Not Your Average Bookstore
An Essay by Natalie Vawter

’ve been waiting for this all day. I’ve put away the groceries, swept the kitchen floor, and tucked the kids into bed. I’ve even resisted the half-gallon of Rocky Road tempting me from the dark cocoon of my freezer. Yes, I’ve been good and I’m more than ready to indulge a little.

park my car in the adjacent lot and head eagerly for the entrance. It’s colder than seems right for September and I’m fussing with my coat as I cross the street. Hands shoved deep into my pockets, I pause under a brilliant red awning. It reads simply, “The Book Loft.” It might as well read, “Paradise.”

y mood shifts without any conscious effort, the world sliding into soft focus as I move into the shadowy walkway beyond the awning. The bricks beneath my feet are worn and uneven, much like the ivy-laced wall to my left and the aging building to my right. I smell recent rain and old wood and my steps automatically slow. I’ve never taken this walk quickly. I’ve lingered every time, as I linger now, the soft press of my soles seeming too loud for the hush that surrounds me.

move on, drawn in by the quiet gurgle of a fountain and the breeze whispering through the trees. The walkway is lined with benches and brightened by endless planters of impatiens.  I think I love the Christmas lights best though, the way they wink up at me from the bushes. It doesn't matter that it's September; these lights twinkle year-round.

he walkway brings me to an unremarkable entrance. This is no nation-wide chain with marketing slogans and tastefully lit posters of literary greats in the windows. This is a porch, and a rather small one at that. It is clustered with wooden tables and cluttered with stacks of clearance books. There is little room to move, and the tightness of the space encourages me to run my fingers over a few leaf-strewn covers. The last vestiges of my tension unfurl to the sound of a Celtic ballad that’s playing.

move to the wooden door and find the brass handle cold beneath my fingers. Swinging open this door does not reveal a vast lobby with round tables and elaborate displays. It reveals a glorified walk-in closet and a tired twenty-something who looks up from his register to offer me a smile. It reveals bookshelves that flank every available inch of wall space, with volumes of every size and variety. There is neither rhyme nor reason, nor perhaps sanity in this display, but I’m as charmed as I always am by the sight.

could spend hours in this first room, enjoying the music and browsing the assortment of titles. A couple bustles in the door behind me, though, and the burst of cold air that enters with them urges me to seek out a cozier place to browse. One passage leads off the left side of this room, but I choose the stairs to my right, hoping the second floor will be warmer.

he music shifts as I climb, Celtic pipes merging into the soulful croon of Johnny Cash. My fingers curl comfortably over the worn banister as I ascend. There is no space unused in the stairwell, books and CDs resting in tiny cubbyholes, gift bags hanging from random hooks. The room I emerge in is only marginally larger than the first, and three more exits lead from it.

he Book Loft goes on this way, winding in and out of doorways, leading up and down stairs that creak beneath my feet. There are thirty-two rooms in all, each connected to the next by a string of narrow passages and staircases. The girl in me begs to play hide and seek in this wondrous place, but the woman in me is too tempted by the merchandise that surrounds me.

ooks beckon from every flat surface, those that have massed millions in sales resting between titles I’ve never heard of, written by authors I barely recognize. It comforts me, the justness in this arrangement. These books are not hapless citizens in a caste system, but rather are individuals, each tempting me to pluck them from the shelf, recognized or not.

ometimes I only visit a few of the thirty-two rooms in this store. Today I visit them all, lingering over each groaning floorboard, pressing my palms against the rough hewn bookshelves. All around me is the smell of old paper and the taste of possibilities. It is with great reluctance that I make my way back to the first room, a stack of books in my hands.

s the soft-spoken boy rings me up, I smile at my selections. I’ve snagged a sci-fi novel, a collection of British poetry, a particularly soppy looking romance, and a potty training guide that I earnestly hope will work a miracle in my house. I’ve even picked up a book on dream interpretation. Who knew I was interested in that?

’m not surprised, though. This place has always tempted me to explore, to reach for books that I’d never give a second glance elsewhere. I’ve discovered some of the best writing I’ve ever known here, and some of the worst. But it’s the place that brings me back, this crooked labyrinth that holds an endless treasure of reading delights.

he clerk settles my books into a plastic bag and I push my credit card across the battered counter. My eyes drift to a map helpfully hanging in the center of the room. It’s a good idea, and so are the arrows on the floor that helpfully direct the newest adventurers.

don’t need the map anymore. I wander this place with the comfortable ease of a well-seasoned traveler. Every squeak of the steps brings a smile to my lips. Every change in the music draws me further into this magical place. No sleekly designed shelves or overstuffed armchairs are settled in these rooms. And though you can get a remarkable cup of coffee next door, you won’t be interrupted by the whir of bean grinders and foam makers. This place is about the love of books, pure and simple. It is a sanctuary, a tiny slice of book-lover's heaven that always manages to touch my soul.