You know a few blog posts ago when I went on and on about how the weather in Paris has been fantastic? About how we all lounge in Paris' myriad parks and enjoy picnics all day? Well, Mother Nature has turned on the city of Paris, turning the last two weeks into France's version of monsoon season. That cabin fever that I felt during the Parisian Ice Age back in February has started to sink in again. Where can I go apart from my apartment and school to stave off the inevitable insanity? This was my dilemma during the first week of my rain-induced prison. Having recently finished The Hunger Games series, I figured it was time to find a new book to read. And let's face it, when I head back to the US and DC life, the mystical activity of "reading for pleasure" will be disappear.
Enter Shakespeare and Company. Probably the most famous bookshop in Paris, immortalized by writers like James Joyce, Ezra Pound, and Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway describes the shop perfectly:
"A lovely, warm, cheerful place with a big stove in winter, tables and shelves of books, new books in the window, and photographs on the wall of famous writers both dead and living."
-Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
Little did I know that when I stepped through that door to simply buy a book and continue on my way, I would return every night for the following two weeks. The place is like something out of a book itself. All sounds from the city outside die away. The smell of old leather from the worn books gives the place an air of a time gone by. I'm very old-fashioned when it comes to how I read. I buy newspapers and read them in the morning when I'm at home in DC. I will never read from a Kindle, Nook, or iPad. There's just something about holding a book, turning that page, feeling the paper underneath your fingertips, that furthers your connection to the story held within its pages. A book feels like it has life to it. When text is read from a screen, it feels too sterile, too soulless. There's a character to books that no e-reader could ever replicate. To me, the experience of reading a book imprints a story on the book itself, a story completely different from the one contained within its pages. You can look back on old books you've read and see the food stains from your fingers or watermarks from tears that might've fallen as you read. You can recall your own memories reading it, what you were doing, where you Books become precious tokens that way. So as I weaved throughout the towering stacks and shelves of books, I felt right in my element.
Venturing to the back of the store, I found a staircase leading up to a reading room. Nestled into a soft, squishy, time-tattered armchair was the book Fall of Giants by Ken Follett, an author a friend of mine had recommended to me a while back. Just sitting there, as if the bookstore was inviting me to sit and stay awhile. So awhile I stayed. For six hours. And then again the next night. And the night after that, each time hiding the near 1,000 page book under different shelves. It was like forming a secret bond with the shop that only we knew about. This place became a refuge for me, a literary sanctuary where I could escape the rain, read to my heart's content, and even listen to the occasional person play a little number on the shop's quaintly out-of-tune piano.
Imagine my excitement the other day when I clicked onto a friend's blog to see a post dedicated to her love of Shakespeare & Co. Here's the link. Maddie Hendricks. Insanely gifted writer. http://alexmadparis.tumblr.com/
Finally! I had someone to share this place with. Enough people had already discovered it, judging by the notes and letters taped and thumbtacked to the walls upstairs, written in all different languages, extolling the bookshop for providing a little slice of the world where everything was peaceful. Where you could just lose yourself.
Enter Shakespeare and Company. Probably the most famous bookshop in Paris, immortalized by writers like James Joyce, Ezra Pound, and Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway describes the shop perfectly:
"A lovely, warm, cheerful place with a big stove in winter, tables and shelves of books, new books in the window, and photographs on the wall of famous writers both dead and living."
-Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
Little did I know that when I stepped through that door to simply buy a book and continue on my way, I would return every night for the following two weeks. The place is like something out of a book itself. All sounds from the city outside die away. The smell of old leather from the worn books gives the place an air of a time gone by. I'm very old-fashioned when it comes to how I read. I buy newspapers and read them in the morning when I'm at home in DC. I will never read from a Kindle, Nook, or iPad. There's just something about holding a book, turning that page, feeling the paper underneath your fingertips, that furthers your connection to the story held within its pages. A book feels like it has life to it. When text is read from a screen, it feels too sterile, too soulless. There's a character to books that no e-reader could ever replicate. To me, the experience of reading a book imprints a story on the book itself, a story completely different from the one contained within its pages. You can look back on old books you've read and see the food stains from your fingers or watermarks from tears that might've fallen as you read. You can recall your own memories reading it, what you were doing, where you Books become precious tokens that way. So as I weaved throughout the towering stacks and shelves of books, I felt right in my element.
Venturing to the back of the store, I found a staircase leading up to a reading room. Nestled into a soft, squishy, time-tattered armchair was the book Fall of Giants by Ken Follett, an author a friend of mine had recommended to me a while back. Just sitting there, as if the bookstore was inviting me to sit and stay awhile. So awhile I stayed. For six hours. And then again the next night. And the night after that, each time hiding the near 1,000 page book under different shelves. It was like forming a secret bond with the shop that only we knew about. This place became a refuge for me, a literary sanctuary where I could escape the rain, read to my heart's content, and even listen to the occasional person play a little number on the shop's quaintly out-of-tune piano.
Imagine my excitement the other day when I clicked onto a friend's blog to see a post dedicated to her love of Shakespeare & Co. Here's the link. Maddie Hendricks. Insanely gifted writer. http://alexmadparis.tumblr.com/
Finally! I had someone to share this place with. Enough people had already discovered it, judging by the notes and letters taped and thumbtacked to the walls upstairs, written in all different languages, extolling the bookshop for providing a little slice of the world where everything was peaceful. Where you could just lose yourself.
The bookshop even gave me a little reward for my loyalty the other night. It was around 7pm when I had settled into my armchair by the piano to start devouring more of Follett's excellent fictional pre-WWI tale. An Irish girl, Eileen, who works at the shop came up to let people know that a book reading was about to start downstairs followed by a Q&A session with the author. As I went down the stairs to check it out, I found that it was a book reading for a new novel The Paris Correspondent written by Alan Cowell, a British journalist currently working as a foreign correspondent in Paris for The New York Times. An incredibly well-known reporter, Cowell has been stationed all over the world, covering conflicts in the Middle East, Turkey, Africa, and Egypt. His new book weaves his own personal experiences into a fictional story of foreign correspondents in Paris. As a Political Communication major, my interest peaked big time, and I found myself a seat in the middle of the already large crowd. The following hour and a half was something that would have made my fellow SMPA nerds drool from the mouth. Cowell read bits from his book and engaged the audience in a discussion on the current state of flux in which today's media landscape currently finds itself. How traditional media institutions are adjusting to this new, digital, 24 hour, constant news cycle. It was out of this world. To top it all off, wine and cheese was served afterwards. Because Paris. Cowell mingled through the crowd in the tight maze of bookshelves, even making his way to me. For a few minutes, we discussed how young adults, like myself, can enter the political media fields. We even scratched the surface on how new media technologies have influenced events seen in the Middle East and North Africa with the Arab Spring. So basically, I got to discuss topics like those over wine and cheese with an award winning New York Times foreign correspondent. And get a copy of his book autographed, which I'm currently 97 pages into. The accolades to this guy's writing are immensely well-deserved.
So an escape from this omnipresent raincloud led me to one of the most memorable moments I've had abroad. As I get closer and closer to going home (which, don't get me wrong I'm incredibly excited for) I can't help but think that it will be these little discoveries, especially that bookshop, that I'll miss the most.
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