week eight: the big open skies.

Apr 10

You can find my “Week Seven” post here.

The uninvited, forced isolation was giving as much as it was taking away. I hated admitting it, but I really needed to slow down a bit. It’s so against my nature to be sitting still for so long without feeling as if I’ve wasted precious time. I guessed this was all part of the learning experience. I was just glad Eric and Martha never got sick from me, and that I was able to continue my journey without spreading it to anyone else.

I started my week pretty early, masked up and packed up for my drive onward from Portland to SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, where I would be meeting my sister, Nikita, and her husband, Udit. A quick note on the use of familial terms; culturally, Indian folks refer to close family friends as brothers and sisters, uncles and aunties, etc. In this case, Nikita is not a blood relative, but like an older sister nonetheless. Not to bring a confusing element into the mix, but I do have a younger sister (blood-related) named Nikita, but I generally refer to her as Nikki, whom I dearly missed. Before I had departed for the trip, my mom was planning on maybe flying out to Seattle to visit me and stay with Nikita and Udit, but at some point, those plans fell through. I had gone this long without seeing family before, but never in such a tumultuous way, one that kept me constantly moving from one city to the next. I was worried that I was starting to feel a bit untethered. Without Jennings, Kathryn, Georgia, or anyone I knew sitting beside me in my car, there was nothing around me to convince me that I was in a real place. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it was all a bit disconcerting, to say the least.

I had to remember that I couldn’t take many public excursions on my way out of Portland. Having not been able to explore the city as I had previously wanted to due to COVID, I allowed myself the bare minimum of a short walk around Washington Park—masked up and keeping my distance from others—before leaving. I was much more comfortable in the car, as driving made me finally feel as if I was doing something productive with my time, and I didn’t have to worry about masking. About two hours later, I pulled up to the Mount St. Helens Visitors’ Center. It was quiet, and peaceful out here. I liked tricking my brain into thinking that somehow breathing in the very fresh air would somehow heal me quicker. That perhaps the little at-home test would register as negative a day sooner. I brought my camera with me, taking my time walking through the little trail that branched out from the parking lot, snapping photos of the flowers up close and the mountains in the distance. There were barely any people nearby. I went to the gift shop and bought a small vial of ash from Mount St. Helens for my friend, Alex, whom I would be spending a week with very soon. I arrived in BOTHELL, WASHINGTON, outside of Seattle proper, and carefully brought my belongings into a house belonging to Nikita and Udit’s friend, where they and their friend, Harsh, were also staying. They took me to a bedroom where I had more than enough space to feel comfortable, and I crashed for a while. I hadn’t moved around too much that day, but the fatigue was merciless, so it was time to rest.

The next day was the 4th of July. The day passed by uneventfully. Another positive at-home test had declared my fate for the time being. I had made a little furry friend, a small white dog named Lucky. For the most part, I stayed in that bedroom, only coming down for food or coffee or TV in the living room to get a morsel of socialization before retiring to the bedroom yet again. Nikita and Udit had to depart for the United Kingdom the next day, so we, unfortunately, couldn’t fit many activities together, but Harsh was a kind host and I watched random episodes of Ted Lasso with him as I sipped my coffee in the afternoon, not knowing what was going on but making a mental note to watch the show later. That night, Nikita, Udit, Harsh, and I met up with some of their friends and went to BELLEVUE, WASHINGTON, where we could clearly see the fireworks light up the sky for ten or fifteen minutes.

I was ecstatic to finally see I wasn’t contagious the next morning. Negative. Finally. I felt energized, and everything had happened just in time for my interview later that day with Elliott Bay Book Company. I found some parking near Pike’s Place Market and started my morning with some coffee at the original Starbucks. The iconic green Starbucks logo that I expected to find outside was replaced with an older, brown variant reading “Starbucks Coffee, Tea, Spices.” I honestly thought it was cooler than the current one. The line was already winding around the other unique little shops. My indifference for Starbucks had been replaced with pure intrigue with what the “first” Starbucks would look like on the inside, and I wasn’t disappointed. It was a narrow shop clad with wood and merchandise and coffee along the walls. Instead of a printed menu behind the baristas, I found one written on a long chalkboard. The energy buzzing in there was just what I needed to break out of the slump of the previous week. The market itself made me instantly fall in love with Seattle. I was still a bit nervous being around so many people, so I remained masked for the next two days just to be safe. There were some towering cranes on the pier in the distance, and a tall Ferris wheel that immediately caught my attention. Above the heart of the market, huge red letters read out “PUBLIC MARKET CENTER.” People scurried around vendors selling fresh seafood and flowers. A man with a cat mask played the accordion. You know, things like that.

*Prepping to interview J.B. at BLMF Literary Saloon, in Seattle, Washington*

Eventually, I made my way down a set of stairs to another part of the market, where I stumbled across a used bookstore called BLMF Literary Saloon. The name itself caught my attention, and the saloon motif was a fun breath of fresh air. It wasn’t too big, so I made my way around and found the owner, introducing myself and what I was doing there. He was interested in chatting with me later that day, so I excitedly told him I’d be back in a few hours to interview him. I left the market and took a little peek inside Left Bank Books, just a minute’s walk away. From what I could tell, the store was a collective, operated by a core staff group and some volunteers. Their selection of used and new books reflected interest along a wide spectrum, including what they referred to as “anti-authoritarian, anarchist, and radical” titles, and also subjects like women’s studies and minority voices. It was an interesting cross-section that led me to believe that this community was saturated with folks with passion, which was really special to see.

I wandered downtown Seattle on my own for a little while, picking up a sweatshirt as a present for my sister, and visiting the large Starbucks Roastery for another coffee and a place to sit down and check some emails. Soya, from Los Angeles, had kindly supplied me with a list of eateries to visit during my time in Seattle, and in the short amount of time I had spent with him, I whole-heartedly trusted his recommendations. I enjoyed a delicious chowder at Pike Place Chowder, before returning to the market for my interview at BLMF.

BLMF Literary Saloon

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

I found owner J.B. Johnson at BLMF, “deep in the guts of the Pike Place Market.” J.B. has been there for the past 26 years, nurturing his Literary Saloon, accumulating—just as the name suggests—books like a motherf*****. It doesn’t get much clearer than that. The store only offers used books, and J.B. likes it that way, finding the new books industry to be quite the pain. From what I had learned on the road about all the moving parts and working with publishers, I couldn’t say I didn’t see where J.B. was coming from.

How would you describe this bookstore in one word?

“Hmm… the bomb. The bomb. I try to be the bomb.”

“I just get the coolest stuff I can get my hands on and try to make it fit,” J.B. said. Having grown up spending time in a used bookstore in Flint, Michigan, these kinds of unique spaces have been a part of J.B.’s life for a long time. Arriving at Pike’s Place Market, J.B. found there to have been a few bookstores that closed down months prior. Seeing a need for a used bookstore, J.B. got to work on making BLMF a reality, and the rest is history.

Right from my arrival, I could tell that Pike’s Place was the product of a rich Seattle history beautifully melded with a dynamic and constantly-changing environment. J.B. does get some locals at BLMF but has primarily found himself serving tourists over the years. The upside of the “Microsoft and Amazon people,” as J.B. called them, filtering into Seattle has been an influx of readers spilling into the Market.

“I love the Market, man. You never know who you're gonna run into next,” J.B. explained. “I had a guy come in last week—South African guy. He says he comes in, you know, ‘every time he's in town.’ I actually have people who I haven't seen, you know, for, like…and they say, ‘you're still here?’ I’m like, “yes, I'm still here.”

As the market closes for the evening, J.B. has found it hard to do events like author readings and such. But he doesn’t mind that. As long as there are readers, he finds no problems with the way he gets to operate.

“Unless I could finally make room for a pool table… I like the way it is,” J.B. said. I could totally see what he meant. If the space was doubled, I could imagine myself coming down here after work, grabbing a beer, playing some pool with friends, and grabbing a book on my way out. There was no pressure here to seem interesting, or overly pedantic or anything. Bookstores can intimidate people in that way sometimes. That wasn’t the case here. I was curious to hear how the pandemic had affected his business, but the Market hadn’t been closed down for too long, and social media/online orders kept J.B. busy in a way that BLMF was back to business as usual in a few short months

J.B. was reading…

*Seven Pillars of Wisdom,* by T.E. Lawrence

“[The pandemic] definitely got me to work harder,” J.B. recalled. “Not that I ever took this place for granted—but… the love that I got from people when they came back and knew that I was still here. I was just like, ‘okay… I have value to the community.’ So, I started to go the extra mile. I'm working a lot harder, but it's worth it.” During our interview, J.B. stepped out a few times to help customers that looked like they might be lost or looking for items in particular. I could see a clear interest in pairing those who walked in with just the book they needed at the time. I also couldn’t help thinking about one more important detail—how Amazon was based in Seattle. How do they affect a used bookstore? Private vendors can sell through Amazon, and you can also buy used books from them.

“They bring a lot of literate people to town and I can still sell their employees books cheaper than they can get them from Amazon,” J.B. plainly said. The idea of that made me chuckle a bit.

“They… provide material for people to sell to me,” J.B. explained. “People who live in tiny little apartments—if you're stacking up more than, like, 10 to 15 books, it's like, ‘I gotta get rid of this stuff because I can't live like this.’ So, they ended up selling to me. As long as inventories, as long as the material is flowing out there, you know, I'll be okay. As long as people are still reading, I'll be okay.”

I left the store that day with a book J.B. had recommended after I gave him some gibberish about my interests and reading history. “This is going to be great,” I thought, as I walked out of the Literary Saloon. He told me I could call him and let him know if it was trash.

I carried my equipment back to the car and drove down to Elliott Bay Book Company. It was 3:30 in the afternoon, and if I remembered correctly, I was to meet with someone at 5 pm. I was excited about this one because when I had asked folks for bookstore recommendations in Seattle, Elliott Bay was always mentioned. That’s why I got there a bit early. I planned on just lounging and reading for an hour or so. However, when I got there, I was told the person I was looking for had already left for the day. Slightly disappointed, I figured something had come up, and so, just out of interest, I asked the bookseller if he enjoyed any other bookstores in the area. He mentioned a few, but one in particular—Arundel—stood out to me, and I made a mental note. I like to make those often. You may have noticed. Arundel. I’ll check them out tomorrow. I decided to explore Elliott Bay as I normally would’ve following an interview. It was much more massive than any of the other Seattle stores I had been to. Each genre had its own pod of space in the big open layout. There was a children’s section in the back with colorful chairs and a small castle towering above the little board books. It truly felt like an indoor bazaar, like a nexus point where travelers from all over converged to stock up on their essentials. I walked around downstairs, then upstairs, then back down, finding my way to the coffee shop toward the back of the main floor. I’d thought to get some emails out of the way and made sure I was set for any other interviews in the coming days. That’s when I realized my mistake, and my heart dropped.

I was supposed to come to Elliott Bay at 12 pm. Not 5 pm. I immediately felt my mood plunge and I couldn’t believe I had made a silly mistake like that. I had driven all the way to the other side of the country to make a rookie mistake. Wow. Some documentarian I am. It was just like when I had been told I had COVID; I felt a million intrusive thoughts attack me like a volley of flaming arrows, all at the same time. Gosh, I’m such an amateur! I’ve been communicating with them for weeks. They probably think I’ve wasted their time. I need to send them an email, quickly—maybe they can fit me in tomorrow. I’m such an idiot. I tried to calm down and sent a quick email, thinking it was the least I could do to possibly salvage the opportunity. The fact that I had done an impromptu one earlier that day—a charming interview with someone sharing a perspective I hadn’t been able to capture—just slipped my mind completely, and I couldn’t get over the little mistake I made. I had COVID the week before, and my engine had been running for seven weeks, but nope. I was really good at being too hard on myself.

Of course, it had started drizzling at this point, and I had had quite the day, so I found myself at a little bar at the end of the street. I thought the process of forgiveness could start with a cider and a good book to read. I sat at the bar and ordered, taking out a new book to read, having finally finished American Gods. 1984, by George Orwell—a classic I hadn’t read in high school because I had decided to read The Handmaid’s Tale for Mrs. Stephenson’s class instead. I suppose it was time now. The bookmark for Explore Booksellers in Aspen was still in there, and I spent some time diving in, getting lost in a different—but somehow scarily not so different—world for a bit. A few older folks who had come in noticed me and we started chatting. I had always liked going to small local spots like this in the evenings during this journey. These were the moments I could meet a stranger and they could meet a stranger as well. We could exchange our stories, and if the conversation went well, we would also share our hopes and dreams. The gentlemen reminded me that I was doing a cool thing, and I forgave myself for the hiccup earlier. It felt like I was picking up a trophy off the mantle and giving it a nice polish. I left after a few hours at that bar. I couldn’t tell you the names of those kind people. But I remembered with clarity how those strangers had lifted my spirits. And then just like that, they weren’t in my life anymore. Poof. Life is weird like that.

*Me! And look, the Space Needle’s in the back. That’s Seattle, baby.*

The next morning, I departed from Bothell for the last time, thanking Harsh for his generosity those past few days, and made my way back towards downtown Seattle. I picked up my friend, Heather, who I had met in high school and gone to UNC with. I remembered that she lived around here now, and we had chatted on social media a while back about when I would be in town. She kindly treated me to a delicious breakfast at Bacco Cafe and we walked around downtown for a bit. “We have to find the banana cart,” she mentioned, as we approached three massive glass spheres jutting out of the ground, kinda in the way that the Louvre does. It was part of Amazon’s headquarters. Although we weren’t able to go in, we walked around outside the structure, reminiscent of a futuristic greenhouse of sorts, until we found a man with a Community Banana Stand, giving free bananas. I didn’t ask any questions. I literally wanted to know nothing further about the matter. I had my free banana.

Heather and I walked a bit more, chatting about how the past few years had fared for us both, and what this journey held for me. She took a photo of me with the Space Needle in the distance, and I felt as if my time downtown had come to a close—for the moment, at least. I remembered the bookseller from Elliott Bay the day before mentioning Arundel Books, so I went toward the Chinatown-International District and parked near a coffee shop to satisfy my quota of several lattes a day. After some admin work for the documentary, it seemed that Arundel was finally open, so I casually strolled in and found someone to bother about my documentary. What I got from that hour there was truly special.

Arundel Books

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

A historic building in Pioneer Square that started as a brewery in 1900 was now a temple for readers and collectors. Here, I spoke to Phillip Bevis, who founded Arundel Books in 1984, under the original, dazzling interior. The store sells a combination of new, used, and rare books, carrying titles from the 1520s to the 2020s. They also print and publish .

“What we try to offer people—whether they're from across the street, or from North Carolina—is an experience,” Phillip said. “And that means giving them a real welcome that isn't plastic or corporate. So, we tend to hire people who are, in fact, welcoming. People who love books, but also like people.”

How would you describe this bookstore in one word?

“ I think ever-changing. That mix of the ‘then’ and the ‘now’ makes things really vibrant.”

Phillip believes that a bookstore in such a diverse and literate city as Seattle should offer a selection of books that reflects that community. After all, it’s the customer base and their reading habits that really inform a bookstore about what kinds of books they should carry on the shelves. This cyclical, symbiotic relationship is what keeps good bookstores in business and relevant to their community. But keeping things too predictable isn’t exactly what Phillip wants either.

“Today, it's really about people offering people an experience that they can't get online,” Phillip explained. “Because for the most part, if you know what you're looking for, you can find it in 30 seconds and have it delivered to your door. So, part of what we're here to do is show you the books you didn't know you wanted, and help them find you.”

Since we were in the original business district of Seattle, near First and Main St., a lot of the buildings around us sported those high ceilings and intricate architectural details that give older places more character. Apparently, the city’s galleries were really fond of these types of buildings, and every first Thursday of the month, for four decades or so, this part of town would see many openings and something called an Art Walk. “In normal times, you get tens of thousands of people in summer, running around, you know, getting, you know, sipping, you know, free white wine and looking at art and one another,” Phillip explained. I was coincidentally at Arundel on the first Thursday but pretty bummed that I had to be on my way shortly after the interview.

Phillip managed to summarize another reason why Arundel captivated me: “it's a store that has a human scale.” The people working at the store were very approachable and everything within the store was in the eye’s view. As Phillip put it, “you can point out what's here to folks and it's not like you have to go to the third floor at the other end of the building and look for the guy in the red vest who can tell you where it is.” That really spoke to how the size wasn’t everything and how a smaller store could have more impact on some folks, especially introverted people.

“Before the pandemic,” Phillip explained, “we started to see at our events—our art shows, our poetry readings—a group of people who would come in and kind of skirt around the edge of the crowd and have a sip of something and then, kind of, leave, and then come back the next day or the following weekend and tell us how much it meant to them. To really understand how much this store meant to them… They’re not comfortable, necessarily, engaging directly and intensely with people, but they need some. And so, that was like a little teeny bell.”

Phillip recommed…

*Fresh Water for Flowers,* by Valérie Perrin

I asked Phillip how things changed during the pandemic, as I had asked everyone on this trip. It was fascinating how things were broadly the same everywhere, but how some significant details made the experience of living through a pandemic different regionally. According to Phillip, the pandemic really brought forth a lot more folks who professed the importance stores like Arundel held for them, and how their lives would be poor without community-based businesses. But there was a specific story that I found really fascinating.

“When everything shut down in Seattle,” Phillip explained, “there [were] a lot of break-ins. And if you didn't board up your windows immediately, somebody would break in, or just vandalize it. We got this amazing artist named Amanda Joyce Bishop to do this mural based on a Neil Gaiman quote, and that covered the front of the store. It's, “a book is a dream you hold in your hands.” In the first few days, when everybody boarded up, all the plywood got tagged, and the streets became very hostile. And you would see people walking down, next to these storefronts as if they were walking into a storm. You’d just see them kind of just shying away as if it was painful, right? And when these murals started going up, and they were everywhere. You saw tens of thousands of people running around the city with cameras, taking pictures and sharing them all over the world. It turned the city into a really magical place. And it showed the power of art. Our publishing arm decided to do a book about it… because we wanted to capture that moment. And, because we knew it was all going to come down. We only took submissions for this book from the artists. And, you know, wanted to make sure that, like, who they were, and the title for the work. Some of these have been seen by, you know, over 100 million people. And it's pretty staggering, just the reach, from the BBC to CNN, like, where this stuff went.” If you want to check out Viral Murals, you can do so right here.

One thing Phillip said really stuck with me and summarized why I valued indie bookstores and the people who devoted their lives to running them. “We'd make more money if we close this retail store and went internet only—by far, right?” Phillip said. “So, the reason we're not doing that is because this is fun, and that isn’t—at least for us.”

I like it here. Smiling on the road, having thoroughly enjoyed my time in Seattle, I suddenly found myself experiencing some dissonance. For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to move to New York after graduating college. The city provided an environment I felt I could thrive in, with constantly something to do, and an abundance of businesses involved with the advertising industry I was looking to hop into. But after a few short days in Seattle, I truly felt I could see myself wanting to live there. It may have just been the luck of meeting a few interesting people, or the overcast weather I so dearly loved, or any number of other trivial matters. But it was the first time I had mentally deviated from my “five-year plan.” At first, I was shocked at myself. That quickly turned around, because there was nothing shocking about simply, blindly loving a place. That was beautiful. My mind raced to think of all the other places I had really enjoyed. Charleston. Flagstaff. Steamboat Springs. Sedona. Nashville. Decatur. San Diego…

As I went into a somewhat auto-pilot state, my eyes looked forward, eastbound. I had to be in BOZEMAN, MONTANA, by Friday, for an interview. I didn’t know anything about Montana, but a vast rolling landscape and cowboys did cross my mind. The folks at Arundel had brightened my mood, and I felt ready to drive all day. Before leaving, I made sure to check if there was a National Park I could tack onto my route. When I arrived at Mount Rainier National Park, the drizzling clouds had slightly dissipated, and a bit of bright blue poked through the fading cloud cover. It’s a shame I can’t stop here for a bit and take a walk. I asked a park ranger what the best drive through the park toward DAVENPORT, WASHINGTON would be. I had loved asking rangers this type of question over the past few weeks. It seemed like this ranger hadn’t gotten the chance to speak with too many travelers that day, so she showed me a map and peppered in conversation about how she had done the drive she was suggesting several times. She wished me the best of luck on any of my camping ventures, and I proceed through the park, rolling up and down the forest-green mountains. Snowcaps gleamed in the distance and a rapid river gushed through the scene, creating a picturesque composition. Pretty soon, the mountains melded into smaller, dark flat-topped hills, and the green became much more sparse. The yellow dotted lines shone brightly against the black road, and I half expected a hot-air balloon to pop up on the horizon—my visually-impaired folks know exactly what I’m talking about. It went on like this for hours, with great blue lakes coming into view to break up the land every now and then.

I felt as if I was driving in IMAX, the world around me much more present, my view largely unobstructed. It was then that I decided to track down the nearest Mexican restaurant, desperately in need of some comfort food. I pulled into the parking lot next to La Presa Mexican Restaurant in GRAND COULEE, WASHINGTON. Famished, I made quick work of my meal before I was gone again, arriving at the Fort Spokane Campground only an hour later. It took me an embarrassing 20 minutes to figure out the layout of the area and find my site. By the time I had set up camp and had changed, it was getting dark, although I could see a group of girls had set up at the site 100 ft away. I suppose I heard them and their speaker first, blasting pop music and TikTok sounds. They eventually turned it off, but I woke up again, much later that night, in a panic. It was as if the echoing screams of a dozen young children had all gone off at once. I thought I had dreamt it, but then it happened again, and I became very still in my tent. There was nothing but pitch-black darkness outside. I tried to shake it off, and went back to sleep, thinking nothing of it until the next morning, when I noticed the group of girls at the neighboring site packing up too. Should I ask them if they heard it? I decided against it. I did some research in my car before heading off and deduced that I had heard the cries of a skulk of foxes last night, and nothing more.

It started steadily raining by the time I dove into my car, ready to settle into the driver’s seat for another 8-hour ride. Once I got away from the campground, the scenery was stunningly beautiful, in a different way than the previous day. The overcast morning weather made for a smoother transition from the dark of the night into the new day. I felt that an 8-hour drive was nothing, and I’d still have time this evening when I arrived in THREE FORKS, MONTANA, to decompress for a bit before it was time to sleep again. The green hills look rich and bright, and it looked a bit like what I’d imagined the rolling landscape of the Scottish countryside to look like.

*Passing through Grand Coulee, Washington*

Six hours in, I was on an ordinary, boring highway again, and a billboard advertising a bookstore caught my eye. Thinking it would be nice to stretch my legs, I took the exit ramp for ALBERTON, MONTANA. I didn’t even hand time to put in directions before I noticed the bookstore and parked—it was a small town of 500 people. I could’ve circumnavigated it in its entirety and found it with no difficulty. The entrance lay below a flag, and a large sign reading “Montana Valley Book Store” paired with the Coca-Cola logo. Interesting. There was a counter straight ahead, but the area split into little avenues of tall bookshelves to my left and right. Most of these avenues had their own pull chains to turn the lights on and off for that section. The random chair or stack of books at the end of each hallway was suddenly less eerie, and I noticed the signs indicating the genres of the selections the store had. There was a basement with even more titles and light switches with a similar vibe. This is fascinating… There were enough books in this store to supply everyone in town with readings on any and all of their interests. I decided to go back upstairs—being alone in the basement was only so much fun for a little while. I grabbed a used John Grisham book that caught my eye in the fiction section near the entrance and made my way to the counter, where a little boy saw me and rushed through the door behind him. I heard some voices from behind the door, and a woman with a warm smile materialized and took my book. I commented on the uniqueness of the store and she beamed as I explained how I was from out of town and hadn’t expected to come across a gem like this. She was glad I had found them, and offered me a business card as the little boy came back out again. “You must feel so lucky to be growing up around a place like this,” I said with a grin. He smiled and look down with the shyness that any child had when an older stranger spoke to them.

I didn’t stop on the road again until I hit downtown MISSOULA, MONTANA, where I just parked and decided to find the closest coffee shop to recharge and send some emails. Clyde Coffee hit the spot. Looking around, there were so many young folks either on their laptops or chatting with their friends. There was a friendly and familiar aura here, and I couldn’t help but think of how these folks my age were getting to live their lives today instead of having to drive countless miles. I didn’t mean to complain at all—I was having the time of my life. There’s nothing wrong with missing a coffee with friends, though. Right? There would be time for that soon enough. I was only a few short weeks away from completing my interviews and being back in my own bedroom, and I realized that the trip thus far had been quite a blur. I couldn’t recall what I had done last week, much less last month. Each and every moment was stored somewhere deep in my mind, though. I had obsessively documented everything behind-the-scenes on my phone. My little device held everything I couldn’t keep in the forefront of my memory, and I looked forward to going through it when I was home.

There was a bookstore called Shakespeare & Co. just down the street, with a neon sign in the window, very neat shelves against the walls, and well-decorated tables, leather armchairs, and rugs dispersed throughout the two main rooms. The contrast between this store and the one in Alberton couldn’t be more severe. The difference was that I knew exactly what I would find at Shakespeare & Co. I would stumble across unexpected treasures—“gem hunting,” as Scott Landfield had called—at Montana Valley. There was a mood, an audience, a time, a place—a vibe—to go with each of these stores. I left Missoula, not knowing what kind of vibe would attract me next.

I was about two hours away from my campsite when I decided to refuel on gas, and noticed the entrance to a National Historic Site on my way out of DEER LODGE, MONTANA. Grant-Kohrs National Historic Site was going to close soon, so it seemed the length of my visit there had been decided for me. Perfect. A quick stop, and I’ll be on my way to Three Forks in no time. I went up to the park ranger to get a rundown of the place, having no idea where I was. Apparently a 19th-century ranch, the site was essentially a time capsule, preserving remnants of Montana’s rich history of cattle herding. I still had time to walk around, and the fact that I was almost alone on the trails really made the moment magical. Wooden fences created large grazing enclosures for cattle. Some had cream-colored hides, some were more auburn, some had large horns, and some had the cutest faces. There were horses and chickens, sheds and stables, and some beautifully preserved homes. The chickens took me back to my time on the homestead I worked and lived on in HONOKA’A, HAWAI’I. What a beautiful place.

Soon, I arrived at the KOA site in Three Forks. I enjoyed my experience with Kampgrounds of America in Steamboat Springs with Kathryn, and this site didn’t disappoint. In fact, the bathroom facilities here were even nicer, and there was a patio behind the check-in office where folks could read or grill food. My site was located right against a tall tree, and a wooden fence kept me from a subtle drop-off. Everything out here looked so “zoomed-out” for a lack of a better phrase. It was because there were very few towering trees, and the eyes could take more in, and see further. I noticed the incessant chirping of a bird after setting up my tent and saw the small yellow fuzzball at the base of my tree. Before I could take my phone out to record my little friend, it had managed to crawl onto my shoe, still tweeting aggressively. A small panic ensued and I hobble over to my bench after I couldn’t shake the bird off. I tried to be as gentle as I could, bringing my leg up and onto the bench to somehow get him off. I wrapped the cuff of my jeans tightly so he wouldn’t somehow wriggle his way up my pants—I didn’t have it in me to deal with that. I was able to get the bird to put both of its legs on my shoe, and then I removed the shoe, free to walk comfortably again. Desperately, having now created an attachment to this nuisance of a creature, I walked up to the office, cautiously presenting the staff with a shoe with a bird on it in my hand. “I don’t want to bother you all, but do you, by any chance, have a birdhouse or somewhere where I could try to part with this bird… he will just not let me go.”

There were some laughs, and a man and woman around my age approached me to get a better look. “We’ve never seen something like this,” she said, chuckling. The three of us had no idea what to do, but they pointed me towards an area out front with some flower gardens and a birdfeeder. I was eventually able to leave him—Wilbur, as I had named him. Although it pained me to part ways, I knew it would be for the best. And I slept like a baby that night—no chirping, no noise at all.

The next day, I woke up naturally, and in a great mood. I made some coffee with the car thermos and my little French press—something I hadn’t done in quite some time. Once I had freshened up, I made the short drive to Bozeman and started my day with breakfast at Wild Joe’s. Outlining my day in my head, I tried to prepare myself for what was to come. Country Bookshelf. Some exploring. Lunch. Back to Three Forks. Easy. I had asked my friend, Carson—-who was now living in Japan—for some food recommendations in Bozeman because he had worked as a ski instructor in Big Sky for a brief period. He was the closest connection I had to Montana. I hadn’t seen him in person since before he left for Japan, and being in Bozeman made me miss him. He had been working hard to find me a place to stay while I was in town but that had ended up falling through—in no part his fault—which is why I was at the KOA in Three Forks.

“Sorry dude,” Carson sent me in a message on Instagram. “Also, If I may be so bold, I HIGHLY recommend going to my old place of work. Absolutely bomb-ass pizza and self-brewed beer. And some of the staff may still know me (they definitely do). If you do, throw my name out.” And so, my lunch plans were secured for the day. But first, I had a date with Country Bookshelf.

Country Bookshelf

BOZEMAN, MONTANA

A fixture of the Bozeman community for 65 years, the Country Bookshelf embodies Montana’s rich literary history and presents it for the world to see. Very close to Yellowstone National Park and other natural treasures, Bozeman has been host to many travelers in the past. But this doesn’t mean they aim to create a kitschy vibe. Country Bookshelf is unapologetically Bozeman. The top floor is reminiscent of a choir balcony, which pays homage to a previous store location. Much like the Montana skies, the store is vast, with two floors deeply filled with new books for a general-interest audience. Here—where you can find Ivan Doig, Debra Magpie Earling, Jim Harrison, and Norman Maclean—I spoke with Jessica Hahl, the store’s communications coordinator.

“Montanans have always been very voracious readers,” Jessica explained. “The fact that we're still here 65 years later, shows that we've always been—and continue to be—very voracious in our appetite for stories. I don't know if that's related to the bigger sky and there's more to fill and it's easier to dream and… see the wider world in different ways.”

How would you describe this bookstore in one word?

“The word that I came up with was ‘landmark’. We've been in the community for 65 years. We've been downtown since the 80s. I feel like we've seen a lot of other businesses transition and move. We're sort of an anchor for Main Street, at least. But we are also… a big supporter of Montana literature.

Not knowing much about Montana or the book scene in the state, I pretty much handed it over to Jessica, eager to be enlightened.

“When you hear the word ‘Montana,’” Jessica said, “you often think of cowboys and street duels and gunfights and those sorts of things. And… the flip side is that Shakespeare has been in Montana, for an incredibly long. Like, before it was Montana. Settlers were coming in with copies of Shakespeare's works in saddlebags, and backpacks, and wagons. Shakespeare has maintained his presence here with a really wonderful community program, “Montana Shakespeare in the Parks,” that visits over 50 communities—in Montana, Wyoming, Idaho—for over two months. Country Bookshelf has always been a supporter of Montana Shakespeare in the Parks.” Suddenly, the name of the bookstore in Missoula, Shakespeare & Co. had more meaning to me.

Jessica explained that the staff at Country Bookshelf uses the store as a platform to connect with what the community members are passionate about. A lot of times, they find themselves engaging in this way with the children of Bozeman. The store hosts book drives and fairs for local schools and returns 20% of the sales to help libraries and classrooms buy books. In general, Country Bookshelf is all about making reading accessible—whether that means providing audiobooks through their digital audiobook partner Libro.fm, graphic novels, or books on hiking. Anything. But the last few years definitely disrupted the norm.

“During the pandemic, we started a fund, “Books for Kids,” to help supplement the reading material and things for homes. Not only did we have a pandemic but we also had a wildfire, um, that was very close to town. And so, we were able to give gift certificates from that fund to families impacted—they lost their homes—so that they could have books and stories and try to have some return to whatever normalcy means anymore.” Country Bookshelf managed to excel with online sales and over-the-phone bookselling. Eventually, they managed to continue their book fairs for students. They also took the time to conduct some systems’ upgrades—whatever needed to be done to continue growing readers.

Jessica recommended…

*A Psalm for the Wild-Built,* by Becky Chambers

But I had to ask Jessica about the climate that Amazon propagated during the pandemic regarding consumer book-buying habits in the area.

“If you place an order with us,” Jessica said, ‘for the most part, we can have it in the same amount of time. And then that money is also staying in our community. It's providing local jobs. It's supporting local nonprofit work. It’s keeping books in our schools. We did a lot of personal shopping, basically. One of our regular customers was, like, ‘Okay, I have these five grandchildren. These are their ages. These are their hobbies.’ And I'm, like, ‘great, let's do it. Here's three recommendations.’ ‘Okay, I want this one.’ And wrapping them all up, and gift wrapping, and getting them set out, so that even though that grandparent can’t, you know, physically go and hug their grandkids, at least they got a little gift. They got a little fun. They got a little hope. And… algorithms aren’t there yet.”

I had spent almost double the amount of time I spent at other bookstores at Country Bookshelf, and the amount of preparation Jessica had put into the interview had caught me off guard at first. But ultimately, she made me feel pretty special. All of her insight about the local community had given me so much context on where we were, and I left knowing a hell of a lot more about Montana than I had before. This part of Bozeman reminded me a lot of downtown Chapel Hill, from the type of shops, the old-timey theater, the type of brick lining the buildings, and even the type of trash cans on the sidewalks. One thing was undeniably different—the sky seemed higher up, completely out of reach. I remembered Jenny saying, “the skies are really bigger here.” I couldn’t agree more.

Bridger Brewing was close by, and since I was alone and it was packed for lunch, I sat down at the bar and ordered a Thai chicken pizza. I couldn’t believe that particular mix of flavors was actually being served to me on a slice of pizza. The saucy drizzle had the perfect level of spice to it. I had to remember to find something like it back home, although I was worried nothing would come close. I was trying to savor every bite for as long as I could make it last. The bartender in front of me asked me how I liked the food and I told her it was great, adding the bit about knowing Carson. She was delighted I made the connection. I thanked Carson for the recommendation after I left, feeling satisfied with how my day was going so far. It was the perfect time to return to my tent in Three Forks for a post-lunch nap.

When I woke up, I thought to use the time before dinner to freshen up a bit, read a few chapters, and clean out my car. My little black trash pouch was about to explode with receipts and wrappers, and there were some empty cans and cups littering the back seats. I had park brochures and bookmarks lying around that I wanted to keep, so I just opened every door and began gathering garbage and organizing thing. The man at the site next to me was doing the same thing with his truck.

“Looks like we both had the same idea,” he said to me.

“Yeah… just doing a bit of Spring cleaning, I guess,” I said. We exchanged names, and Adam explained how he was doing a little road trip as well and meeting up with friends on the road in Three Forks. I shared my project and how I was on the way home over the next month.

“What’s it going to be called?” he asked, seeming genuinely interested.

“Oh… it’s going to be called The Greatest Bookscapes, I think… but it’s not going to be done for a while.”

“I’ll look out for it,” Adam said. And then I never saw him again. Poof. That evening, I drove into town and ordered a steaming plate of Mongolian Chicken at Peking China Restaurant. I was one of two parties there, and a few kids who were surely related to the woman who took my order were playing at one of the other tables. The food had come out quickly and was very delicious. I had to get a to-go box and returned to my tent for my last night in Montana.

The weekend would be purely travel-centric. I was devoted to launching myself across the country, hurtling toward Iowa. I left the KOA in Three Forks at 7:30 am on Saturday, driving through the numbingly similar hills of Parkman, Ranchester, Gillette, and Sundance until I arrived at a hotel room in SPEARFISH, SOUTH DAKOTA. It had been a day of minimal social interaction, the only notable event occurring at a rest stop where a group of truckers and I were nodding at one another to gesture about who should use the restroom first. After days of camping, the comfort of a hotel bed was like a drug that put me into a deep slumber.

The next morning, I woke up early—7:30 again—to make the most of the day. I had a lot of ground to cover, and some sights I had to see if I was traversing South Dakota. About an hour and a half after I checked out of my hotel, I arrived at a partially underground parking deck in front of Mount Rushmore National Monument in KEYSTONE, SOUTH DAKOTA. I’m told that people visualize the Mona Lisa to be a certain size in their head and are a bit underwhelmed when they see her small frame from a distance in the Louvre. Similarly, I think I was expecting Mount Rushmore to be a bit larger, but it was an impressive scene nonetheless. There were dozens of streams of tourists walking in every direction, and I let myself trickle into one headed closer to the monument. I noticed peoples’ hats and sweatshirts revealed where they were traveling from or which college they had attended as I walked down a heavily-trafficked pathway lined with flags from each U.S. state and territory. It felt nice to have finally seen the heads of the four presidents in person, a sight every student that goes through the American public education system managed to see in a textbook or poster very often. I took a few selfies and played around with my camera a bit before experiencing what I’m going to call “the Grand Canyon effect” without further explanation. I decided to hop onto a trail circling the park to get my steps in for the day before making my way back to Lola. My friend Shelby, whom I had met in an advertising class last year, told me to visit the Crazy Horse Memorial in CRAZY HORSE, SOUTH DAKOTA if I was passing through the area. It was only a short drive away, and I wholeheartedly trusted her when she told me I couldn’t miss it. The complex was a sprawling museum, gallery, and educational venue teeming with folks from all over. In the distance, I could see a face carved into a mountain—a work in progress, depicting the Native warrior, Crazy Horse, in what would be the largest mountain carving in the world. The fact that this memorial was located only minutes away from the faces of Washington and Jefferson at Mt. Rushmore in the Black Hills—lands with great cultural significance to the Lakota people— was not lost on me. It was truly amazing to see history in the making, and the telling of stories many people weren’t particularly familiar with at such a large scale. I hoped I would be able to see the finished memorial in my lifetime.

Around noon, I arrived in downtown RAPID CITY, SOUTH DAKOTA. There was fortunately ample parking on Main St., even with there seeming to be an event gathering families at a stage in the heart of town. I saw a few horses being led around kids, and a sign reading “Native Pop” hanging up at an atrium surrounded by a lawn. I slipped into Mitzi’s Books—another bookstore I had tried to get in touch with about an interview, but couldn’t work one out with. Beautiful wooden shelves with vibrant, new books lay against the yellow walls. Little planes and hot air balloons hung from the tiled ceiling and canvases and other cozy décor occupied the walls. The railings and the carpeted staircase and every ounce of love that had been put into the design of the space made it feel like a home. I could see why several people had pointed me in its direction.

I took a pit stop at Firehouse Brewing Company for lunch before I was on my way to a hotel outside of MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA. Another eight hours of blissful isolation. I was worried that as I headed east, I would be leaving the big skies as well. I drove through what looked like farmland in Box Elder to greener hills in Reliance; I crossed over the Missouri River and found myself passing a gaggle of wind turbines spinning in Olney as the sun started to set.

I crossed half of the country this week, I thought before falling asleep in SHAKOPEE, MINNESOTA, with another eventful week just around the corner.

This week’s food for thought

“Well, for one… I’m one of the only black-owned bookstores—I don't know if I'm the only one, I might be the only one in Seattle, which probably makes me the only one in Washington State… and I'm probably one of the few left in the entire country… Bookstores take on the personality of, you know, their owners, for the most part. You know, I'm like a 51-year-old, college-educated, you know, happily married Black nerd from Flint, Michigan. You know, I have a body of knowledge, which, like I said, you can't duplicate that on an algorithm. Some of the things I’ve seen, places I've traveled, the things I've done. I mean, I put all of that into this.”