I stumbled upon it once, by accident, before I had etched the streets south of Houston like a map in my mind. New York was mystical to me then, a dream rested on the shoulders of the self I loved and left behind for bluer, wider skies. I was back from Los Angeles for a work conference. I arrived a day early to take advantage of every second of Sunday, the cool February air warmed by an unseasonably strong sun. After a funeral on the Upper East Side, brunch near Battery Park, chai in Alphabet City and drinks in the East Village, I had run myself ragged across Manhattan. When my phone’s battery finally depleted and night fell, I was shaky and tired, ready to go home. I navigated to the Apple Store on Prince Street, the only landmark I knew at the time, to charge my dead phone before the long train ride back to Queens.
That’s when I saw McNally Jackson. I could never resist the allure of a bookstore and it was enchanting at first glance. Books I loved, books I had wanted to read, captivating covers I’d never seen – all lined up in the window, prettier than Saks on Christmas. I pressed my hand against the cool storefront glass to take in every title on display up close. Breath caught in my chest, the way excitement puts you in a chokehold sometimes. My love for every bookstore I had ever found before compounded, like warmth, born new in a single moment.
I opened the first door to a vestibule lined with neighborhood flyers advertising tutors and guitar teachers and rooms for rent, the feathered bottoms of pages torn away. Independent newspapers were neatly stacked on the ground, pressed against the wall. The second door opened to an oasis, the necessary inverse of the day’s rushed exertion. Time slowed, expanded. I was the only person moving at a chaotic pace, still bursting with energy from the outside world. Unsure where to turn my attention first, excited by every prospect, I stopped at the tables near the entrance where stacks of books were separated by genre: new & noteworthy, fiction, non-fiction. Each breath carried with it the scent of uncracked spines, fresh paper, new ink; a book, multiplied one hundred thousand times.
Once inside, the shelves extend an invitation to slow down, ease your stride, meander through the aisles that aren’t really aisles at all, more like cubicles of books. It’s quiet but not silent. People step softly, sometimes drag their feet, shuffling respectfully like a dance between walls and other readers. Muted music plays over hushed voices that you have to lean in close to hear. I shed my jacket, comfortable inside shelter from winter weather thawing into spring. Books held in crooks of arms, hugged toward bodies, piles heavy enough to be rested on hips like babies, already loved so much to belong to somebody before crossing the threshold of the register.
On that first day, I found Normal People quickly (my first brush with Sally Rooney) on the wall above the stairs that displayed noteworthy books across genres. I couldn’t tell if it was the kind of bookstore where people would sit and settle in so I walked in the direction of the register with my new book in hand. My wandering attention turned toward a wall of Staff Picks paired with small, eloquent descriptions for each book and, on the shelf, Bluets. A simple blue cover, title in small lettering, “a must read.” I picked it up and placed it on top of Normal People without cracking the spine. I turned toward the cashier, both books in hand, and I spoke quietly, clearly, the beginning of a conversation between two people who already shared love.
“Have you read this book?” I asked as I handed her Bluets.
“I have and it’s beautiful. It’s a series of short, moving snippets of prose like poetry. I think you’ll enjoy it,” she said as she placed a bookmark in between the front cover and first page.
The importance of certain experiences can only be understood in hindsight. Discovering McNally Jackson was no such event. Its significance was immediately evident to me, transformative, a physical manifestation of all the things I loved about New York City and every dream I ever had. Access to infinite worlds, compassion cultivated in pages, empathy, understanding, perspective borrowed from consciousness not my own. The gift of literature, distilled, condensed into one single space, walls lined and curated with intention. Even though I had spent all my energy, I felt more full than I had felt in a long time, like a vessel for opportunity, lifted by the current of the most beautiful New York I had ever seen.
And I was blown away when I opened Bluets to read the first page after purchase. I pulled out the bookmark and held it wide between my thumb and forefinger, moved to quiet tears immediately by the beauty of the book itself as much as the experience of finding it, while my phone charged in the Apple Store before I finally headed home.
Tell me about your neighborhood bookstore in the comments section! Do you remember when you discovered it? How do you feel when you’re there?
nathalie shushan 
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