A magical wintry night had me walking the streets of my neighborhood last weekend--windows decked with holiday wishes, neighbors stringing christmas lights on tiny porches, the last of the drunken santas tired from a full day of SFs ritual santa con eating slices of greasy pizza on the street, teenagers preening for their Quinceañera celebration with manicures. Mission street glowing with bright the reds, greens, and golds of holiday consumables for a $1. Valencia street such a stark difference just a block away with people waiting outside restaurants for a fancy meal.
Photos from my stroll...
I decided to peek into one of my favorite used bookstores Dog Eared Books.
My life long love affair with books has been on a bit of a hiatus. My books still hold a coveted space in my tiny room--each old favorite a reminder of a time or place or emotion in my life, each unopened book the potential for a new adventure--but I haven't finished a book in I don't know how long. I check out stacks of books from the library, mostly of the gardening and non-fiction sort, but reading a book cover to cover, it's been too long. I spend too much time in front of the screen--my attention span dwindling to the length of half an article in a magazine. Since I made the switch to biking, my commute is no longer a refuge for reading.
Since the shocking self-revelation that I've been ignoring the printed word, I'm back on the sauce...and my visit to the aisles of Dog Eared rekindled my love. My wanderings brought me to the back of the store, where they were the feature story in that Sunday's New York Times travel story about the literary scene in SF. Serendipitous!