When I was traveling, I'd love me some second-hand bookstores. They were perfect for a few hours to kill. Each one was like a tattoo on a town, unique yet familiar.
Large cities, small hamlets, the used bookstore in each were all the same stacks of yellowing books haphazarded. The smell, oh the smell, exactly the same musky deep scent. The pacing feet or strolling dogs outside the door drop away, leaving an alike meander and comforting scootch past stacks.
But the books, the little things in the windows, the person behind the counter, the dog or cat, the hippie and the retiree, the fliers and aged comic strips, each of those things was utterly unique to the place. Those little bit of character just sing out the place they are in. The stacks of surf boards on Bondi Beach, the brownies in Newhaven, the beer glasses in Denver, it's those little things that made those used bookstores an absolute joy to wander into for an hour and slow down.
The last few holidays I've had I make a point to look up whether the towns we're staying in have any second hand bookshops, and to damn well visit them - with the ever present chance of slight frustration due to some odd opening hours that seem unique to second hand bookstores in such a way as to appear to be saying "you must earn your visit by rescheduling your holiday around me".
It's possible to be correct in three guesses what the owner will look like just by knowing the opening hours.
Unfortunately, I've found that even the remaining second-hand stores have lost a bit of this "uniqueness" from location to location. Now they all push the same anarchist, grunge aesthetic. I dont mind it, but its not novel to me anymore, and it'd be nice to experience something else.
Large cities, small hamlets, the used bookstore in each were all the same stacks of yellowing books haphazarded. The smell, oh the smell, exactly the same musky deep scent. The pacing feet or strolling dogs outside the door drop away, leaving an alike meander and comforting scootch past stacks.
But the books, the little things in the windows, the person behind the counter, the dog or cat, the hippie and the retiree, the fliers and aged comic strips, each of those things was utterly unique to the place. Those little bit of character just sing out the place they are in. The stacks of surf boards on Bondi Beach, the brownies in Newhaven, the beer glasses in Denver, it's those little things that made those used bookstores an absolute joy to wander into for an hour and slow down.
I'll miss them, I think we all will.