d collapsed face first into the sand. The sheets on the double bed printed with colorful cartoon clowns, sheets still smelling of him, of our sex earlier that day.
I didn’t realize at the time that the Israeli girls were probably tired of waiting and exhausted. But they stayed.
The August nights in Thailand had been uncomfortably hot since Sean and I arrived in the country six days earlier. We’d spent many hours sweating on those clown-printed sheets. But as I waited at the temple, cold began to creep up from my bare feet on the coarse tile floor, seeping through my thin purple sundress as we sat on the abrasive stone wall. Sean had bought the sundress for me in Bangkok. We’d been pushing through throngs of intoxicated backpackers on Khao San Road when he saw it at a makeshift stall. Sean prided himself on his bargaining skills, but this time, he offended the vendor and we walked away empty-handed. Halfway through dinner, Sean decided the vendor’s price had been fair and he slunk back to buy the dress at full cost.
I was naked underneath the dress. We’d spent the last two summer months traveling through China, where I’d often declared some days too hot for underwear. I’d tie my long hair up off my neck, and wear a simple sundress and sandals. Sean liked to joke that there was only a thin piece of material protecting my most intimate parts from all of China. But I never felt exposed. Until that night on Ko Pha Ngan.
That night I wasn’t naked under the dress because of the heat. Hours earlier I’d been wearing board shorts and a tank top. Hours earlier Sean had been alive.
We’d been holding hands, walking back to cabana 214 along Haad Rin Nok, or Sunrise Beach. The tall palm trees lining the edge of the shore were motionless. The sea was calm. Darkness was starting to fall, though it was still warm and sticky. It was like every other evening on Ko Pha Ngan. We were planning a quick shower, and then drinks and dinner. We knew we were spending too much money on food, but had decided not to worry about our finances in paradise.
Outside our cabana, Sean grinned and flashed his dimple as he set his glasses down on the porch—an invitation to wrestle. I hesitated. He was much bigger and much stronger. I had no hope of not being pinned, much less pinning. But I dropped my sunglasses and kicked off my flip-flops.
I lost badly. Soft white sand stuck to my coconut-scented skin, still oily from a cheap massage on the beach that afternoon. I was not a good loser, and threw sand at him as he disappeared into our cabana.
I headed straight for the ocean to rinse off, the water so warm I didn’t hesitate. I could hear boys drinking and laughing on the cliff high above me. Sean reappeared and made his way to the shore. Without his glasses, he couldn’t see where I was. I took off my wet tank and threw it at him. He grabbed it and waded over to me, laughing. “I had no idea where you were until you threw your top.” I hugged him and circled my legs around his narrow waist.
“You didn’t have to throw sand, Miss.”
I made excuses. “I was just playing . . . and I was losing.”
“Yes, you were losing.”
He knew me too well. He paused and I felt guilty for being so immature. “It’s only because it got in my eyes and I couldn’t see,” he said. I rubbed my nipples against the small dark patch of hair on his chest and apologized.
In my head, I was revising our plan for the evening to include sex before showering, and then drinks and dinner. He held me in the warm, waist-deep water as I wrapped my legs tighter around him. We kissed and I could taste the seawater salt on his tongue. I felt something large and soft brush against the outside of my thigh. I flinched and gave a short yelp. Sean had always been afraid of sea creatures and quickly asked what it was. He’d been particularly nervous about sharks and since our arrival on the island had kept asking me, “Don’t most attacks happen in shallow water?”
I was studying to be a marine biologist and knew how unlikely a shark attack was, especially in Thailand. I kept assuring him that he was more likely to be struck by lightning.
“I just felt something,” I began, but hadn’t finished the sentence when Sean flinched and dropped me. I was thinking that he was going to hear about this later, dropping me into whatever had frightened him in the water. But he was already making his way as fast as he could to the beach, running and pulling through the darkening turquoise sea with his hands. His movements were urgent and awkward, his elbows held high, his fingers splayed. I followed him to the water’s edge. He sat down on the wet sand.
“Miss, it’s all over my legs.” I bent down in the fading light and could barely make out a faint red welt rising on his ankle.
“It’s probably a stingray.”
Whatever bumped me in the water had felt substantial and solid. Other than the small welt, I couldn’t see any marks on his legs. After the ray brushed my thigh, Sean must have inadvertently stepped on it. I’d been with people stung by stingrays before and seen how excruciating it could be. So I wasn’t surprised when Sean said, “Miss, my head feels heavy. I’m having trouble breathing. Go get help.” He was quiet, calm, and coherent.
“Come with me.” I’d never heard of venomous marine life in Thailand. And he wasn’t sensitive to bees, so an allergic reaction seemed unlikely. I thought he was being squeamish. When we’d gone fishing the year before at Wilsons Prom on the southern tip of Australia, I had to be the one to bait the hooks with sandworms and then pull off the wriggling silver bream we caught. He’d even been scared of the tiny blue soldier crabs there.
“Come with me,” I said again as I looked down at him sitting at the water’s edge. His dark hair wet, his narrow chest leaned back, and his long white legs now covered with sand.
“I can’t.”
Revue de presse :
August 9, 2002
THIS IS WHAT I REMEMBER about waiting at the temple—cold, bitter black coffee. Someone had pushed a tiny white plastic cup into my hands. A small dark pool at the bottom. The bitterness I expected, but the cold of the liquid surprised me. I can still taste it, thirteen years later.
It must have been around two a.m., but the temple was full of locals. It didn’t occur to me to wonder why. Women were passing out the cups of coffee and snacks, or sitting on mats spread on the rough tile floor. Men stood on the periphery, a small group of them gathered around a red Toyota truck in which the body of my fiancé lay, wrapped in a white sheet.
Two Israeli girls sat next to me on a low wall at the edge of the temple. They had ridden in the front of the truck with me on the drive from the clinic. These girls had been with me through the most intimate and terrible moments of my life. I didn’t even know their names.
We were waiting for a key. We had been waiting a long time. At the clinic, they’d explained that Sean had to be kept in a box at the temple. They said it was the only place on the island to keep his body cold. But they hadn’t been able to locate the key to the box.
“No problem,” someone would say every so often. “They will find the key soon. No problem.”
As we sipped the cold dark coffee, I watched one of the men reach into the truck and peel back the white sheet Sean was wrapped in. He gestured to the other men, who gathered in closer. They pointed to the red welts encircling Sean’s calves. Their conversation grew louder and more animated.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. The Israeli girls followed my gaze. One of them, the one with light eyes, jumped up, crossing the short length to the truck in a few strides. She snatched the sheet from their hands and tucked it around Sean’s body.
“Show some respect,” she said, motioning toward me with a thrust of her chin. “Leave him alone.” The men may not have understood English, but they understood. They backed away. Still, she continued to stand, blocking the opened tailgate with her arms crossed in front of her chest.
The other girl, the thinner, darker one, turned to me. “We don’t have to wait here. They’ll put him in the box as soon as they find the key. We can leave. Do you want to go home?”
“I want to stay with him. I don’t want to go back,” I said, avoiding the word “home.” Back in cabana 214, at the Seaview Haadrin, was the last place I wanted to be. Sean’s things spread all over the room, our sea view looking out onto the spot on the beach where he’d collapsed face first into the sand. The sheets on the double bed printed with colorful cartoon clowns, sheets still smelling of him, of our sex earlier that day.
I didn’t realize at the time that the Israeli girls were probably tired of waiting and exhausted. But they stayed.
The August nights in Thailand had been uncomfortably hot since Sean and I arrived in the country six days earlier. We’d spent many hours sweating on those clown-printed sheets. But as I waited at the temple, cold began to creep up from my bare feet on the coarse tile floor, seeping through my thin purple sundress as we sat on the abrasive stone wall. Sean had bought the sundress for me in Bangkok. We’d been pushing through throngs of intoxicated backpackers on Khao San Road when he saw it at a makeshift stall. Sean prided himself on his bargaining skills, but this time, he offended the vendor and we walked away empty-handed. Halfway through dinner, Sean decided the vendor’s price had been fair and he slunk back to buy the dress at full cost.
I was naked underneath the dress. We’d spent the last two summer months traveling through China, where I’d often declared some days too hot for underwear. I’d tie my long hair up off my neck, and wear a simple sundress and sandals. Sean liked to joke that there was only a thin piece of material protecting my most intimate parts from all of China. But I never felt exposed. Until that night on Ko Pha Ngan.
That night I wasn’t naked under the dress because of the heat. Hours earlier I’d been wearing board shorts and a tank top. Hours earlier Sean had been alive.
We’d been holding hands, walking back to cabana 214 along Haad Rin Nok, or Sunrise Beach. The tall palm trees lining the edge of the shore were motionless. The sea was calm. Darkness was starting to fall, though it was still warm and sticky. It was like every other evening on Ko Pha Ngan. We were planning a quick shower, and then drinks and dinner. We knew we were spending too much money on food, but had decided not to worry about our finances in paradise.
Outside our cabana, Sean grinned and flashed his dimple as he set his glasses down on the porch—an invitation to wrestle. I hesitated. He was much bigger and much stronger. I had no hope of not being pinned, much less pinning. But I dropped my sunglasses and kicked off my flip-flops.
I lost badly. Soft white sand stuck to my coconut-scented skin, still oily from a cheap massage on the beach that afternoon. I was not a good loser, and threw sand at him as he disappeared into our cabana.
I headed straight for the ocean to rinse off, the water so warm I didn’t hesitate. I could hear boys drinking and laughing on the cliff high above me. Sean reappeared and made his way to the shore. Without his glasses, he couldn’t see where I was. I took off my wet tank and threw it at him. He grabbed it and waded over to me, laughing. “I had no idea where you were until you threw your top.” I hugged him and circled my legs around his narrow waist.
“You didn’t have to throw sand, Miss.”
I made excuses. “I was just playing . . . and I was losing.”
“Yes, you were losing.”
He knew me too well. He paused and I felt guilty for being so immature. “It’s only because it got in my eyes and I couldn’t see,” he said. I rubbed my nipples against the small dark patch of hair on his chest and apologized.
In my head, I was revising our plan for the evening to include sex before showering, and then drinks and dinner. He held me in the warm, waist-deep water as I wrapped my legs tighter around him. We kissed and I could taste the seawater salt on his tongue. I felt something large and soft brush against the outside of my thigh. I flinched and gave a short yelp. Sean had always been afraid of sea creatures and quickly asked what it was. He’d been particularly nervous about sharks and since our arrival on the island had kept asking me, “Don’t most attacks happen in shallow water?”
I was studying to be a marine biologist and knew how unlikely a shark attack was, especially in Thailand. I kept assuring him that he was more likely to be struck by lightning.
“I just felt something,” I began, but hadn’t finished the sentence when Sean flinched and dropped me. I was thinking that he was going to hear about this later, dropping me into whatever had frightened him in the water. But he was already making his way as fast as he could to the beach, running and pulling through the darkening turquoise sea with his hands. His movements were urgent and awkward, his elbows held high, his fingers splayed. I followed him to the water’s edge. He sat down on the wet sand.
“Miss, it’s all over my legs.” I bent down in the fading light and could barely make out a faint red welt rising on his ankle.
“It’s probably a stingray.”
Whatever bumped me in the water had felt substantial and solid. Other than the small welt, I couldn’t see any marks on his legs. After the ray brushed my thigh, Sean must have inadvertently stepped on it. I’d been with people stung by stingrays before and seen how excruciating it could be. So I wasn’t surprised when Sean said, “Miss, my head feels heavy. I’m having trouble breathing. Go get help.” He was quiet, calm, and coherent.
“Come with me.” I’d never heard of venomous marine life in Thailand. And he wasn’t sensitive to bees, so an allergic reaction seemed unlikely. I thought he was being squeamish. When we’d gone fishing the year before at Wilsons Prom on the southern tip of Australia, I had to be the one to bait the hooks with sandworms and then pull off the wriggling silver bream we caught. He’d even been scared of the tiny blue soldier crabs there.
“Come with me,” I said again as I looked down at him sitting at the water’s edge. His dark hair wet, his narrow chest leaned back, and his long white legs now covered with sand.
“I can’t.”
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR TRAVELING WITH GHOSTS BY SHANNON LEONE FOWLER
"Fowler shows none of the self-aggrandizement that saturates many memoirs, and she lived a far more interesting life — before and after Sean’s death — than do many who write about theirs. Her story — rich, unblinking and adroitly told — is one of strength, of getting past but not getting over. Few would choose the approach Fowler took to kick-start healing. But hers is a thought-provoking journey that she generously shares."
—USA Today
“Fowler has turned her devastating, beautiful, honest, and personal story into something universal. Akin to Cheryl Strayed’s Wild, her book will appeal to globetrotters and readers of hopeful stories chronicling grief and recovery.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Fowler’s moving account traces her grief. ... [A] nicely written and informative journey on the path to healing.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A courageous and finely crafted account soaked in tears of love and loss.”
—Kirkus Reviews
"[An] intensely personal and appealing memoir. ... Bring along a world map, set aside everything you know about healing from heartbreaking loss, and have yourself an unforgettable read."
—Bookpage
"Raw. ... Powerful. ... Redemptive."
—Book Riot
“In her deft and lovely debut, the memoir Traveling with Ghosts, Fowler tells [this] wrenching story with grace and fortitude. Just as Fowler’s difficult path after Sean’s death yields lessons about survival and resilience, her friendship with Anat and Talia, which continues to this day, yields its own lessons, of a kindness so extraordinary that it’s nearly as affecting as the tragedy at the book’s center.”
—Christian Science Monitor
“Set against an exotic backdrop of distant lands, Shannon Leone Fowler’s memoir, Traveling with Ghosts, is a heartbreaking story about the randomness of tragedy told with great courage and tenacity.”
—Ruth Ozeki, New York Times bestselling author of A Tale for the Time Being
“A soul-searching journey to reclaim the heart, Traveling with Ghosts is one of the best travel memoirs this year!”
—Andrew X. Pham, author of Catfish and Mandala and The Eaves of Heaven
“Traveling with Ghosts is a beautiful, haunting, heartbreaking memoir, made luminous by Shannon Fowler's obvious love of the natural world, her amazing eye for detail in exotic locales, and her depth and courage in the face of loss. I recommend this with all my heart.”
—Dan Chaon, bestselling author of Await Your Reply and Ill Will
“Shannon Fowler’s vivid tale of love and loss moved me deeply. She is a traveler who seeks healing in the most unlikely destinations, and who tells her remarkable story with camera-like precision rather than platitudes. Her book is a stirring tribute to a beloved fellow traveler, and a reflection of her own abundant courage.”
—Nancy Horan, New York Times bestselling author of Loving Frank
"Shannon Leone Fowler journeys courageously behind the clichés to explore how nations, cultures, and above all, individuals, grapple with loss; a vivid, compelling and deeply affecting memoir."
—Manil Suri, New York Times bestselling author of The Age of Shiva and The Death of Vishnu
“Shannon Fowler’s restlessness in the face of her unimaginable loss makes the reader feel her battered Lonely Planet travel guide was aptly named. Like Cheryl Strayed’s Wild, Fowler makes us feel that a hero’s journey is our only hope for surviving grief. Traveling with Ghosts is a brave and necessary record of love, as beautiful as it is heartbreaking.”
--Ann Patchett, New York Times bestselling author of Bel Canto and State of Wonder
“In this vital and compelling memoir, Shannon Fowler documents the sudden death of her fiancé and the year of flight that follows. Traveling with Ghosts teaches us how to reconcile ourselves with the world once the person we love is no longer in it. This is a book about the kindness of strangers, the consolation of unknown places, and the way that the world can be bright and dark, wide and narrow, all at the same time.”
––Kelly Link, Pulitzer Prize-nominated author of Get in Trouble
“This beautifully written, wonderfully engrossing book makes real the stubborn process by which we come to accept loss. Shannon Leone Fowler has made a wonderful gift of her hard won insights, and comes to a place of compassion that resonates deeply for me. I am grateful for this book. I cannot wait to give it to people I love.”
––Dorothy Allison, critically-acclaimed author of Bastard out of Carolina
"Powerful and heartbreaking, Traveling with Ghosts, is beautifully written and emotionally compelling. It is Shannon Leone Fowler's journey of survival and healing after the tragic and unexpected death of her fiancé. Battling grief with grief, she travels alone through devastated Eastern European countries, only to find her life held together by the rawness of place and the unexpected kindness of strangers. A gorgeous book to be read and savored."
—Gail Tsukiyama, bestselling author of The Samurai’s Garden and A Hundred Flowers
“After witnessing the senseless death of her fiancé, Shannon Fowler sets out on an unforgettable journey of reckoning, paying tribute to her young man’s adventurous soul while trying to make sense of the rest of her life without him. Fowler’s voice is powerful and searching, and the book left me deeply moved, not only by her courage, but by that of all the citizens of the devastated landscapes to which she so beautifully bears witness.”
—Elizabeth McKenzie, bestselling author of The Portable Veblen
"In Traveling with Ghosts Shannon Leone Fowler has created a searing memoir that recounts the moment her life was shattered by the death of her fiancé, young Australian Sean Reilly, and the months afterward as she stumbles around the war torn and poverty stricken countries of Eastern Europe trying to find a nonexistent balm to ease her grief. Coping as best she can with the terrible knowledge that Sean was just one of a number of people who swam in the Thailand ocean having never been warned that the most venomous creature on earth was there, Shannon celebrates in Traveling with Ghosts the life she had with Sean, the love they shared, and the future they planned. Rich with descriptions of place,beautifully constructed with a chronology that allows the reader to know the Sean that she knew, portrayed with honesty and dignity, Traveling with Ghosts celebrates a life cut short, a love never given a chance to grow, and a process of recovery bravely illustrating that while life after tragedy goes on, the chilly fingers of grief touch us in a way that mark us forever."
—Elizabeth George, New York Times bestselling author of A Banquet of Consequences and A Great Deliverance
“Shannon Fowler’s remarkable memoir feels as if it’s as intricate and deep as memory itself. It’s a privilege to be in her company as she travels to harrowing cities the world over, and more harrowing, to the mysterious interior realm, the country of grief. The comforts she finds there are without sentiment and profoundly moving.”
––Jane Hamilton, New York Times bestselling author of A Map of the World and The Excellent Lombards
“A stunningly wise, thoughtful, and thought-provoking ‘survival map’ of a memoir...Drawing from journals of her travels before and after the sudden death of her fiancé, Shannon Leone Fowler shares insights into life, love, and grieving in prose that is raw and unsentimental, and yet spills over with love. Put it on the shelf somewhere between Eat, Pray, Love and The Year of Magical Thinking. Traveling with Ghosts made me laugh out loud, and it broke my heart. In its unforgettable final pages, it did both at once, and, as only the very finest books do, its power over me grows rather than fades.”
––Meg Waite Clayton, bestselling author of The Wednesday Sisters
"Fowler shows none of the self-aggrandizement that saturates many memoirs, and she lived a far more interesting life — before and after Sean’s death — than do many who write about theirs. Her story — rich, unblinking and adroitly told — is one of strength, of getting past but not getting over. Few would choose the approach Fowler took to kick-start healing. But hers is a thought-provoking journey that she generously shares."
—USA Today
“Fowler has turned her devastating, beautiful, honest, and personal story into something universal. Akin to Cheryl Strayed’s Wild, her book will appeal to globetrotters and readers of hopeful stories chronicling grief and recovery.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Fowler’s moving account traces her grief. ... [A] nicely written and informative journey on the path to healing.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A courageous and finely crafted account soaked in tears of love and loss.”
—Kirkus Reviews
"[An] intensely personal and appealing memoir. ... Bring along a world map, set aside everything you know about healing from heartbreaking loss, and have yourself an unforgettable read."
—Bookpage
"Raw. ... Powerful. ... Redemptive."
—Book Riot
“In her deft and lovely debut, the memoir Traveling with Ghosts, Fowler tells [this] wrenching story with grace and fortitude. Just as Fowler’s difficult path after Sean’s death yields lessons about survival and resilience, her friendship with Anat and Talia, which continues to this day, yields its own lessons, of a kindness so extraordinary that it’s nearly as affecting as the tragedy at the book’s center.”
—Christian Science Monitor
“Set against an exotic backdrop of distant lands, Shannon Leone Fowler’s memoir, Traveling with Ghosts, is a heartbreaking story about the randomness of tragedy told with great courage and tenacity.”
—Ruth Ozeki, New York Times bestselling author of A Tale for the Time Being
“A soul-searching journey to reclaim the heart, Traveling with Ghosts is one of the best travel memoirs this year!”
—Andrew X. Pham, author of Catfish and Mandala and The Eaves of Heaven
“Traveling with Ghosts is a beautiful, haunting, heartbreaking memoir, made luminous by Shannon Fowler's obvious love of the natural world, her amazing eye for detail in exotic locales, and her depth and courage in the face of loss. I recommend this with all my heart.”
—Dan Chaon, bestselling author of Await Your Reply and Ill Will
“Shannon Fowler’s vivid tale of love and loss moved me deeply. She is a traveler who seeks healing in the most unlikely destinations, and who tells her remarkable story with camera-like precision rather than platitudes. Her book is a stirring tribute to a beloved fellow traveler, and a reflection of her own abundant courage.”
—Nancy Horan, New York Times bestselling author of Loving Frank
"Shannon Leone Fowler journeys courageously behind the clichés to explore how nations, cultures, and above all, individuals, grapple with loss; a vivid, compelling and deeply affecting memoir."
—Manil Suri, New York Times bestselling author of The Age of Shiva and The Death of Vishnu
“Shannon Fowler’s restlessness in the face of her unimaginable loss makes the reader feel her battered Lonely Planet travel guide was aptly named. Like Cheryl Strayed’s Wild, Fowler makes us feel that a hero’s journey is our only hope for surviving grief. Traveling with Ghosts is a brave and necessary record of love, as beautiful as it is heartbreaking.”
--Ann Patchett, New York Times bestselling author of Bel Canto and State of Wonder
“In this vital and compelling memoir, Shannon Fowler documents the sudden death of her fiancé and the year of flight that follows. Traveling with Ghosts teaches us how to reconcile ourselves with the world once the person we love is no longer in it. This is a book about the kindness of strangers, the consolation of unknown places, and the way that the world can be bright and dark, wide and narrow, all at the same time.”
––Kelly Link, Pulitzer Prize-nominated author of Get in Trouble
“This beautifully written, wonderfully engrossing book makes real the stubborn process by which we come to accept loss. Shannon Leone Fowler has made a wonderful gift of her hard won insights, and comes to a place of compassion that resonates deeply for me. I am grateful for this book. I cannot wait to give it to people I love.”
––Dorothy Allison, critically-acclaimed author of Bastard out of Carolina
"Powerful and heartbreaking, Traveling with Ghosts, is beautifully written and emotionally compelling. It is Shannon Leone Fowler's journey of survival and healing after the tragic and unexpected death of her fiancé. Battling grief with grief, she travels alone through devastated Eastern European countries, only to find her life held together by the rawness of place and the unexpected kindness of strangers. A gorgeous book to be read and savored."
—Gail Tsukiyama, bestselling author of The Samurai’s Garden and A Hundred Flowers
“After witnessing the senseless death of her fiancé, Shannon Fowler sets out on an unforgettable journey of reckoning, paying tribute to her young man’s adventurous soul while trying to make sense of the rest of her life without him. Fowler’s voice is powerful and searching, and the book left me deeply moved, not only by her courage, but by that of all the citizens of the devastated landscapes to which she so beautifully bears witness.”
—Elizabeth McKenzie, bestselling author of The Portable Veblen
"In Traveling with Ghosts Shannon Leone Fowler has created a searing memoir that recounts the moment her life was shattered by the death of her fiancé, young Australian Sean Reilly, and the months afterward as she stumbles around the war torn and poverty stricken countries of Eastern Europe trying to find a nonexistent balm to ease her grief. Coping as best she can with the terrible knowledge that Sean was just one of a number of people who swam in the Thailand ocean having never been warned that the most venomous creature on earth was there, Shannon celebrates in Traveling with Ghosts the life she had with Sean, the love they shared, and the future they planned. Rich with descriptions of place,beautifully constructed with a chronology that allows the reader to know the Sean that she knew, portrayed with honesty and dignity, Traveling with Ghosts celebrates a life cut short, a love never given a chance to grow, and a process of recovery bravely illustrating that while life after tragedy goes on, the chilly fingers of grief touch us in a way that mark us forever."
—Elizabeth George, New York Times bestselling author of A Banquet of Consequences and A Great Deliverance
“Shannon Fowler’s remarkable memoir feels as if it’s as intricate and deep as memory itself. It’s a privilege to be in her company as she travels to harrowing cities the world over, and more harrowing, to the mysterious interior realm, the country of grief. The comforts she finds there are without sentiment and profoundly moving.”
––Jane Hamilton, New York Times bestselling author of A Map of the World and The Excellent Lombards
“A stunningly wise, thoughtful, and thought-provoking ‘survival map’ of a memoir...Drawing from journals of her travels before and after the sudden death of her fiancé, Shannon Leone Fowler shares insights into life, love, and grieving in prose that is raw and unsentimental, and yet spills over with love. Put it on the shelf somewhere between Eat, Pray, Love and The Year of Magical Thinking. Traveling with Ghosts made me laugh out loud, and it broke my heart. In its unforgettable final pages, it did both at once, and, as only the very finest books do, its power over me grows rather than fades.”
––Meg Waite Clayton, bestselling author of The Wednesday Sisters
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- ÉditeurSimon & Schuster
- Date d'édition2017
- ISBN 10 1501107798
- ISBN 13 9781501107795
- ReliureRelié
- Nombre de pages304
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Traveling with Ghosts: A Memoir
Edité par
Simon & Schuster
(2017)
ISBN 10 : 1501107798
ISBN 13 : 9781501107795
Neuf
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EUR 18,09
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Image d'archives
Traveling with Ghosts: A Memoir
Edité par
Simon & Schuster
(2017)
ISBN 10 : 1501107798
ISBN 13 : 9781501107795
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Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : new. Brand New Copy. N° de réf. du vendeur BBB_new1501107798
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Traveling with Ghosts: A Memoir
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Simon & Schuster
(2017)
ISBN 10 : 1501107798
ISBN 13 : 9781501107795
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Description du livre Etat : New. Book is in NEW condition. 1.26. N° de réf. du vendeur 1501107798-2-1
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Traveling with Ghosts: A Memoir
Edité par
Simon & Schuster
(2017)
ISBN 10 : 1501107798
ISBN 13 : 9781501107795
Neuf
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Description du livre Etat : New. New! This book is in the same immaculate condition as when it was published 1.26. N° de réf. du vendeur 353-1501107798-new
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Traveling with Ghosts: A Memoir
Edité par
Simon & Schuster
(2017)
ISBN 10 : 1501107798
ISBN 13 : 9781501107795
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Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : New. First Edition. From grief to reckoning to reflection to solace, a marine biologist shares the solo journey she took-through war-ravaged Eastern Europe, Israel, and beyond-to find peace after her fiancé suffered a fatal attack by a box jellyfish in Thailand.In the summer of 2002, Shannon Leone Fowler, a twenty-eight-year-old marine biologist, was backpacking with her fiancé and love of her life, Sean. Sean was a tall, blue-eyed, warmhearted Australian, and he and Shannon planned to return to Australia after their excursion to Koh Pha Ngan, Thailand. Their plans, however, were devastatingly derailed when a box jellyfish-the most venomous animal in the world-wrapped around Seans leg, stinging and killing him in a matter of minutes as Shannon helplessly watched. Rejecting the Thai authorities attempt to label Seans death a drunk drowning, Shannon ferried his body home to his stunned family-a family to which she suddenly no longer belonged.Shattered and untethered, Shannons life paused indefinitely so that she could travel around the world to find healing. Travel had forged her relationship with Sean, and she hoped it could also aid in processing his death. Though Sean wasnt with Shannon, he was everywhere she went-among the places she visited were Oswiecim, Poland (the site of Auschwitz); war-torn Israel; shelled-out Bosnia; poverty-stricken Romania; and finally to Barcelona, where she first met Sean years before. Ultimately, Shannon had to confront the ocean after her lifes first great love took her second great love away.Cheryl Strayeds Wild meets Helen Macdonalds H Is for Hawk in this beautiful, profoundly moving memorial to those we have lost on our journeys and the unexpected ways their presence echoes in all places-and voyages-big and small. N° de réf. du vendeur DADAX1501107798
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Traveling with Ghosts: A Memoir
Edité par
Simon & Schuster
(2017)
ISBN 10 : 1501107798
ISBN 13 : 9781501107795
Neuf
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Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : new. New Copy. Customer Service Guaranteed. N° de réf. du vendeur think1501107798
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Traveling with Ghosts: A Memoir
Edité par
Simon Schuster
(2017)
ISBN 10 : 1501107798
ISBN 13 : 9781501107795
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Description du livre Etat : new. N° de réf. du vendeur FrontCover1501107798
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EUR 27,55
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Traveling with Ghosts: A Memoir
Edité par
Simon & Schuster
(2017)
ISBN 10 : 1501107798
ISBN 13 : 9781501107795
Neuf
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Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : new. New. Fast Shipping and good customer service. N° de réf. du vendeur Holz_New_1501107798
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EUR 34,66
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