The Great Bookstore Quest

Today I decided to explore my new home ... but mostly I just wanted to find a good bookstore.

I decided to start from my (apparently not-so-trusty) guidebook. It told me that Unsworth's, primarily a used bookstore, is "one of London's most respected booksellers and specializes in the best remaindered and secondhand titles in classics, history, and humanities."

Seeing as it was quite close by way of the tube, and having recently acquired a list of books required for my classes (primarily classics), I thought I'd make this little gem my first stop. Getting off at King's Cross, I recieved my first pleasant surprise of the day. Directly in view of the station was, indeed, a Barclay's Bank, for which I had been surreptitiously searching since my arrival. Gladly, I stopped by there, and, then, foolishly, thought, "Well, the bookstore's supposed to be somewhere around here, I'll just look around till I find it."

Having noticed a marquee denoting "Private Bookstore" a few blocks away, I optimistically set off, thinking of course, that 'Private' meant privately owned, as opposed to corporate.

And now I know where to find porn, should I have an urgent desire to purchase some. Something anyone smarter than myself would have known is that "Private" is British Code for "WE SELL PORN!"

Well, having gotten a brief glance at various harnesses and dvd's (I walked through the door and turned around as soon as I saw where I was), I decided to set off in the opposite direction.

Having finally asked a couple of nice-seeming young men, who didn't know what Unsworth's was, but kindly let me know that I had been on Euston Street all along (Hey, street signs are harder to find here). And so, I set off, continuing on my quest.

Counting the address numbers, I finally made my way to Unsworth's, which was sorely disappointing. Compared to much of American bookstore offerings, it was quite dinky, with very little of what I wanted. I would compare it to a rather small bargain bookstore (as though they'd taken the bargain portion from a Borders or a Barnes and Noble and made an entire store of it, but smaller). There was a reason for this, I later discovered, but for the moment, I was quite angry with my insufficient guidebook.

Before heading back to the tube (I love saying that), I stopped off at the British Library, which seems fairly happy to sell you books, even if they won't let you borrow any. It's a beautiful building, and particularly lovely on the inside. Luminous, with all-white walls and greenery. But they won't let you take out any books, at least as far as I can tell. It seems a particularly scholarly domain, but only for scholars with permission. To enter any of the reading rooms, you must show an identifying pass and clean hands (presumably for handling esoterica). But there is a bookstore with a decent selection (if a bit more expensive than most other bookstores), and it does provide a lovely atmosphere to eat lunch in, or rest, or perhaps read (as long as you supply your own reading material). They've also got exhibitions and discussions going on, usually for free, and you can pick up schedules at the library or online.

After falling over the library steps on my way out (because only I could take a spill down the shallowest steps in the world), and apparently doing so in such an alarming manner that the elderly lady behind me felt compelled to see if I was all right, I got back on the tube, and made my way to Leicester Square (pronounced Lester, I know, it sounds much less pretty this way), and after wandering a bit in Covent Garden (which looks to my inexperienced eye like one huge tourist trap), and making good use of my umbrella (which I proceeded to then lose somewhere)in a sudden downpour, I made my way to Charing Cross Road.

While it definitely took me a while to get to Foyle's, which was intended to be my second bookstore stop, I was happily dawdling. Charing Cross is lined in tiny bookshops, mostly used, just waiting to be explored, and while I couldn't do a very thorough lookover in the few hours I had today, I expect to spend many joyful hours digging through bins and looking over dusty shelves on a search for treasure.

Foyles is, as promised, a quite good-sized bookshop, about equivalent to a Borders or a Barnes and Noble. It's quite cheery and well-lit, teeming with staff and quite easy to navigate. By the time I'd gotten there, it was too late to explore it thoroughly, as I had to head back to the CEA welcome dinner.

But I did have time to stop at the shop across the street, which was, you guessed it, Borders. Which is nearly exactly like the ones at home. There was some pretty bad music playing, there's a coffee shop somewhere in the building (a starbucks, although I didn't see it, it was on a different level), and there were practically the same sales I'm used to seeing at home (significantly more sales than Foyle's, by the way. Borders was a bit cheaper, although I'm hoping that's not entirely owing to January post-Christmas sales).

Anyway, went to the CEA welcome dinner, where there was no shortage of appetizers (they didn't want to actually buy all 60-something of us dinner, so I'm not sure why they called it a welcome dinner, other than the fact that a 'welcome, eat something' sounds bad), seeing as half of the people didn't show up.

Then I wandered around with a bunch of girls, looking (somewhat against my will, I'd mostly gone with because it was dark and I hadn't felt like looking for the tube on my own) for Covent Garden, not finding it, and eventually settling on finding the nearest tube stop, in the face of an urgent desire to pee.

By the way, if you're in London, you learn to hold it, because much fewer places have public bathrooms (ok, loos or toilets. If you ask for the bathroom, they'll wonder why you want to take a bath).

Also, when they tell you it's cold, dress half as warm as you would in Chicago, and if you wear layers, prepare to remove them swiftly, because all of the walking you're doing will inevitably make you sweat bullets. And you will do a lot of walking, and stair-climbing. Even if you're taking the tube, there's a pretty enormous amount of stairs inside each station (especially the covent garden one, I've found). And you will inevitably show up sweaty and distinctly American wherever it is you're going. Besides, cold to them is not the same as it is in Chicago. Anywhere between 30-50 is considered cold here, at which I, as a Chicagoan, proudly scoff.