One Thing Leads to Another

I liked his dry humour and humble search for a cure. In fact, sitting at a cafe table in Paris on a dark bentwood chair, sipping wine from Bordeaux I was laughing out loud as happy as a daisy alone...

I wanted to visit Shakespeare and Company, yet on that warm spring morning in Paris there was an eight metre queue. Such is life. A historic bookstore will have its mythic reputation. They don’t let you take photos inside, which is good, in the Notre Dame nearby it is a free for all.

You must only look at the books. It’s not a complete tourist show in other words. It is civilised and packed with tourists milling about, so I didn't go in this time. It is a shame for an inspired reader and photographer, for someone who looks deliberately at everything. 

It is full of beautiful objects and the upstairs window has a sweet view of the Cathedral’s Gothic spires or the renovation that continues depending on when you last visited Paris. With tumbling plants and piles of reads on offer you have a sweet opportunity to be at one with words and pages. It is kind of nice and rather liberating.

Fortunately, I found another bookstore in Paris that sold great books, the San Francisco Book Company in Saint Germain des Pres. The cadmen red window and matching door is purely Parisian yet hints at the iconic bridge and the American owner who suggested to me his book store was better than S & C. For a second hand bookstore I liked his bold statement and said, “well you would know”. It seemed right that I happened to be staying at the petite hotel next door on Rue Monsieur le Prince.

Life was sending me a sign, you are on track. There were endless cafes and book stores and fabulous architecture to photograph every three metres at least. My spirit was gathering momentum rapidly, the twenty three hour flight was quickly exhaled as soon as I found myself wiping crumbs of pain au chocolat and sipping a cafe au lait. Paris could fix my weary soul, yes three days in the city of light would be the much needed balm.

I was standing inside opening books I never find at home and thinking to myself this is my worst nightmare. A genuine treasure trove of titles and my bag was not going to entertain the potential. It was a bitter sweet travel moment full of hope and possibility yet I knew it would be a mistake. I had only been on French soil for four hours and there I was imagining filling my suitcase with books. 

I picked up, A World of My Own: A Dream Diary by Graham Greene and George Orwell's 'Diaries’ out of sweet curiosity. The diary influence was tipping over into my real life, but when do I see these books at home? This is exactly why I needed to go to Paris, to be in the middle of such beauty. I adored their personal notes and the diary entries. I read a few lines and put the books back. I noticed the comments on the weather and I thought that when you travel the weather is all consuming. 

I made a Note to Self: I will get the Orwell Diaries later, simply because I just finished Wifedom: Mrs Orwell’s Invisible Life by Anna Funder, that explores the story of George Orwell’s brilliant educated wife Eileen O’Shaughnessy, who once wrote an essay called 1984. Say no more.

A random tourist walked into the store and yelled “I just want to smell books” and then disappeared out to the street. I got a kick out of that comment. He made me smile and think about artists' lives - imagine not having bookstores to hide in for a few hours, a hideous thought.

I got curious and wondered what I might find in the section of ‘Esoterica’ in Paris. That is when two books hijacked me. I say ‘hijacked’ because I took it as a sign that I should possibly buy them. And that meant I had to ponder more possibilities. Was it wise? And will I regret this? And so, I walked out with a small red paper bag inside two second books, one by Tim Parks - Teach Us to Sit Still and the other a random but not completely odd decision, I-Ching: The Book of Change by John Blofeld, hmm, yes we will ponder this further down the track. 

But Parks, yes, I know his work, a British man who is married to an Italian and lives in Verona. He is not only a university professor but a prolific writer and observer of Italian culture. I have read a few of his books, Italian Life and the wonderful story of him walking the path of Guiseppe Garibaldi from Ravenna to Rome, The Hero’s Way. This time the book had me curious, I couldn't put it back. 

About six months ago I read a beautiful book by Italian author Alba Donati - Diary of a Tuscan Bookshop. An Instagram friend suggested I would love it. No surprise, a diary is always a lure. Alba Donati, a writer and poet, left the publishing world in Milan and moved back to her roots in Tuscany and opened a small bookstore in a random location in the hills of Toscana. At the end of each day she writes the books in her diary that have been ordered at the bookshop in Lucignana.

As a woman who is observant of details I took note when the book by Tim Parks discovering meditation practice turned up a number of times in the list of orders amongst writers like Andre Aciman, Truman Capote, Nadia Terranova, Margaret Atwood, Haruki Murakami and Alfonzo Berardinelli. This intrigued me. And there I was in Paris reading the introduction. I put it back trying to contain myself, but it had a gravitational pull I couldn't explain.

Considering how sleep deprived I was I could have bought ten books, however I had an idea that I could open the I Ching - Book of Changes each morning like Virgil. I would seek one message for each day on my travels. Or like an oracle for the day ahead. A little bibliomancy with my cappuccino. I liked the idea. 

I was writing a travel diary for publication, so this could add detail to the notes as I traveled. It is good while traveling to make time for contemplation. I opened the book and read, Persistence in a righteous course brings reward…. There is nothing wrong with a delicate flower in bloom while events unfurl.

The Parks book did entertain me. I loved that he was such a complete cynic of alternative medicine. That he lived in his left brain and yet his body was alerting him to the fact that he had a health condition that not only he found completely embarrassing to talk about but worse, they couldn't seem to find a remedy to fix it. Indeed, his spiritual life was knocking at the door and the only vehicle was his health. And so he went on a journey down both routes, traditional first and second, most reluctantly, into holistic alternative medicine. The quest for healing turned him from a complete skeptic to seeking a meditation practice that would slowly start to overcome his embarrassing condition. 

I liked his dry humour and humble search for a cure. In fact, sitting at a cafe table in Paris on a dark bentwood chair, sipping wine from Bordeaux I was laughing out loud as happy as a daisy alone in the middle of Paris. I ordered French Onion Soup and mint tea and even though I was dead tired I kept reading.

The book became a wonderful companion and distraction from my own unique set of problems and a beautiful escape on the train to Milan. Pity about the screaming two year old Mimi and Mamam who sat next to me on the packed train journey via the Alps into Italy. But that indeed, is another story.

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