Today is my alone time in Paris. I decided to spend the day going back to Shakespeare & Co., and probably sneak an hour or two at the library, while my friend went on her own to Paris Disneyland. I bought the 1-day Paris Visite pass for good measure, since I am such a klutz with directions and i wouldn't want to find myself getting lost between metro stations. Luckily, I was able to reach Sakespeare & Co. without any incident. It was exceptionally chilly when I arrived, and there were considerably less people in the bookshop compared to when we first came here last Friday. It was strictly not allowed to take photos inside the bookshop, so I had to gush in silence and tamp down the urge to take pictures of every nook and cranny filled to the brim with books. On one hand, it was a welcome change since it allowed me to actually enjoy browsing every book I could lay my hands on without having to immediately share the experience online. The place looks quaint and unassuming from outside, but is actually a seemingly endless labyrinth of books inside, it was so easy to lose track of time and just bask in the comfort of being surrounded by so much literary masterpieces. And just the thought of being in the same bookshop previously frequented by Ernest Hemingway, F.Scott Fitzgerald, James Joyce, T.S. Elliot and other literary greats is enough to keep my book nerd self doing cartwheels in my mind. At the second floor of the bookshop, there were more reading nooks complete with couches, a small piano, an old typewriter, and big windows looking out at the Notre Dame, encouraging people to not just buy books but to stay around and read freely as well. At the far end of the room was a wall filled with random notes and doodles from visitors, in various handwriting and in different languages. I mentally kicked myself for not always bringing pen and paper as i should, and just spent several minutes reading each and every note, getting a glimpse of other people's minds and feeling very fortunate that I am at this place, at this time. I went to the Poetry section next and settled into the nearest couch to read Charles Bukowski's "On Love" and the collected poems of Sylvia Plath. Within minutes, the store's resident cat showed up, sized me up for a second, decided that i was probably a harmless cat person anyway, and finally settled in the couch beside me. My sister would have been so thrilled if I was able to take even just one picture of his boss cat face. I did realize that there's something extraordinarily comforting with the thought that here I am in Paris, at the most famous bookstore in the world, drinking coffee, reading poetry, and with a cat purring contentedly beside me. All else considered, I guess everything will be fine.