What can possibly cheer me up on yet another of these rainy days?
Taking refuge in a warm bookstore, instinctively drawn to the colorful section of travel books, where covers with jaguars and incredible architecture, and vast sunsets jump out at you. Picking up the ones for the cities I already know, as if visiting an old friend. Looking up some of the places I used to love to go, and their history, those famous names that went to the same cob-webbed bar, down a winding street in Barcelona.
An ever-growing wall in the store of notebooks, of all sizes and types, some simple and austere, others patterned, clever. I know I love using them, but it sort of amazes me that each bookstore in each city sells so many, people manage to fill all their pages. With what? Their own stories, dreams, thoughts, notes for serious studies. Is there some kind of renaissance of personal creativity going on, or have we always been this way? So eager to record.
A big book of someone’s letters, scans of the originals, neatly or haphazardly written on hotel stationery from around the world. And beside, translations. Trying to make someone’s personal thoughts universal, or at least universally accessible.
A young, attractive, happy couple passing through with their tiny child, just forming his first adorable sentences in italian. And maybe it’s just me seeing what I want to see, but there’s an innate calm about the three of them, a smile despite the flooded streets, damp socks inside shoes, struggles with umbrellas and raincoats and strollers. A young family seeming to represent something: that it is possible after all, to actually have it all. And having it, or hoping for it, can get you through any rainy day.
