One of the top 10 reasons I want to be bicoastal between Savannah, Georgia, and Portland, Oregon, is Powell’s Books.
It’s a vast landscape of rooms devoted to the written word. It mixes used and new books, hardcover and paperback, all on the same shelves. It won my heart with the “Intercultural Communication” section. I was amazed to find so many travel memoirs by almost as many different writers. I had found my people. And, I have to admit, I was also a wee bit sad to realize I was not quite as unique as I thought.
I bought only 24 books (all less than $7 a piece!) and forced my husband to put some in his less-than-the-airline-regulation-weight-limit suitcase to get them back home. Gene was not thrilled to be the mule for my new addiction.
Weeks after we returned from Portland, I confessed that I bought three more books at the branch store at the airport (for the same excellent prices) while waiting for our flight.
Even though we live 2,391 miles away, I can shop Powell’s Books inventory online, but it doesn’t offer the same thrill. I am a tactile shopper. I want to hold it, smell the ink, see if anyone tucked a little note between the pages. And book shopping is a gentle way to come down from the sugar buzz of eating too many maple glazed-bacon doughnuts I just ate at Voodoo Doughnut.