About 18 months ago I traded in my permanent address and bookshelf for a few years of freedom of action. This makes my gypsy happy but is painfully at odds with my inner bookworm.
A few hard copy books made it into my traveling bag. I work online, and when my mind is scattered to the edges by too many hours in the virtual world, I unplug with an old book. They smell funny and talk funny - written in forgotten tongues, prose from previous decades and societies.
Mexico City, with hundreds of tiny dusty fire-code defying used bookstores, is a distinct threat to my gypsy baggage limit. The used bookstores are more satisfying to browse in than the new book stores. In Mexico there is an annoying and eco-unfriendly convention of shrink wrapping every individual book in plastic. Sometimes there is a grubby demo version available to flip through, but not always.
Currently I’m reading a tome authored by a certain T. Philip Terry. It’s a tour of the lost world of pre-1950s Mexico, detailed in tiny print like old bible pages, bound into an elderly, fat, somewhat pompous tourist guide published in the 1940s. Spending time with Mr. Terry instead of a Kindle brings me back to the solid outlines of myself.
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