I
was anxious being that close to the Sci-Fi section. Around the corner from the
English Lit and General Fiction aisles, the Sci-Fi route seemed esoteric. Perhaps
a little creepy, even. Those aisles extended far back into the musty (but, all
the same, sweet smelling) bouquet of used books and paraphernalia. I kept my
distance. I didn’t make eye contact with those who wandered into the depths of monster clad covers. I think I believed if I gave a second glance in
that direction, I would somehow be sucked in and never return.
Instead,
I buried myself in a claustrophobic corner of classics. My first few visits
to City Lights were out of necessity. As a student, and new to the
area, I sought out bargain prices for college reading. Yet as I became
acquainted with the sights, smells, and tactile pleasures of this curiosity
shop, I became addicted.
Old,
tattered copies of Plath, Byron, and De Beauvoir were easily found here. But
the mix of vinyl, movies, and music to accompany the towering used books made
this a complex cultural destination where I could never leave empty handed.
It
was sometimes a hot spot for crossing paths with local pals. On more than one
occasion, it was the meet-up place where a few moments of book browsing would
segue to a lazy walk around the downtown core, followed by an hour or three at
the corner coffee shop where the philosophical debates were as sweetly suffocating
as the then-allowed-smoke.
 |
|
City
Lights Bookshop in London ON
(halfway between Toronto and Detroit).
|
The
shop’s been around since 1975, but my prime time in that world took place in
the late 90s. Maybe it was the early emo indie sounds broadcasting overhead. Maybe
it was the college break-up/make-up/break-up cycles worked out between the narrow
aisles and crunched corners of Woolf, Sartre, and Camus. Maybe it was the constant
dare to time a quick book shop stop with the last late bus ride home. Whatever it
is, whatever it was, there’s a little piece of nostalgia nestled in that old
building.
And
once in a while, when I pull a slightly worn paperback off my office bookshelf,
that familiar smell of aged paper and ink, mixed with college unease-meets-indifference,
reawakens a moment from the past and transports me to another place, even without
the sci-fi time machines to take me there.
