Sunday morning in Portland, a light but steady rain was falling. I had a few hours to kill before heading to the airport, so I tried to see what I could do downtown that would be inside.

Powell’s City of Books. Covering a city block and only a few minutes from my location, it seemed ideal. Upon entering though, it was more than ideal.

It was a dream. I was smell bound.

Simple wooden shelves housing countless stories from ceiling to floor. I was wonderfully trapped in a world of limitless imagination, wonder and history.

I wander up and down every aisle, every floor, every section, taking it all in. I was reunited with an old friend. The feel of the paper was electric on my fingers.

Powell’s also houses some great works of art in the empty spaces on walls that shelves couldn’t be placed. One could sit on a comfortable bench and read under the artwork, or just stare into the painting….

They also have quite the collection of typewriter’s, all of which are now antique items. To the younger people in the bookstore, these were quite the spectacle to see ( Daddy, what is that?).

Like a needle in the hay, I finally find a book just for me. Making my way to the coffee shop in the store, I open my new purchase while the rain continues to fall, ever so lightly but steadily, onto the streets outside.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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