Rare books and even rarer moments

Rare books and even rarer moments

By Michael Hartigan

The gargoyle next to me atop Paris’ Notre Dame Cathedral bared a permanent, toothy grin. I smiled along with him, as we both gazed out at the gift spread before us: a Parisian panorama chock full of the things that embody the City of Light. There were elegant Parisian rooftops; the Eiffel Tower piercing the sky in the distance; the glistening River Seine ducking around towers, museums and teapot domes. And unassuming amongst the surrounding grandeur, was a little bookshop over on the Left Bank.

Perhaps it was due to the gargoyle next to me, or the signs I had just read about Victor Hugo, but seeing the Shakespeare & Company bookstore gave the moment an immediate air of the literary.

I had been in the bookshop earlier. The old paper musk that filled the Shakespeare & Company bookstore lingered, in a good way, much like the ghosts of famous writers that had frequented the shop. That old bookstore was graced by the likes of Walt Whitman and countless other renowned authors over the years. On the upper level, a small bed, desk, sink and typewriter still sit, free of charge for any upstart or struggling writer to utilize.

Shakespeare & Company is still visited by all kinds – from writers and book lovers, to the average tourist stopping in for a look around the tattered copies. And there are plenty, with old books stacked around the store just waiting to be thumbed through.

I heard a woman say out loud that she should purchase something for her son who liked William Shakespeare. His favorite was, “that one that starts with an ‘O.’” She must have missed the copy of Othello right in front of her, but I didn’t. To this day, few purchases I’ve ever made have given me the same amount of chills as the 100-year-old copy of Othello I snatched up that day.

A good bookstore, like Paris’ Shakespeare & Company, does so much more than sell books. A good bookstore is a meeting place, a library, a study hall and experimental laboratory for writers past, present and future. A good bookstore is an icon of a bygone era when the musty smell of old paper and leather bindings was revered.

A good bookstore is the city in which it resides.

Shakespeare & Company may be named after a British literary legend, but you know you’re in Paris when you peruse its shelves. The tomes are stacked and strewn in such a way that at first feels cluttered but upon second glance, is supremely beautiful. The antique feeling of the place is museum-like, in a way that is distinctly Parisian. Like the city itself, the shop is well-trodden and imbued with historical significance, but still distinctly intimate.  

So many local bookshops around the globe play a similar role in their own communities. They offer a glimpse into the people and history of a place through their aesthetic and ambiance, through the traditions they uphold and through the local authors they cherish.

For example, in Quebec City, Canada hockey paraphernalia filled the floor to ceiling windows of a bookstore, revealing the owner’s unsurprising love of a professional hockey team long-since moved to a warmer climate. But it revealed the city’s staunch devotion to the game, the region’s tradition and stubborn refusal to allow the memory of their team to fade.

Conversely, in Vienna, Austria a bookstore on a main pedestrian thoroughfare displayed items and books that did not shy away from history’s darker moments. Sitting in the front window, an old children’s book depicted cartoon stereotypes and offensive slurs, challenging all to confront the shadows of the region’s past while acknowledging that full progress remains a goal not yet achieved. 

A book fair in the picturesque town of St. Andrews, Scotland sprawled out across a central square, with carts and bins filled with books. I got lost among them only to find myself down a side road, standing in front of a tiny bookstore. I could barely maneuver inside with my backpack on, afraid to knock over the piles of old books. I lost track of time shuffling through the innumerable copies of old, antique books written by local Scottish writers – some well-known and some not at all.

Perhaps the bookstore that fits most perfectly into its surrounding neighborhood is San Francisco’s eclectic City Lights Bookstore. This beat poet hangout is a hip confluence of varying styles resulting from a collision of cultures, demographics and neighborhoods. I strolled around this iconic hotspot expecting Alan Ginsberg to walk in. The bookstore embodies San Francisco itself, blending history with myriad traditions in a unique, well-crafted and unforgettable concoction.

Travel and literature have been inextricably linked since the dawn of language, from Homer’s epics to Twain’s river excursions to Conrad’s journey into the heart of Africa. My own novel, Stone Angels, is in many ways a journey story: embracing the power of travel in the form of a road trip, escaping from one’s comfort zone, shrugging off the warm sweater that is our daily lives, and arriving at a new perspective. Thematically, travel is one of literature’s greatest tropes.

So it is fitting that a bookstore – more specifically, a local brick and mortar bookstore – is one of the most unique and powerful stops on any traveler’s itinerary.

A Little Scottish Mussel

One of the best dishes I've ever eaten

Cuisine is not necessarily at the top of anyone’s tourism to-do list on a visit to Scotland. After all, their most well-known dish is comprised of a sheep’s stomach filled with a spiced intestine stuffing (haggis). But just because the United Kingdom’s culinary reputation lacks the luster of other European destinations, does not mean there isn’t a pearl to be found in some oysters.

The town of St. Andrews revolves around a castle, a cathedral and of course, a golf course. All of it is situated along a picturesque stretch of Scottish coastline with rocky jetties and expansive beaches. A drive through the surrounding coastal region reveals fishing villages nestled between the tee boxes. If Scotland was going to excel at one type of cuisine, it would assuredly be coming from the sea.

I had just finished exploring the ruins of St. Andrews Cathedral, situated at the tip of the town, overlooking a rock wall breaker, a beach and the sea beyond. I exited the crumbling walls through a side door and stepped onto a cliff walk that skirted down to the beach in one direction and off along the ridge in the other.

I heard crashing waves below and wandered to the right, declining downwards toward the water, past the small remains of a chapel and several signs identifying the historical significance of one of Scotland’s most important religious buildings. I strolled down to the breaker wall that projected out into the water, framing the adjacent beach, East Sands. At the tip of the breaker wall I turned to look at the St. Andrews skyline, which was made up predominantly of the cathedral’s jagged towers, roofs popping haphazardly and the silhouette of St. Andrews Caste standing guard castle further up the shoreline.

The panorama was spectacular, and a different perspective that I had not seen trekking through the village streets. I scanned the scene, noticing some fishing boats and smelling the briny water lapping up at the rocks. In that moment I was hungry.

My stomach rumbled as I retraced my steps back along the water and up to the cathedral. The smell of something delicious wafted along the sea air, prompting me to stop short and engage the man responsible. Since I had last been here outside the cathedral walls, a green umbrella had popped up and a young man with a pedal-powered food cart had positioned himself along the cliff walk. His setup was unlike a traditional hotdog or ice cream cart. It was a bicycle-powered mobile cooking unit - with large pots bubbling up on miniature stove tops and an elongated cooler at the end. Neatly printed in gleaming white on the emerald green cooler was, "The Wee Caboose."

He was selling mussels – that’s it. He had no other options besides freshly caught, local mussels gathered about an hour earlier a little ways up the road. Did I want some? My growling stomach almost answered for me.

I attempted to hand him my money but he said not yet, wait until they were cooked. He pulled a small bucket full from the cooler and dumped them into a creamy broth bubbling on his cooker.

They’d be ready in four minutes, he said. That was four minutes I had to figure out how and why he had gotten to be here on this cliff walk. As it turned out, this was the street vendor’s first time selling his mussels in St. Andrews and I was his very first customer. We chatted about where he came from and where the mussels came from (both in a village nearby) and he gave me some advice on other seaside Scottish towns I should explore (which I did a few days later, to great acclaim). He described his homemade recipe and I compared it loosely to the way seafood is traditionally prepared in New England, which took us off on a tangent about traveling and my hometown of Boston, Massachusetts. We even covered the military and military bases, after a few fighter jets swooped by in the distance.

All in all it was quite an enlightening discussion with this local Scot, and a fair introductory course before my main meal.

He broke off our conversation mid-sentence, knowing exactly when the mussels needed to be removed from the heat. He pulled out a cardboard rub, roughly the size of a sand pail, and tumbled in a couple dozen cooked mussels. He then kept pouring the milky broth until the shells were swimming. I handed him six pounds, he handed me lunch. He clapped me on my shoulder, said it was nice talking and wished me well.

Two passers-by saw the exchange and stopped to ask me how the food was. I hadn’t tried it yet, nor had I barely stepped away from the cart but the smell alone told me it was going to be unforgettable. The couple got two orders.

I took my lunch to a bench sitting along the cliff a few yards away. Flanked by rose bushes behind me, the outline of St. Andrews Castle a few hundred yards further along the cliff walk and the ocean crashing on the rocks below, I dove in. The mussels were perfectly cooked, tender and juicy. I had never tasted shellfish so sweet, even in New England. The broth was creamy with a strong pepper and garlic flavor, and really nothing else. The simplicity was its strongpoint. After I gorged on the mussels, sopped up the juice with the bread, I drank the remaining broth.

The combination of stunning venue and savory snack turned this afternoon into one of my most memorable food experiences. As it turns out, reputations are flimsy things. All it takes to break them is a little mussel.