Yo Tengo un Libro en Ingles

My Spanish days have become pretty routine: I get up, eat breakfast, maybe make myself lunch, and then I’m off on some form of public transportation. After about 40 minutes, I arrive at work, where I putter around a bit, researching and writing and editing, and about 1:30 or so the office takes a walk to the local supermercado, buys food, and then sits in our company garden. (Indeed, we have a company garden.) Then it’s back to work for another three or four hours, trying to stay cool and productive as the afternoon heat sets in. After about six or so, people start leaving, and then it’s back on the tube to go home – for me, anyway. (In the case of Tuesday or Thursday, it’s going to Spanish language class. Lots of other people go to bars afterward to hang out and relax.

Although this is a lovely routine, it gets a little boring. Every day, I try to do something a little different to break the routine. Last Friday, it was going to the Reina Sofia. Yesterday, it was getting off at Ibiza and taking a walk around El Parque del Retiro. Today, I wanted to find an English bookstore and find a tobacco shop where I could buy stamps.

Artsy shot in the Parque del Retiro

My little saga begins in the Metro at Principe de Vergara after language class. There’s a girl in my class from Beijing (thinking of you, Dandy) who uses the same Metro line as I do, and today we were heading in the same direction on the Red line. I was able to practice Spanish with her for a few minutes before we went our separate ways – the train taking her one direction and me another beneath the streets of Madrid proper. That isn’t really the interesting part of my story. As train moved onward, and I arrived at my stop, I began to think of what I should expect within the hour. I was searching for this, an English bookstore here in Madrid. The Metro station was Noviciado, and the shop was just around the corner from the Metro.

The first thing I noticed about Noviciado was how small the Metro station was. There were only three turnstiles and no Metro assistant, only automated machines. Someone had scrawled graffiti all over the place, and the steps onto the street were narrow and would only allow two people to walk abreast. On the Calle de Noviciado, the same thing: thin, tall streets that looked like something out of A Series of Unfortunate Events (or what I imagine it would be, as I have never read the series before). The area was actually more charming for its thin dingy streets, if that makes any sense.

I would have taken pictures, but I was a little self-conscious about taking pictures in such a non-touristico area. Next time, though, I will not be so self-conscious. This is my adventure, and my life, and I will take pictures of it whenever I want without feeling like a vulnerable little tourist.

Another attempt at being artsy. I kind of like these "botched" photos of myself, narcissist that I am.

Just a quick jaunt around the corner, and I was there – J&J's English Books and Bar. It was little more than a hole in the wall, but a little hole in the wall of wonders. I pushed aside the door (it even told me to “push” it – in English!), and I saw about eight people sitting, chatting, and enjoying their beverages. The bartender greeted me after a moment in a wonderful British accent in my mother tongue, and pointed me down the small, winding stairs to the basement, where the bookstore was located. Down the stairs I went, my own rabbit hole.

There were three rooms lined with books, all sorts of books. Fiction, biography, mystery, romance, teaching guides. I started looking at titles, glancing here and there. Roman Blood was a candidate for a little while – if the title doesn’t get you, then the writing will (a murder mystery full of ancient intrigue and naughty behavior). The writing was good, but not good enough to spend six euros on. The next candidate was Prince of Air and Darkness. The cover had a hawk’s eye wrapped up in night, and was your classic erotic fantasy, complete with a “woman wailing for her demon lover.” So totally out of Coleridge. Maybe next time.

I saw a book called No Logo, and the premise of the book was an in-depth analysis of brands and the recognition thereof. From what I could gather, the author was trying to attack the globalized culture that brands have produced in such a Baudrillardian way. Again, interesting, but not something that I couldn’t live without, although I think Morwen or Tiger Lilly might enjoy it.

What one of the streets off Puerte del Sol looked like tonight. This picture really has nothing to do with this post, other than it all happened on the same day.

After perusing a few more books, I noticed a book with a red cover lying face-up on the shelf. Around the edges of the cover was a design which looked like thorns, and for a moment I thought J&J’s had a copy of Incredibly Loud and Extremely Close, a book which I loved. Upon closer inspection, it was not indeed Jonathan Safran Foer’s book, but rather The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly. I picked up the book and skimmed the back cover – a story about a boy’s struggle coping with his mother’s death, and how books begin to whisper to him and he becomes part of another world. My kind of book! (I'm sure Coyote and Morwen have already read it. I had never heard of it before.) I was already halfway hooked with the back cover, but I was reduced to metaphysical pile of putty when I read the dedication:

This book is dedicated to an adult, Jennifer Ridyard, and to Cameron and Alistair Ridyard, who will be adults all too soon, for in every adult dwells the child that was, and in every child awaits the adult that will be.

Even the title of the first chapter, “Of All That was Found and All That Was Lost,” made me quease. This was a book I had to have, a book was written for me, the child-adult who still clings to fleeting memories and dreams and a way-that-once-was. I want to read this book because it articulates my futile grasp at fleeting childhood, or preserving a childhood in a pristine and perfect form. And it makes books and reading and stories important. Stories are powerful and tell greater truths than either you or I could tell, but they need humans to speak them and let the stories live inside them.

This book was mine.

I also got the Color of Magic by Terry Pratchett as additional reading. I purchased my two books and went on my merry way, (and although I didn’t make instant English-speaking expat friends as I had secretly hoped while I was coming to the store), I had a positive experience at J&J’s Bookstore, and I will be returning again soon. Once I’m done with my current books, that is.

I can has a inglish litterachur.