A magical world made out of just a few scraps of paper and a pencil
Swirling clouds suspended from the ceiling
While hot air balloons float up the old faded buildings
The warmth of a bookstore calls, a strangely familiar sensation. The vision built of in my mind was based on stories I'd read and pictures I've looked at from across the ocean. It was like stepping into a painting or like having the opportunity to visit a land created in a favorite children's book.
It's a charming literary nook, with books placed above doorways and along the sides of the staircase. Advice from writers is taped to the underside of the stairs, along with creased old photographs and handwritten notes in innumerous languages.
Everything (like the rest of Europe) was small and winding, much smaller than I imagined from the pictures I had looked at so many times. Tonight was calm, but the narrow maze the stacks create were barely wide enough for me to get through with my backpack. I weaved around, careful to not knock anything off the shelves or trip on the sneaky little steps.
A small poetry corner hid behind an open iron gate. The children's books surrounded the hide-away that I would love to hide away in. Guests scrunched themselves into the cozy corners, curled up with battered books and newly released hardcovers alike. Typewriters, pianos, abandoned nutcrackers, old knick-knacks, secret notes were scattered around the store like they were part of a treasure hunt.
It was strange to see familiar authors and bright new books with crisp unturned pages and fresh black ink all the way over here, tucked into this little corner of Paris.
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