Village Voice

The mission of the day was to go to the Village Voice bookshop to buy the book I couldn't find at the American Library in Paris. A book that came up in my research, complemented my muse of late and simply must be had. "Touched With Fire : Manic Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament" by Kay Redfield Jamison. I had contacted all the English-language bookshops in Paris and although I had hoped to buy it used, was contented with finding it at all and thus dipped into my precious savings. I can always justify buying a book with the old adage "it's for a good cause".

Besides, it gave me an excuse to visit the Quartier Saint Germain, a vibrant part of the Paris literary scene and a great place to wander about on a moody summer day. I felt very urban-zen, packing my sack with the essentials of any good walk-about in the metropolis : bottled water, half-eaten croissant, a book, a scarf knotted around the sash of my bag, notebook and pen, Ipod fully-charged, lip balm, cell phone, my "Indispensable" map book of Paris, and a few crispy bills.

I took my time because I had plenty, letting the busy-bees rush past me at odd angles in the Metro. My mind was breezy and calm, my eyes serenely taking in colors and textures of people and things I passed; I felt nonchalant, unattached and ready for the kind of heady enlightenment only life in the big city can offer.

Meandering through the serpentine streets near Metro Saint-Germain-des-Pres, I savored every inch of my way almost hesitant to arrive at my destination. But I had a date with a book I've come to fancy and didn't want to keep the dear waiting. You see, as with all bibliophiles, finding that book you have been longing for is like a reunion with an old friend. You cannot wait to see them, give them a soothing caress and coo a bit over each other in a quiet corner.

Of course, a bookshop is also a place for flirtation, like the nightclub to singles, and my eye naturally wandered hither and thither before leaving with the one book I came to see. I had a coy kind of tour around the shop, it being my maiden voyage there, and the sensation is much like stepping inside the house of a new friend for the first time or, better yet, like entering a temple you stumble upon while trekking across Tibet. It is a controlled kind of excitement, where I feel reverent and affectedly shy, yet strangely at home the instant I cross the threshold.

After a lovely chat with the owner, some time spent tenderly holding books, hemming and hawing over them, knowing they couldn't come home with me that day (yes, just like that doggy in the window) I left with my intended parchment. I did a little investigating about the history of the bookshop and confirmed that the owner was indeed a kindred spirit. A woman obviously impassioned by her work, like a Buddhist monk you see on the grounds of that Tibetan temple, a perfect and intended part of the place.

There is no other place like Paris for the literary spirit. Perhaps London, Moscow, Dublin and New York would give a similar rush, though somehow I doubt it.

I took my time heading home, too. Perhaps a bit low on blood sugar, I took an unintentional turn that led me into Luxembourg Gardens, a serendipitous discovery whereupon I delighted in the shade of old trees and my new book : Two new lovers spending an affectionate hour in the park.