The ‘tired and pregnant one’ is having a nap so I went to the bookstore across the street after I wrote that last post.
I should prelude this next comment with the following information: whenever I go into a bookstore back home there is a mental list of authors I seek out. Why? Because in my various travels I’ve stumbled across rare copies of their books and love their work. I so-rarely find work by those authors than often I buy them when I find them because it would be sheer luck to find them a second time.
After this last pulse-racing dodge, I can’t go into a bookstore here again, I think; I’d buy them out. Not only are there stacks of books from my ‘if only I could find it’ list, but there are literally SIGNED copies. Not only has the store HEARD of the authors, they’ve physically been IN THAT STORE.
Henceforth: North American Bookstores Suck. Insert counter-arguement here, if you dare.
I suppose since I’m killing time I should elaborate on the accomodations. We’re camped out at this cozy little eight-room hotel near the University district. And when I write cozy, I specifically mean cozy: three ‘buzz the ringer at the door to get in’ staff, eight ‘holiday trailer sized’ rooms, and free internet access and instant coffee in the ‘red-velvet-upholstered’ sitting room. Our room has exactly enough space for a double bed, two suitcases, and a so-called bathroom (our bathTUB back home is bigger than this whole bathROOM). The entire suite, I kid you not, would fit on the deck in our back yard (with room to spare on the deck). One huge window looks out onto Gower Street where the traffic trickles by non-stop — which is alright but for the occasional ‘whee-whaw’ police siren.
In other words, its exactly what we were hoping for: a funky London apartment in the heart of the city. Two more nights at this place and we switch over to another spot (for variety) a little West of here.