confessions of a book addict

Everything is bigger out west, even the used bookstores. In Tucson, we had a behemoth shop called Bookman's, which was the size of a large grocery store or a bowling alley. Sure, it was a decent spot to root through the old sci-fi pulps like a ferret in search of mice, but it wasn't intimate and cozy, like a good neighborhood bookstore should be. Size isn't everything.

It was a Friday afternoon in DC, and the brisk snap of late November air amplified the scent of burning wood in the fireplaces of Capitol Hill. I knew there was a bookstore I hadn't explored yet, somewhere near Eastern Market...

And there it was, a warm coccoon in the cold gray street. Deceptively small from the outside, but a mind-blowing array of books on the inside. No disrespect to Bookman's (for we will be returning to Tucson for a week at Christmas), but THIS musty claustrophobia is true comfort-food for the brain...and the perfect spot to kill a few hours while the cold sun retreats behind the Capitol dome in search of other prey...