By Ava Shaffer
Hyde Park, London, UK
I am lying on a picnic blanket in Hyde Park the day before I am scheduled to be on a plane leaving the UK. My friends surround me, each of us with our English major noses buried in the cover of a British book. Christie, Shakespeare, Holmes. I close my eyes against the shining sun and breathe in, smelling the flowers from the nearby garden. I hear unleashed dogs barking, and wonder why British dogs are so much better behaved than American ones. I wonder why British parks are so much more peaceful than American ones, too. The sound of a trickling fountain in the distance calms me. I could spend years here.
I thumb the pages of the book I bought earlier that trip, catching on to the section with my bookmark. I pull it out, regarding the Daunt Books image. I admire the blue and white illustrations on the thick cardstock. An outline of the bookstore, the giant circular window frame, the bookcases rising to the ceiling. An inviting chair, beckoning you to sit down and crack open a book. “For travelers” the bookmark reads.
Foyles, 107 Charing Cross Rd
The first bookstore I visited during my London study abroad was Foyles at Charing Cross. The minute I stepped into the brightly-lit, red-brick building, I saw the sign. The one that let me know my trip had really begun, that London was home to me this summer.
On the white awning overlooking the rows and rows of shelves, in bold black text, Times New Roman font, read “Welcome Book Lover, You Are Among Friends.”
And I was. Not just on this trip, surrounded by other English majors who wanted to dedicate their summer to the study of literature, but in this store as well. People milled about, most of them carrying more than three books in hand. An older woman with glasses and a pink cardigan peered into the Women’s Literature section, a person holding a stack of hardcovers investigated the signed book table. A girl my age saw me browsing the feminist literature section, and recommended me Carmen Maria Machado. I thanked her, charmed by her friendliness, knowledge, and British accent. Here, with this love of reading flowing among us, we all had something in common.
Everything about Foyles represented the start of my journey in London. It was fresh, new, exciting. There was so much to explore, and so little time. Walking up the first flight of stairs, I started right away.
I would wander those six floors the way I would the streets of London that summer. Refreshed, in awe, and ready for where the next month would take me.
Gay’s The Word, 66 Marchmont St
On a rainy London day after attending Shakespeare and Detective Fiction classes, my friend group decided to explore another well-known British bookstore. As a proud member of the LGBTQ+ community, I wanted to support queer independent bookstores during my study abroad. I live in a small town and study at an even smaller college town, so it is often difficult to find progressive bookstores to support. So when I first heard about this shop from an Anglophile professor on this trip, I knew I had to visit.
According to their website and the friendly turquoise-haired bookseller at the front desk, Gay’s The Word is the UK’s oldest LGBTQ+ bookstore. This shop only carries books by queer authors, from graphic novels to poetry to memoirs. Similar to the community of queer friends I grew close to on this trip, the store was small, but comfortable. Intimate. It felt safe and cherished and I knew I was always welcome here.
Rainbow flag garlands lined the top of the shelves, bringing even more color and pride to the store. One of my many literary missions of this trip, among seeing a performance at The Globe and sitting on the famous book bench in the British Library, was to acquire a UK copy of my favorite book, I’ll Give You The Sun by Jandy Nelson. The UK edition has additional chapter artwork and a new cover. I had been hunting for it since I stepped foot into the city.
My eyes scanned the colorful shelves, looking for the title so familiar to me. My wet boots creaked on the old wooden floors, leaving a trail of water on the rug that the bookseller kindly assured me was no big deal. My friend hummed next to me as they read the back cover of a lesbian witch and mermaid romance. I kept searching, growing wary every second that passed without success.
But then- yes! There it was—a bright yellow spine sticking out from the shelves, the last copy in the store. The title was printed in gorgeous looping cursive on the side. I hugged it close to my chest, like a prayer. My friend grinned for me, and we walked to the checkout together.
Daunt Books, 84 Marylebone High St
From here on out, whenever I think of the color forest green, I will think of Daunt Books on Marylebone High St.
My friends and I had just returned from a weekend trip to Oxford, our brains full of beautiful architecture and a desire to read classic literature. As we walked the green campus, admiring the yellow stone buildings and stained glass windows, we began to list all the classics we have never read, but want to someday. Ideally, in a picturesque place like this. Wuthering Heights, Great Expectations, Mrs. Dalloway.
After that conversation, I was on a mission to find the prettiest copies of these classics. I heard about Daunt Books through the grapevine of other bookshop fiends in our study abroad group. They said it was the place to go if you wanted prestige, if you wanted elegance, if you wanted classic. So to Daunt Books I went.
I had seen photos of the bookshop online for years. But no matter how many pixelated versions of the store I had looked at, nothing can compare to seeing it in person. That’s how I felt about London too. No matter how many times I had seen the city in movies or television, nothing can beat actually being there, feet on the cobblestone streets of the Bankside, eyes on the towering London Eye.
Back in Daunt Books, a forest green backsplash colors the back wall of the shop, a gorgeous circular window the centerpiece of the store. There were comfy leather reading chairs littering the space, inviting me to flop down in one with a good story. The shelves spanned two floors, an upper and lower level, the dark wooden railings painting a charming view.
The entire top floor of Daunt Books is dedicated solely to travel books. There’s sections from places all over the world. I spent the most time in the London section, flipping through books revealing the best restaurants in London, the must-see attractions, the history of Big Ben. I wandered to the other sections, dreaming of the other places I hope to visit one day. I had always been a homebody, afraid to take big risks in travel. Yet here I was, in a new country, a big city, studying my favorite topics in the world.
Maybe there is room for more travel in a self-proclaimed home-body.
I avoided the America section- I will return there soon enough. For that moment, I was present there, in a green bookstore with pretty windows and classic literature.
The Common Press, 118 Bethnal Grn Rd
The summer was coming to a close. The days were growing colder and the school children in grey uniforms raced the red double-decker buses on the streets of Shoreditch. For them, school was just beginning.
For me, the semester was nearing its end. I had multiple essays to write in those final weeks, about Richard III and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. I drew upon my best study tip from college to write these papers: find a good coffee shop and don’t leave until your fingers cramp from all that typing.
The Common Press was a quaint café bookshop a 15-minute walk from my temporary flat. I visited it multiple times throughout the trip, but this moment was different. I knew it would be the last time I would be sitting in the well-loved slightly-worn red leather booths. The last time I would write papers to the sound of coffee beans whirling in the grinder. I would miss the friendly greetings of the owner, who knew I preferred chai to coffee and Austen to Brontë.
I settled into my favorite booth on the left, near the window so I could people-watch. Surrounding me, colorful books lined even more colorful shelves. After my visit to Gay’s The Word, I had been on the hunt for another LGBTQ+ bookstore to visit- and I was very happy to have found The Common Press. Every book here was carefully curated, all from Authors of Color and queer writers.
I lost countless hours to this homey cafe bookstore, writing. The next time I would look up from my computer screen now full of words, the sky would be dark. I waved to the owner as I left, the door chiming with finality behind me.
Oxford, Ohio, USA
Now I’m sitting at a coffee shop in Oxford, flipping through the photos from my trip. There are no bookstores in this town, so Kofenya, the artsy fairy-light-lit coffee shop, will do. I have bookmarks, receipts, and other memories from every bookstore I visited splayed across the wooden, coffee-stained tables. I’ve always been a collector, but these scraps mean more to me than anything else I saved from my study abroad. They represent different stages of my journey, of how I grew during this time. The friends I met, the places I visited, the courses I studied, the books I read.
A photo of me sweating, smiling, out of breath after climbing six staircases in Foyles.
A rainbow heart sticker from Gay’s The Word.
A bookmark from Daunt Books, the edges fraying from how much I use it.
A receipt for an iced chai latte with oak milk from The Common Press.
I pile these artifacts, these pieces of my recent past, into my Daunt Books tote bag. The door to Kofenya chimes as I leave, and the pitch is different but in that moment I am transported back to London, scarf bundled around my neck to protect from the UK wind, Sherlock Holmes story tucked in hand. Miles of unexplored pavement beneath my feet. For a moment, I let myself linger there, in the rain and the literature and the Thames. Then I continue on, with the memories remaining.