Uh-oh, it looks like your Internet Explorer is out of date.

For a better shopping experience, please upgrade now.

Shutterbabe: Adventures in Love and War

Shutterbabe: Adventures in Love and War

4.5 31
by Deborah Copaken Kogan

See All Formats & Editions

Fresh out of college and passionate about photography, Deborah Copaken Kogan moved to Paris in 1988 and began knocking on photo agency doors, begging to be given a photojournalism assignment. Within weeks she was on the back of a truck in Afghanistan, the only woman—and the only journalist—in a convoy of mujahideen, the rebel “freedom fighters”


Fresh out of college and passionate about photography, Deborah Copaken Kogan moved to Paris in 1988 and began knocking on photo agency doors, begging to be given a photojournalism assignment. Within weeks she was on the back of a truck in Afghanistan, the only woman—and the only journalist—in a convoy of mujahideen, the rebel “freedom fighters” at the time. She had traveled there with a handsome but dangerously unpredictable Frenchman, and the interwoven stories of their relationship and the assignment set the pace for Shutterbabe’s six chapters, each covering a different corner of the globe, each linked to a man in Kogan’s life at the time.

From Zimbabwe to Romania, from Russia to Haiti, Kogan takes her readers on a heartbreaking yet surprisingly hilarious journey through a mine-strewn decade, seamlessly blending her personal battles—sexism, battery, life-threatening danger—with the historical ones—wars, revolution, unfathomable suffering—it was her job to record.

Editorial Reviews

The Barnes & Noble Review
Shutterbabe: Adventures in Love and War is a fascinating coming-of-age memoir about former photojournalist Deborah Copaken Kogan's extraordinary experiences in some of the most dangerous, war-torn regions of the world. Born in the late '60s, Kogan grew up in the post-feminist era, firmly believing that she could pursue any career she wanted to. When she discovered the power and the thrill of photography as a high-spirited, intelligent undergrad at Harvard, she knew that she had found her calling; photojournalism promised the right balance of adrenaline-filled adventure and, idealistic though it may be, humanitarian effort. So, shortly after graduation, she set out in search of a war -- any war -- to expose the evils of the world, and soon she found herself on a bus with a group of Afghani freedom fighters during the pullout of Soviet troops from Afghanistan in 1989.

And that is where Kogan's story begins. By book's end, she has documented a heroin epidemic in Switzerland, a racially charged conflict over rhino preservation in Zimbabwe, a distressingly inadequate orphanage in Romania, and -- the experience Kogan now remembers as the most frightening of all -- the violent demonstrations in Moscow during the fall of the Soviet Union. As she watches these events through the viewfinder of her camera, she witnesses a multitude of atrocities that profoundly affect both her inner character and her view of the world. Her descriptions of these experiences are full of compassion, youthful naïvité, and horrified disbelief.

But, despite the unorthodox nature of her job, there is an aspect of Kogan's professional life to which many working women will relate. At 5'-2", she is a far cry from the typical cowboy photojournalist, and professionally, she suffers a fair amount of harassment. Both in the offices of her photo agency and out in the field, many of Kogan's colleagues view her with suspicion. But as her story progresses through countries and conflicts, Kogan successfully surmounts these sexist obstacles, eventually earning the respect of her fellow photographers and proving that women can make outstanding photojournalists. Along the way, she matures as a person, and her stories become both increasingly poignant and enthralling.

And that's only half the story, for among the Swiss drug addicts and Romanian orphans Kogan also searches for a very different element of human nature: love. Each chapter of Shutterbabe covers not only a specific photo assignment but also a different man in her life, and her romantic escapades are just as exciting and potentially dangerous as the violent warfare she captures on film. From mean-spirited Pascal, who beats her with a telephone, to sweet but sad Doru, who carries Romania's burdens on his shoulders, Kogan's love life is turbulent and sexy, adding to the adventure. When she finally meets her future husband, her descriptions of their time together are touching, tender, and all the more meaningful after the slew of unsuitable Romeos who came before him.

By the final chapter, after a number of difficult decisions about the relative importance of career versus family (another dilemma that is sure to draw empathy from many working women), Kogan has demonstrated that, although the turf may be different, the search for love is often filled with as many minefields as war. Ultimately, her experiences in both types of battle make Kogan an inspirational role model for women and make Shutterbabe a thoroughly riveting read. (Stephanie Bowe)

Liza Featherstone
...eloquent and well-observed, not only about the memoirist but about the world: war, death, photojournalism and, of course, the worldwide battle between the sexes.
Washington Post
Kogan loves men. She loves having sex with men, or, as she puts it in her tell-all book, she really, really loves "bedding" men. She'll do almost anything not to be alone or bored. She'll even pick up a camera if it means entree to cheap thrills, if it gives her license to enter worlds unlike the sleepy suburban one where she grew up. Frank, unapologetic and decidedly unpoetic, Kogan's memoir covers her years as a photojournalist, in seedy strip-tease joints, among drug addicts, in war-torn Afghanistan, in Bucharest, in a dizzying succession of beds. Each chapter but the last is titled for each era's most memorable lover, and Kogan's photojournalism itself seems entirely secondary, almost accidental, sprung not so much from passion or politics or even righteous artistic impulse as from a desire for titillation. "My true impetus for wanting to cover wars was, at its core, selfish," Kogan writes. "War was exciting, and I despised being bored." Readers looking for lyrical meditations or thoughtful reflections on the relationship between photography and event, media and message, art and truth won't find them here. What is here instead is the chatty, fast-paced, self-involved story of one woman's first thirty years—how she went from loving men in general to loving one man in particular, how she went from the "run-off-and-see-the-world adventure thing" to the desire to make babies with the very good man she finally marries.
—Beth Kephart

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
To pursue her dream to cover wars as a photojournalist, Kogan moved to Paris upon graduation from Harvard in 1988. Pretty and petite, with a sharp eye for good-looking, virile colleagues who, incidentally, could help her career, she embarked on a series of adventures that she breezily chronicles with a somewhat disingenuous na vet . Although her publisher compares her to Christiane Amanpour, readers may find more similarities with Candace Bushnell in these episodic vignettes describing both her far-flung assignments and intimate relationships with colleagues. She traveled with Pascal to Afghanistan and Pierre to Amsterdam; Julian helped her in Zimbabwe, but forbade further intimacies; Doru was with her in Romania. When she met Paul, her husband-to-be, Kogan's commitment to photojournalism waned: she blames her distaste on the wartime horrors she witnessed. Calling photojournalists vultures who feed on other people's misery, she conflates paparazzi with photojournalists, expressing disgust at their role in Princess Diana's fatal accident. Upon her return with Paul to the U.S., she began a new career as assistant producer for NBC's Dateline, which she eventually left to become a full-time mother. Kogan's swiftly paced story easily holds the reader's interest as she moves from her carefree days as an aspiring photojournalist to the responsibilities and dilemmas facing a working mother. Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Kogan graduated from college in 1988 and moved to Paris to find work as a photojournalist. Shutterbabe is an insightful account of what happened next. Divided into three sections, "Develop," "Stop," and "Fix," which are further divided into chapters--each named after a significant male in Kogan's life--the book centers around the author's adventurous travels, which offer a fascinating glimpse into the danger and excitement of observing wars and riots and the competition to take commercially appealing photographs. Kogan clearly describes the economic realities of photojournalism, the difficulty she had remaining removed from the tragedies she witnesses, how she adapted to a predominantly male profession, and the influence the presence of photographers can have on their subject. Her travels from Afghanistan to Romania reveal a life of excitement, danger, and self-awareness that is hard to put down. Recommended for all libraries. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 6/1/00.]--Alison Hopkins, Queens Borough P.L., Jamaica, NY Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.
From the Publisher
Shutterbabe zooms in on passionate self-discovery.”
USA Today

“Eloquent and well observed, not only about the memoirist, but about the world: war, death, photojournalism and, of course, the worldwide battle between the sexes.”
The Washington Post Book World

“A candid account of one woman’s attempt to claim the spoils of the American feminist revolution under trying circumstances: alone, abroad, practicing an art that fosters machismo and thrusts her into the midst of the most paternalistic cultures in the world.”
Chicago Tribune

Shutterbabe, like all good war stories, is flashy and exciting, but it also tells the story of a tender-hearted woman who traded war’s excitement for that of family life.”
The New York Times Book Review

Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
Edition description:
1 ED
Product dimensions:
6.45(w) x 9.56(h) x 1.09(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

An unfortunate situation, to be sure, but considering it's 2 a.m., fresh snow is falling and I'm squished in the back of an old army truck with a band of Afghani freedom fighters who, to avoid being bombed by the Soviet planes circling above, have decided to drive without headlights through the Hindu Kush Mountains over unpaved icy roads laced with land mines, it's also one without obvious remedy. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Ask the driver to pull over for a sec so I can squat behind the nearest snowbank to change my tampon?

I don't think so.

It's February 1989. I am twenty-two years old. My toes are so cold, they're not so much mine anymore as they are tiny miscreants inside my hiking boots, refusing to obey orders. In my lap, hopping atop my thighs as the truck lurches, as my body shivers, sits a sturdy canvas Domke bag filled with Nikons and Kodachrome film, which I'm hoping to use to photograph the pullout of the Soviet troops from Afghanistan.

Actually, I have no idea how to photograph a Soviet pullout. Though this is my second story as a professional photojournalist, I'm still not clear on what it is photojournalists actually do in a real war.

The first story I covered, the intifadah, was more straightfor-

ward. Organized, even. I'd take the bus early every morning from my youth hostel in Jerusalem to the nearby American Colony Hotel, where all the other journalists were staying (and where I eventually wound up staying when my clothes were stolen from the youth hostel), and I'd go straight to the restaurant off the lobby. There, I'dingratiate myself with any photographer I could find who had information about the day's planned demos, his own rental car, and a basket of leftover Danish.

After eating, we'd drive around the West Bank and wait for the Palestinian kids to throw rocks at Israeli soldiers, which we knew they would do only once a critical mass of journalists had assembled. Then we'd record the resulting skirmishes onto rolls of color slide film while trying to evade arrest andor seizure of our exposed films by the soldiers. Next, we'd all rush back to Jerusalem to the Beit Agron, the Israeli press office, where we would lie about what we'd just shot ("religious Jews," we'd say, or "landscapes,") and get our government-issued shipping forms stamped and signed accordingly. Finally, we'd head to the strange little cargo office at the airport in Tel Aviv to send our film on a plane back to our photo agencies in Paris. Simple.

But here in Afghanistan the situation is more obscure. I'm alone, for one, which among other things means I have no one to help me figure out basic puzzles like how to get my exposed film out of the mountains. Or how to write captions when no one around me speaks English, and I have no idea where, exactly, these photos are being taken or what it is I'm actually seeing. I'm just assuming that at some point, someplace, I will see some dead or bloody mujahed, or some dead or bloody Russian soldier, or some mujahed firing off his Kalashnikovs, or one of those great big Soviet tanks whose names I can never remember, or, well, something that looks vaguely warlike that I can shoot and send-again, it's murky to me exactly how-back to my photo agency in Paris.

I look over at Hashim, who's rearranging blankets, knapsacks and boxes of ammunition to clear more leg room on the crowded truck bed. He yanks my maroon nylon backpack from the center of the pile, fills in the newly empty space with a green metal box, mimes "Can I sit on this?" while pointing at my backpack, and, when I nod yes, he wedges it into a corner and plops his 180-pound rump right on top of it. A gentle crunching sound ensues, followed almost immediately by the smell of rubbing alcohol. Shit. My mind races to try to recall what else, besides the bottle of alcohol, I packed in that outside zippered pocket.

Then I remember. My box of Tampax. My one and only box of Tampax.

Well, now. I'm fucked.

Oblivious, Hashim slowly inhales a Winston cigarette and kneads his amber worry beads through his ragged fingers. Trained as a journalist, he's the one Afghani among my forty-seven escorts who actually speaks a few key English phrases such as "Food soon," "Danger, stay in cave," and "Toilet time, Miss Deborah?" But even though I know he will probably understand me if I say, "Please get off my bag," he definitely won't understand "because my tampons are exploding." And because "Please get off my bag" sounds sort of rude, and because the squishy backpack does look like a comfy place to sit while all of us are scrunched together on the back of this rickety old truck heading God knows where, and because my hygiene woes do not hold a candle to the miseries of jihad, I say nothing. Besides, I'm covered from head to toe in an electric-blue burka-an Islamic veil, worn like a Halloween ghost costume-which tends to hinder communication. Not only does it muffle my speech, it makes it impossible to guess, for example, that underneath all this rayon, under my shiny blue ghost costume, I cannot stop crying.

What on earth possessed me to come here?

In a word, Pascal. It's Pascal's fault I'm here all alone, and when I get back to Pakistan I'm going to kill him.

THE FIRST TIME I noticed Pascal it was from afar, at a café on the rue Lauriston near the Sygma photo agency. That would have been in late September 1988, about two weeks after I'd arrived in Paris, ready to start my life. Every day, I'd go to that same café and spy on the photojournalists eating lunch there. Most afternoons, I'd order a croque monsieur and place my

portfolio ever so casually on the chair in front of me, hoping that the sight of my work along with the Leica around my neck would somehow draw a photographer over to my table. In my fantasy, the photographer would ask to take a look at the pictures and then, duly impressed, he'd invite me to come join the rest of his gang at his table for an île flottante and a round of espressos. I'd sit down and, after modestly refusing to do so, I'd be persuaded by the other men-they were all men-to pass my portfolio around the group, one of whom would be an important photo editor who'd want to send me that very same afternoon to go cover a war. It didn't really matter which war because I knew better than to be picky. Any war would do.

But that was just the fantasy. In reality, I had to settle for eating my sandwiches alone and in silence.

On that first day I noticed Pascal, he strode like a bulldozer into the café, pushing in the cool autumn air from the outside with his angular torso. With what seemed like a single fluid motion, he unhitched the camera bag from his shoulder, placed it in the pile of sacks already there on the banquette, greeted his colleagues with an ironic "Salut, les potes!," pulled off his blue cashmere crew neck, knotted it around his shoulders, lit a cigarette and sat down to fondle a menu. His features were sharp and finely chiseled, his eyes sparkled with what appeared to be a touch of mild insanity, and his lips had corners that turned up when he smiled, like the Joker's in Batman. When his steak au poivre arrived, he sliced into it with the grace of an aristocrat, the tines of his fork facing down then up as one by one the freshly cut morsels disappeared into his mouth, each effortless bite punctuating the rhythm of his fraternal chatter. He is magnificent, I thought.

Pascal was an up-and-coming war photographer, and I admired his work. His pictures didn't just show action, they screamed action. Bombs exploding, young children crying, soldiers cowering, grimacing, dying. Exactly the kind of images that I was desperate to start shooting, if only I could figure out how.

After two weeks of getting nowhere with my portfolio-on-the-chair ploy and spending far too many francs on croque monsieurs, I realized I'd been going about it all wrong. With my shaky French, I called the general number for Sygma and asked to speak to Claude, the editor in charge of news photos. For whatever reason, perhaps because he couldn't understand me on the telephone, perhaps because it was a slow news day, he agreed to a meeting. The next afternoon, when I arrived at his desk, he started to laugh. "You're the little girl from the café," he said. A few of the photographers I'd been stalking, Pascal included, stared and tittered from behind the glass wall of the photographers' room.

As Claude flipped through my portfolio, which was bulging with photographs of strip clubs and the men who visit them, his eyes opened wider and he began to shake his head. Then he muttered "Putain!" I knew putain meant "whore," but at the time I did not know it could also be used idiomatically to mean something more tame, like "wow" or "holy cow." But before I could figure out where the epithet had been directed, at the strippers or at me, Claude looked up and said, "Tu voudrais aller où?"-

"Where would you like to go?"

I cocked my head. I crossed my arms. "Israel," I said, more of a dare than a word.

Claude smiled and, to my amazement, replied, "Fine." We made a deal: I'd pay for the trip; Sygma would pay for my film and development costs and then distribute the pictures upon my return. A break. At last.

As I turned to leave, Pascal caught my eye and winked. Whenever I thought about that wink afterwards, I'd shiver.

The next time I saw Pascal, it was two months later. I'd just arrived back from Jerusalem. Chip, my colleague and occasional lover, an American who'd lived in Paris for most of his adult life, invited me as his date to a dinner party Pascal was throwing with his live-in girlfriend in Paris. The live-in girlfriend part should have tipped me off, but then Pascal cornered me in the living room and challenged me, with his mischievous smirk, to a staring contest. No problem, I thought. I'll beat him hands down. But after what must have been less than sixty seconds of locking eyes with the man, I didn't just lose. I was hypnotized, rendered incapable of higher thought. Or even medium thought, like "Stay away. Girlfriend shares his bed."

Within minutes of losing the staring contest, and battling an overwhelming urge to sniff Pascal's neck, I cooked up a plan. It was a simple plan, really. One that would solve what I was beginning to understand would be a constant dilemma: companionship on the road. With our cameras in hand, we'd leave Paris, our worldly possessions, the live-in girlfriend, and my less sexy lovers behind. We'd spend the next couple of years traversing the planet, bouncing from coup to insurrection, war to revolution, passing our days shooting pictures and our nights under the stars, making love to the gentle thrum of incoming mortar fire.

Afterwards . . . well, I wasn't exactly sure. I didn't think in afterwards.

Okay, so I had an active fantasy life, but this time I could smell the thoughts as they popped into my head. Or maybe it was just the big slabs of steak that Élodie, the live-in girlfriend, was preparing in the kitchen. In any case, while Elodie was off in the kitchen preparing the meat, while Chip was embroiled in another conversation, Pascal suddenly turned to me, blew a puff of his cigarette into my face, and said, "I'm going to Afghanistan next week. Why don't you come with me?"

I sucked on my own cigarette, choked on it really, and blew the smoke back into his face. Then, composing myself, I shot him a conspiratorial smile. "Sure," I said. "Let's do it."

It was as simple, and as complicated, as that.

Copyright 2002 by Deborah Copaken Kogan

What People are Saying About This

John Hockenberry
A candid, sexy, and very funny romp that makes photojournalism seem like an X-treme sport. Deborah Copaken Kogan goes out and wrings enough terrifying heroics from the last bits of the twentieth century to make T.E. Lawrence jealous.
—John Hockenberry, author of Moving Violations and A River Out of Eden
From the Publisher
Shutterbabe zooms in on passionate self-discovery.”
USA Today

“Eloquent and well observed, not only about the memoirist, but about the world: war, death, photojournalism and, of course, the worldwide battle between the sexes.”
The Washington Post Book World

“A candid account of one woman’s attempt to claim the spoils of the American feminist revolution under trying circumstances: alone, abroad, practicing an art that fosters machismo and thrusts her into the midst of the most paternalistic cultures in the world.”
Chicago Tribune

Shutterbabe, like all good war stories, is flashy and exciting, but it also tells the story of a tender-hearted woman who traded war’s excitement for that of family life.”
The New York Times Book Review

John Burnham Schwartz
A wise and unforgettable book, written with courage and love and intelligence and humility and humor, by a remarkable woman who, through hard searching and a compassionate heart, has found all the right words with which to tell her extraordinary life.
—John Burnham Schwartz, author of Reservation Road

Meet the Author

Deborah Copaken Kogan worked as a photojournalist from 1988 to 1992, and her photographs appeared in Time, Newsweek, The New York Times, L'Express, Liberation, and Géo, among many other international newspapers and magazines. She spent the next six years in TV journalism, most recently as a producer for Dateline NBC. She lives in New York with her husband and two children.

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Post to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews

Shutterbabe: Adventures in Love and War 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 31 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I am impressed by this woman and her life, and really looking forward to more books by her. I was able to vicariously become her as she faced situations that astound me, sitting in my safe little world. She is a brave warrior and really seems to know and understand exactly who she is and why she makes the choices she does and has.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I was enthralled by this book. This woman has lead a thrilling life, and I felt inspired by having read the account. Well - written, as well as a glimpse into the journalist world - definitely a must read for journalism students.
Guest More than 1 year ago
After reading the many humorous and touching stories Deborah Copake Kogan has to offer I found this book like no other Biography, Deborah really tells her life and her experiences how it was with no exceptions. The book starts out with her in her college years in Harvard, not knowing what to do with her life in tell she finds the power of Photography. So after graduating she sets of to Europe to find the perfect touch of war and herself. After reaching their she finds herself in a bus with a group of Afghani freedom fighters in Afghanistan, 1989. Once she reaches camp and finds the truth about war, her life will never be the same, She finds people lying died in the middle of the street and she can¿t sleep because troops are coming to get them. This was the way Deborah lived her life for 4 years, seeing and fighting for terrible things. But its not all bad, she finds Love with this and every turn of the page brings a new beginning with a new guy from Pascal to the man she ends up getting engaged to, its all but a breath taking story. I would defiantly recommend this book to anyone that loves a great cuddle up with yet a touch of adventure, Its truly touching and amazing all in one.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Loved this book! Everyone must read this book. I truly felt like I knew the author. Loved how she attached her photos in the book because it connected the reader with the story. I was so sad when the book was coming to an end because I just wanted to read more and more!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Heartbreaking book with comic relief. Shows you life behind the camera
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
As a photographer and a woman, I thank Deborah for sharing this. It has changed me, inspired me and gotten into my soul. Thank you.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I honestly couldn't put it down. An amazing story of a woman in photography. A must read for any photography enthusiast!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I enjoyed reading this book. She led quite a life when she was younger and has accumulated really amazing stories which she tells very well. You can also see her mature through the book. At first there is very little reflection on her part, and she gives you very little about the broader and deeper meanings and connections of the amazing things she has witnessed and taken part in. You do get the sense at times that she zips into these amazing situations, snaps her pictures, has her incredible adventures and then she zips out, and you don't get a sense of knowing what happened to the people she saw. You get pictures you can put in a scrap book but not a deeper understanding of the story around the picture. By the end of the book, however, you do get to understand the author better, although still not very much about the external world she sees. But she is a good writer and I expect her writing will improve with maturity. --One thing I really liked about the book is that, since I knew she wrote it, I knew she survived all these things that had happened to her. I was cheering for her all the way and by the end of the book, I felt I really liked her.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
Shutterbabe is a quick and easy read. The prose is light and crisp--just right for those marathon sessions when you want to burn through a book in a day and a half. With considerable doses of bullets, blood and sex, 'Shutterbabe' is more exciting than enlightening. A page turner as Kogan relives her fast-paced life as a globe-trotting photojournalist and recommended for 20-somethings struggling to make the right early-career choices.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was easily the best book i've read all year! The experiences documented in Shutterbabe are so incredibly emotional and thought provoking. The book is written so that by the end, I felt very close to Ms. Kogan. I strongly recommend this book to everyone! A fantastic read that stimulates your every emotion.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Could not put this down- exciting, emotional, sentimental... recommend this to anyone- you'll most likely finish it in a couple of days- it's just that good!!
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is awesome. A must read for any type of man or women. This book has something in it for everyone to relate to and be touched by. This is one of the first true-life stories that has left me breathless and stunned. Not only is it touching, it is adventurous and gripping. A must read for anyone.... I'm serious, buy this book right now!!!!
Guest More than 1 year ago
'Shutterbabe' is the kind of book that inspires you to follow your dreams but at the same time (because it is a memoir) be jealous that your dreams have already been experienced by someone. However, I'm not complaining because by reading 'Shutterbabe' I got to vicariously experience all of Copaken's adventures. Copaken has not only lived an adventure-filled life but she's a good writer, too. I read this book extremely quickly & when I got to the end of it, I wished there was more to read. Another thing I liked about the book is the fact that Copaken is a feminist. Men were always trying to take advantage of her or sexually harass her or order her around, but she didn't put up with it. She was also very honest about writing about an abortion that she had and a time that she was raped. I commend her for writing about those things because it must be difficult for the entire reading public to know all those private things. I recommend anyone who likes travel, good stories, feminism, or photography to read this outstanding book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is the kind of book that makes you want to run out and accomplish all that you've been putting on hold. It's extremely inspirational and very gripping. From Milan to New York, I couldn't put it down. A definite must read!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Who would allows themselves to be dropped in the middle of nowhere, with the roar of wild animals in the background? Having no idea where are which way to go! Or watch an autopsy of a Romanian child who is then thrown into a gunnysack when it is complete? I am amazed at the life Deborah has lived and how she followed a dream that so few of us would give up our SUV's and comfortable homes for. Through every type of adversity, she seemed to find a funny story to relate to the reader. Being a serious amateur photographer, I found her book engrossing and she took a bit of the glamour off the career of a photojournalist, yet showed us just how human each one of them are. This is a must read book. It is not a page turner, but a page burner....great job Deborah!