I’m not certain when or how it happened, but over the last few years I’ve developed a habit. I visit independent book shops. In the beginning, it was by accident that I would stumble upon these pint sized gems, but over time, I began to search their existence. My fascination isn’t only with books, it’s the souls that choose to make book peddling a full time job.
Rodney’s store is called The Fine Bookshop. It was an accident I tripped over while meandering around a cobblestone pedestrian street in Palma de Mallorca. Entering the open doorway, I noticed a disheveled man with wild grey hair and metal rimmed spectacles perched behind a desk engrossed in a football game being played on a black and white, palm sized TV. His attire seemed to mimic his hair, washed in shades of pale grey. The button down shirt only made half an effort to be tucked in and his trousers looked like they would run in fear if an iron ever graced their presence. This man was beautiful, although his greeting wasn’t exactly warm. Moving past Rodney, I noticed scattered haphazardly various pieces of framed art and maps, vintage phones, typewriters, and globes older than Rodney. All of these fragments, combined with his collection of rare and used books left me intrigued. I wanted to leave with a remnant of this labyrinth; so I asked if he had any books by Robert Graves, a poet who lived and died in Mallorca. With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he showed me the way. As we passed stacks of books, challenging me in height, Rodney snickered to himself, recalling the times he would drink with the author. This wasn’t difficult to imagine. I could easily see him swigging a shot with classics like Graves, as much as I could see him partying with the likes of Bill Wyman. There’s just something that screams he’s “been there, done that”. No questions asked. Telling him I was on a budget that compared to his palm sized TV, he handed me a tattered parchment colored hardback that was a first edition of poems. It was so small, I could fit it in my back pocket. Not unlike the bookshop and its owner, my new book wasn’t perfectly intact, it too appeared to have stories that stretched beyond the coffee stained cover. I loved the tangible element I could take with me of the whimsical disheveled mess I’d stumbled upon in Palma. Both Rodney and his collection affirmed that the world of independent bookshops are wondrous and filled with elements a Kindle could only dream of, a heartbeat along with ink stained pages.
But the third was the best surprise. The store’s location is known more for the percentage of billionaires, than books. Glitzy, glamorous Monaco. American, Siri Khalsa had the fresh glow that normally accompanies mothers of a newborn. Her newest addition won’t be wearing milk stained bibs or babbling words from lips. Siri’s newest addition is the Book Boutique of Monaco (also known as BOMO). Before stepping in the doorway, I knew this store was going to be different from all the others. And I was right.
Most independent book shops ooze with old world charm, like Shakespeare and Company in Paris. These places pride themselves, rightfully so, not only on their collection of books, but the architectural space their books call home. Many shops in Europe are housed in buildings predating the French Revolution. With the exception of books, Siri’s boutique lacked most of the qualities found in the other independent stores. Not unlike the owner, the shop exudes grace.
Walking up to the structure, you're struck by the glistening windows and the fresh streamlined blue and white logo hanging over the entrance. No lopsided signs here, nor was there a book out of place or dust among the pages. The space didn’t scream old world, more like it whispered with a crisp, confident sense of clarity, “I’m here, therefore I am”. Like a new born baby, all it needed to do was lie still and allow others to inhale its natural beauty. The snugly corner location offers plenty of light filled windows. The space feels smart, yet accessible. Nearly a quarter of the store is dedicated to the future readers of the world, children. I enjoyed watching my five year old dash for the playful tent filled with puppets, while her older sisters reminisced about their favorite childhood books and their dad and I perused the shelves.Before leaving, I pulled a book from Siri’s suggested title shelf by an unfamiliar author. With a genuine smile she treated me to a tutorial that rivaled a mini university lecture, a sneak preview of why she admired the woman I would soon explore on my own. Siri was a beautiful reminder of the wisdom and wonders that can only transpire by walking through the doorway of an independent book store. The books are brilliant, but the heartbeats that glow within are the real classics.
And for those who read my last article, “Turning Lemons into Oranges”, Falling in Honey by Jennifer Barclay was just as delicious as the title!
Long live the book peddler, and their followers…