She’s forever searching, lands everywhere but never really gets anywhere. She lives in Boboville.

She is one of those people her parents always warned her about. One of those first-person narrators who suffer from a crave for stories, a crave for thingy-stories, idea-stories. Completely bonkers. She hangs around bars, flows through lounges, shakes on dance floors. And, like everybody else in Boboville, she’s always searching – for the Explorer guitar, for the pasty-faced guy with love handles, for the story of Hiram Abiff, that special Zappa bootleg. She is searching for Anouk Aimée in 8 ½, the Freitag bag with the B in chartreuse, Coop’s devil’s face, the four daiquiris at Floridita’s, burning Elmar. Like all the others, she lives in the town of towns. She lives in Boboville. In this postmodern city novel, we accompany the protagonist on her daily odyssey. The author recounts the ludicrous episodes in the lives of the bobo (bourgeouis bohemian) people. Meet the hippie baker with LSD-coloured hair, the poet with the sharp knife, the chancelor, and the climber. They all land everywhere, but never get anywhere. They are already there. In Boboville.