TRIP JOURNAL - DAY 0
I can’t really count this as the first day of my vacation, as I wasn’t able to leave until 2:30 in the afternoon (had to wait for the mail). Regardless, my venture did technically start today, and I made it to the campground with hardly any bumps in the road.
Whenever I journey over to Seattle, I always make a point to stop at Elliott Bay Books. Though no Powell’s (best bookstore on the planet), I instantly made a connection with EBB the first time I walked in the doors.
I had been living in Pullman full-time for two years or so at that point, and had begun feeling somewhat rootless. I lived in one house until midway through my senior year of high school, when we moved to a rental house in a town nearby until I could finish school. Once I started at WSU, I lived in Pullman year-round, so I really didn’t have a place where I felt “at home.”
Even as I walked around the Elliott Bay Books building, I felt somewhat at peace. Surrounded by red-bricked buildings and with a clear view of the water, everything felt staid, permanent. This was a place you could rely on. As I stepped inside, every nook and cranny was stuffed full of books. Every inch felt full, without giving a sense of being crowded. Everything looked a little worn, but that only added to the sense of history the place gave off. Wood flooring bore the scuff marks of thousands of people with pride, testifying both to its sturdiness and the quality of the store - it must be popular if so many people trod upon it.
Reading the Slog (The Stranger’s blog), I found out a few months ago that Elliott Bay planned on moving due to difficulties paying rent in Pioneer Square. As you can imagine, this bummed me out more than a bit. But I was heartened by the fact it would not close down. For some reason, EBB evokes in me the same response a lot of people get when talking about the values of printed books over ebooks - the physicality of the thing.
Where they might cite the smell of a book, or the satisfactory heft of all the pages in your left hand (already read) versus the ever-diminishing pile in your right, EBB to me symbolized a combination of home and community. Home because of my aforementioned transient state, community because of the people I always saw there.
Whenever I went inside, I always tried to see what books other customers were reading or thinking about buying. In my experience, there weren’t a whole lot of people hanging out because they had nothing better to do; these were people who truly enjoyed books. Whereas walking into a Borders or a Barnes & Noble you might encounter bored teenagers or middle-aged people looking to kill time, EBB was a place for book-lovers. My people.
Thus was trepidation trailing behind my car as I got hopelessly lost in Seattle trying to find their new location (more my fault than theirs). I definitely got to missing the location, at the very least. Even for those relatively clueless about Seattle geography, Pioneer Square is fairly easy to find.
Nonetheless, I managed (almost by accident, really) to find my way to the store. After parking in the world’s most harrowing garage, I made my to the store. Even from the outside, I could it was a slightly different vibe. In Pioneer Square, I felt comfortable aimlessly wandering the streets. The same could not be said walking around the streets in the new location - everyone seemed like they knew exactly where they were going, and most of them were in quite a hurry to get there.
Just looking at the building, squashed between the others, I felt slightly claustrophobic. Even a drink at the frighteningly punk bar across the street did little to alleviate this feeling.
Walking in, I got a reassuring sense of familiarity. The front tables were arranged in roughly the same fashion as the old store, which made me feel comfortable. But it became immediately apparent that, despite no appreciable increase in square footage, there was entirely too much negative space. Shelves were spaced as far apart as a Wal-Mart. Previously, getting to the small “bargain books” room required navigating a narrow staircase, almost hidden. Now it simply got pushed to the back, next to an entire wall of books marked simply, “Sailing.” (No, it wasn’t a pun. They were books about jibs, sails, and the whole lot.)
Oh, I still bought my books - enough to fill up my punch card and earn a discount, even. I still tried evangelizing Fool to the young woman next to me when I inexplicably found it in the bargain section (she bought it, I’m happy to add), and I still walked away satisfied with my reading materials.
I just didn’t feel the same excitement I used to as I was browsing, as if I were just puttering around my personal library filled with friends I simply hadn’t met yet. I’m sure most of that comes from nostalgia and the usual visceral reaction to any kind of change, but I had a pretty irrational connection with the store in the first place. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to find an irrational aversion to any change in the one place that used to feel like home.
