There's a Barnes & Noble within blocks of my workplace, a quick jaunt on my lunch hour. Oh, I know about Amazon.com and other online book retailers, but sometimes you just need a fix of the real thing. So I wander into Barnes & Noble every week or so and immediately upon entering I'm seduced by the theme tables draped in beautiful, art-covered books. This week it was at the "Notable Books" table where I found myself running my finger along the dust jackets and picking up tomes to peruse the blurbs. I know I shouldn't do it, but I pick up Nam Le's "The Boat," a collection of stories that take place in such disparate places as Iran and Colombia. I lose myself in the description for "Factory Girls" by Leslie Chang which takes place in rural China. I read, briefly but rapturously, about a taxi driver in modern India in Aravind Adiga's "The White Tiger." And as I set down one book and pick up another that takes place on some exotic foreign soil, I can feel my stomach tighten with anxiety. All the things I'm missing, all the places I'll never see, all the experiences I'll never have are typed in neat, compact fonts on cheap paper bound into books sold at Barnes & Noble. The literary mega-store is a handsomely decorated warehouse of every city I can never even dream of knowing and every adventure I'll never get to try. I almost have to run out of Barnes & Noble after just a few minutes, but like a young kid drawn to a scary roller coaster, I always go back, knowing it will make my stomach feel funny but hoping that this time I'll find a way to conquer my fear.
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