The Bookstore Experience

Long, tall girls in bookstore aisles
by Charlie Leck

When I do accountings of my favorite places to spend time, bookstores always finish way up on top of my lists. There is a lovely, little bookstore in a town very nearby. It sits in such an enviable location, looking out on the waters of Lake Minnetonka, that one can hardly think of any more wonderful place to browse through books. It's only weakness is that it doesn't have sprawling room and when wants to stretch out and stay a while, thumbing through book after book, it isn't the place to visit. Unfortunately, at times such as that, when a large inventory and big amounts of space are absolute requirements; one is forced to visit the big box bookstore further in toward town and just off the Interstate Highway.

I went to the big box store yesterday in search of some of the travel books of Bill Bryson. I've written about Bryson in this blog space. He's become one of my favorite contemporary authors; however, I've not yet read any of his travel accounts.

I strolled through the big front doors of the store and aimed myself in the general direction of travel and geography. I approached the aisle and was about to make a hard left turn into the travel section when, fortunately, something ahead distracted me (or attracted me in an intriguing kind of way) and I hesitated at my turn. I dread thinking of what might have happened if I had made the turn at full speed and encountered what I observed there when I hesitated.

Lounging before me, taking up the entire aisle, and then some, were two ladies of my acquaintance from a little spot we all call our country club. Mind you, they are not ordinary ladies. They are two of the tallest ladies I know and when they decide to lie about in a bookstore aisle they are sending a message with certainty: "This aisle-way is closed! Please use detour!" Around them were scattered a dozen or more books that they had examined, or were intending to examine. It would be safe for me to add here, if they don't happen to stumble upon my blog, that they were in what one might call their Saturday morning mode. In other words, they did not have that usual country club look with which I am most familiar. They had not on themselves even a mite of make-up and their heads of hair were not coiffed one tiny bit. They wore jeans (denim) of the most faded and comfortable sort – something totally banned at our little club and so, naturally, something I had never seen them wear before. Each also wore some kind of dull, gray, tattered sweatshirts that one would normally only be allowed to wear when bathing the Saint Bernard.

These long, tall ladies, so comfortably overwhelming the entire aisle of the travel section, had not the slightest idea that I stood there, looking down upon them in their quest for information. I was disappointedly wishing that I had my camera in hand because it would have made one of the finest candid photographs in the history of modern photography; and had it not gotten me world-wide fame it would certainly have won me many hearty back-slaps from folks around the club. I toyed with the idea of ignoring them and moving on without a word; however, I am not known for such graciousness and gracefulness, so I laughed robustly and pointed at them in their repose.

"Girls! You are about to travel somewhere!" I am also known as something of a creative and talented detective. My deductive powers are enormous.

They looked up and their cheeks immediately flushed. The first thing I noticed was their sense of relief that I was not carrying with me the camera for which I am so well known at our little club.

I must interrupt my ramblings here to point out, in case you haven't already sensed it, that this whole picture is something to which I give hearty and unreserved approval. I know of nothing more comfortable and enjoyable to do. Lounging in bookstores is extremely acceptable. One just does not want to be discovered doing it or interrupted while in such a state of relaxed concentration. It is a very private and personal moment. I can make my point by relating to you that the girls disappeared shortly after I learned from them that they planned to roam around in the rural, small villages of Spain, southern France and Italy.

I went off to chat with a lady at the information desk. I had only time to tell her she looked terribly familiar and to learn from her that we went to the same church in downtown Minneapolis. I then circled around to the other entrance into the travel aisle to explore some of Bryson's offerings and noted that the long, tall ladies had tidied up their formerly staked out territory and had disappeared completely. It was no doubt due to my discovery of them in such intimacy. My poor and boorish behavior embarrassed me to no end and I immediately sat down in the middle of the aisle and mournfully pulled out 5 or 6 different volumes of the travel writings of Bill Bryson. I was able to begin chuckling immediately and my feelings of guilt were assuaged. The little hideout was now mine.