Latest in this author's series of exquisite contributions to the frenzied cult of mania, this is the deathless account of a family's exposure to the gentle art of traveling. Spurred by her husband's hegira, the mem sahib of the Perelmans piles on the perfidy to be on the move for the East, with their two children, Adam, 12, and Abby, 10. Producing chaos from the empty air, this quartet of foreign devils does its worst by Hong Kong, Bali, Bangkok, Italy, the Riviera, England, Ireland, France, and the adventures of these four bodies and 21 pieces of luggage (to which a mynah bird and uncountable loot is added) make a loathesome bit of land and sealubbering. Sounding like an exposed nerve, the author pulls no punches in his treatment of various fleabags they inhabit, of his feelings about the Dutch who aired their feelings about the U.S. too insultingly, about the quantity and quality of the things they did. In the tall, dark-tempered vein, this is Perelman the pluperfect.