As I mentioned yesterday, I took a trip to Paris recently and thought I’d take this week on the blog to discuss some of my thoughts on the trip. Today’s reflection concerns how the bookstores of Paris liked to fuck with me. I will explain.
As anyone who knows me is well aware, I read a lot. I read 318 books in 2011 and have read 157 so far in 2012. Whenever I’m out and about and see a bookstore, I immediately get an urge to go inside and look around. Usually I do. Usually I come out with books.
Something similar happened on my trip to Paris. There are bookstores everywhere in Paris. I saw them all the time. They even sold books in little stalls along the Seine. I kept having the urge to go and look around. However, the immediate thought that occurred next was how all these books were likely to be in French. I do not read French.
You have no idea how disappointing this was. It happened over and over again every day. Oh! A bookstore! Oh…it’s utterly useless to me. It was like a drunk wandering around a fake liquor store on a movie set where the booze bottles all contained colored water. It was terrible.
Frankly, I would have probably become quite depressed if it hadn’t been for Shakespeare and Company (an English language bookstore in Paris). I, of course, visited the store and bought books. I’ve visited every time I’ve gone to Paris. It helps ease the frustration of seeing books all the time and then not being able to read any of them.
Believe me, this was quite a problem. The French apparently read quite a bit. They have bookstores all over the place. Great as that is, it was the worst part of the trip that I would see them all the time and couldn’t go inside and get a book I could read. If it hadn’t been for Shakespeare and Company I probably would have settled into quite a funk and then had my ass kicked by my wife who would not have wanted her trip ruined by me being a grumpy asshole.