Sundays were meant for the idle, at least that’s what I’ve always thought.  In a different city, I’ve been forced to find a substitute for CE time.  After an attempt at brunch with my ever-faithful travel companion, the other  W, my first with solid food in several days, we strolled past a lovely used bookstore, my new Sunday fix.  I love them.  I love everything about them – the smell, the disorganized chaos that only makes sense in the mind of the slightly scary, old man that works behind the counter.  I’ve found there to be something of a stereotype for these crusty crotchety purveyors – they seem a tad manic, and that by walking in you are disturbing them from something exceedingly more important.  You must always check any bags, leave food outside, and you are shushed beyond embarrassment if you are caught on your mobile.  Also, never ask where things are, that’s the whole point, and you will be mocked for this.  Most of the shelves are labeled by hand, and in this new store, in an attempt to be more helpful, continuation of sections were also labeled, so section ‘Gay’ and ‘Oriental’ had accompanying  ‘More Gay’ and ‘More Oriental’ – A little less funny for the WWII subjects, but still made me giggle.

On Belmont, just west of the Ann Sathers, if you’re interested…

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