Portobello Market is the place to be on a Saturday morning. This Notting Hill haven for antiquists and foodies was especially packed when the sun came out this afternoon. Maybe the rays make the bronze glitter and the china sparkle more than usual.The warm weather had me lingering under the canopies of fruit stalls and pastry tables, my appetite mounting along the gradual climb uphill. My Hungry Eyes (you can thank me later for getting Eric Carmen's Dirty Dancing hit stuck in your head for the day) were led astray only by the competing smell of old books. Leather bound titles and twentieth century editions by classic British authors had me drooling more than the fresh figs and foccacia loafs.
At Demetzy Books, I got lost in the memoir of an early British migrant who settled in back country Quebec. In this detailed account, the author noted the idiosyncrasies of the locals, describing their relaxed nature and her disbelief when the Canadian's actually ran out of tea. No back up supply of tea? That was the culture shock of her day and age.
I put the book down only to chat briefly with the bookseller himself and another patron who was an avid book collecter and father of a reporter for the Washington Post. We got wrapped up in a discussion about the future of the real-life, hand-held book because of the present wave in electronic versions. I think they were both relieved to find a twenty-something someone with an appreciation for the real thing.
I was relieved to find a bookseller who didn't look at me curiously when I stuck my nose in the flyleaf and sighed, smiling, intoxicated by the musty smell.
