Walking up the narrow cobblestoned laneway, a wee bookshop across the T-junction caught her eye instantaneously, like honey to the bee. Hurrying her step, feet tripping over each other two too many times, she gravitated towards the shop like opposite poles of two magnets. It wasn't just any ordinary neighbourhood bookshop like the ones at home - nice, cosy and intimate. This one was virtually the opposite - unkempt, messy and claustrophobic.

Outside, an old Frenchman slouched on an upturned wooden milk crate, sipping on his freshly-made espresso. In his other hand, a brown, dog-eared book, dotted with yellow spots, loose pages jutting out from the otherwise smooth binding. He looked up as she approached the entrance, smiled at her bearing his nicotined teeth and greeted her with a warm 'bienvenue!' as he gestured towards the books inside.

It was a maze inside. She found herself having to navigate over and around the books that pouring out from the dusty shelves, onto untidy but organised piles on the floor, beside and on top of the shelves. The book covers yelled out to her in European languages - French, Italian, Spanish, Arabic and Greek. She ran her fingers along the rows and rows of books, feeling the antique cardboard, fabric and leather bindings beneath her fingers. Up above, the shelves soared to incredible heights, like Jack and the beanstalk. It was an overwhelming and humbling feeling, being surrounded by so much knowledge in such small confines. Like a kindergarten child in an Ivy League university library. She ploughed through the aisles slowly and meticulously, lingering step after step, in futile attempt to prolong the experience before the time started to tick once again in the outside world.

Take care.