The Smell of Old Bookstores

  I enjoy the squeaky floors of an old bookstore.  Sometimes with my eyes closed I’ll confuse a tired squeaky postal shoe with the strain of a floorboard.  I would further enjoy getting into a conversation with random people, but my conversational skills are sometimes filled with awkward gaps and pauses, like inappropriate punctuation causes a reader to stumble.  It is these spaces that slows time to an uncomfortable level, usually resulting in the annoyed participant wandering away.

    For me, old bookstores also carry the heavy scent of dust.  The dust resting on the tops of unread pages tends to waft about the store with only the slightest movement of customers.  It is history itself traveling along the aisles, settling upon tabletops and into the fabric of overstuffed chairs, only to again get puffed out as someone sits to read.

    Collectively, it is a symphony of sights and sounds, of stories and adventures - tucked between covers designed to tempt you to extend your hand, lift the book from the shelf and be carried off on someone else’s imagination.  

What’s not to like?