Select Page

I don’t remember my first time stepping into a bookstore, but I’m sure I was bewitched. Every bookstore smells almost the same. Except for used bookstores — those smell even more profound than new. Sweet, musty, sometimes with a hint of glue.

Bookstores are powerful. Full of words, pictures, experiences. There are lifetimes entwined on shelves, within four walls. Places and people and things all waiting to be opened. Stories itching to be told.

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend took me to Green Apple Books in Inner Richmond. He knows of my affinity for books, despite my inconsistent reading. This bookstore was unlike any other I’ve explored.

Founded in 1967, the stores interior hasn’t changed much — fractured wooden floors, gas light fixtures, creaky stairs. The most magical bookstore I’ve been in.

You can get lost for hours in the maze of shelves, secret passageways, hidden rooms, walls lined — overflowing — with books.

The spillover from the shelves accumulates on the ground. Neatly-stacked piles line the corners.

The beauty lies within used books. You never know whose licked thumbs have flipped the pages. The dog-ears, highlighter, chicken scratch scrawled on delicate paper. You never know who has read these words aloud, to a child, a partner, themselves.

I lose myself in the other-worldliness of a bookstore. My guilty pleasure, escape. Dive into someone else’s story for a while.

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This