(I kept myself amused this morning by imagining a breakfast restaurant called Hashtag. Probably not the first time for this idea, but the thought cracked me in my own world.)
I write this love letter to you from the Central Branch of the San Diego Public Library system. Specifically, I’m in the eighth floor Reading Room. The library is fairly new and is still suffering the fussiness of final touches–some days the latches on the restroom stalls don’t work, other days the escalators don’t work on all floors, the “Auditorium” sign was removed when the “o” fell off–but there is so much here for me to love in the place of the gaps.
I’m developing a routine, a rule-book of my own design:
First stop, the gift store, full of things you would find at a Paper Source or museum gift shop;
Next, the New Arrivals in Fiction;
Then, the fourth floor of fiction requiem;
Lastly, the Reading Room.
The Reading is a blend of the long study tables you would find at other libraries and a whole collection of chairs mismatched save for their color. The sofas, benches, easy chairs, chaise lounges, dining room table chairs, rocking chairs, wicker…they are all the same brilliant azure. Fifty different textures, and one color, like a Martha Stewart wedding for seating. All of the blue faces the windows, but the windows are walls, so all of us, even those of us in the middle of the space, can gaze off at the Coronado Bridge and hope for a muse over the Bay.
Sometimes I watch the bridge as I write, but mostly I look up occasionally and light on Mexico, close enough to touch if I were Stretch Armstrong, visible in peaks and haze. I’m high up and the mountains are high up; we meet in the altitude. The water view is okay–more shipping cranes and trucking than beckon–but I look off at the mountains and dream of someday speaking Spanish. Rumor has it Tijuana is awful, but I wouldn’t know; I don’t have a passport.
Maybe this year.