A five-floor grey building soars above Piccadilly Circus. It houses one of the biggest bookshops in London: Waterstones Piccadilly.
The sliding glass doors open, and I pop into the store. Although it’s a predictable choice, visiting this branch evokes old and sweet memories. The first time I came to London, I spent almost an entire afternoon hanging around the numerous stalls and shelves full of books. It also recalls my initial weeks in the city. It was the place in which I spent endless hours flipping the pages of the newest releases and absorbing the beauty of the classics of literature. The time goes by, and the feeling is always the same anytime I go through the main door: astonishment. The structure of the shop is approximately the same, although they made a few refurbishments. Bestsellers and staff recommendations occupy the ground floor. The latest novels pack the huge wall to the right of the entrance. At the end of the hall, a short stair descends to the stationery. The birthday cards fill the wooden displays, and square tables with glass tops contain precious fountain pens to collect and gift. An unusual spiral stair climbs to the upper floor on which the small, cosy café is located. It’s my favourite place where I like to have a break during my exploration. The main counter is on the top of the stair, and the mouth-watering pastries and cakes lay on the table directly in front of the newcomers. People sit at the coloured tables, chatting and perusing the pages of their purchases. Descending the spiral stair without having tasted one of the cakes is heart-breaking; I will come back after having visited the four floors of books waiting for me. I head to the first, climbing the white marble steps. Every kind of fiction is in this section. If you turn left, at the top of the stairway, sci-fi is the welcoming genre. I stroll around, the carpeted floor muffles the noise of my steps. A pleasant scent of printed paper fills my nostrils; people whisper, asking the customers assistants information about the novels they’re interested in. The room on the other side contains my favourite works: crime and thrillers. I get lost in there, kidnapped by the intriguing pages written by Peter James, Agatha Christie, and Raymond Chandler. Leaving for another floor is like cutting off a part of me. The next floors contain numerous volumes, from children literature to politics and economy. After more than one hour of wandering, I decide to let gluttony win and I head for the ground floor café. In front of a coffee and a slice of banana loaf, I observe the multitude of people visiting the shop. We have the shy tourist, who picks up the book which caught his attention, looks at it and then puts it back. The regular customers are easily recognisable; they have a stack of books in their hands and continuously ask the staff for suggestions, events or new releases. I glance at a gentlelady sat at the table next to me. She smiles, I smile back. She then bends his head down and plunges back into the reading of the novel he bought. Any time I come here, it surprises me to see how books bring different people together. They tell us stories that make us dream, suffer, weep, and laugh. It doesn’t matter whether you often or rarely visit it; it doesn’t matter whether you’re looking for something specific or you’re just wandering. Books enchant you with their story and drag you into a marvellous world.
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November 2020
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