A Love Letter to My Nook

Dear Nook,

I never thought we would get this far.

I swore I would always be a paper girl.  I love the smell of books, the feel of them in my hands, the pretty covers.  I love popping into a bookstore and flipping through several tomes before deciding which lucky one will be going home with me that evening.  For me, books are a quick, fairly cheap (especially when I have a coupon!) pick-me-up: better for me than ice cream, and way more lasting.  I can revisit them again and again.  And thanks to an awesome city library system, I can borrow almost anything I want for free!

Then two things happened.

One, my neighborhood Borders closed, as did most of the locations in Chicago.  I was devastated.  Sure, there are independent and used bookstores in my 'hood (one of the advantages to living here), but they don't have nearly as good a selection, plus one of the used bookstores is run by a real asshole who always yells at me to turn off my cell phone.  Even when my cell phone is tucked away in my purse.  Plus, no coupons.

Two, I started planning my move.  Granted, I'm staying in the same neighborhood, but even a trek seven blocks east requires packing, which necessitates a purge.  And I realized: while I love my three full bookcases, they are very, very full.  I've loved discovering the romance genre, and I was about YA way before Twilight was even a sparkly germ in Stephenie Meyer's mind, but the thing about genre fiction?  IT PILES UP.  Like crazy.  Because YA and romance reads tend to be fairly fast (and I'm a fast reader anyway), I have a ton of them.  Sure, many are worth rereading and revisiting (for example, I always turn to Jennifer Crusie's Bet Me on a bad day), but some I haven't looked at since the first read.  Also?  Usually all of my holds from the library come in at once, which makes for a very heavy bag at the end of the day.

There's a Barnes & Noble near my office, where I like to write and have hot chocolate on lunch breaks.  And like the nerdy best friend in an 80's movie, you, Nook, were always hanging around, at your little kiosk, surrounded by attractive covers and accessories.  But I always ignored you.

Until one day, like the nerdy best friend in an 80's movie who gets a makeover, I stopped for a second look.

You were light and easy to use.  You use "e-ink" and not backlighting, so as not to hurt my eyes.  You could store a bajillion titles AND fit into my purse.  Many of these titles were cheaper than their paper brothers and sisters.  For a girl who panics if she finishes a book in transit and has nothing else to read, this was like discovering Nutella for the first time.  And best of all, you could store e-books from the library.

But I took my time.  I asked around about your reputation.  I did online research, I grilled my fellow bookworms.  I listened to my sister when she said, "you read so much, you're actually a great candidate for an e-reader!"  I'd never thought of it that way, but she was right.

I know there are risks.  For example, I don't essentially own any material stored in your lovely self--essentially, I'm "renting" it.  A zombie apocalypse could happen any day--or you could just massively upgrade--and I'd lose all of that.  But my paper books, they would remain.

I get it, though.  Falling in love always, always comes with risks.  And sometimes you have to just jump in.

So I bit the bullet, Nook.  I picked you out, along with two pretty covers.  I learned how to do a search, how to load library books on you, how to make "shelves" to sort my growing collection (my shelves are named Noodle Stories, Bitches Be Crazy, Teen Girl Squad, and Do Not Watch That No No Channel).  I'm still growing accustomed to all your little quirks.

And I don't think I'll ever fully outgrow the print format.  Some books I do want to own, to hold in my hands, to display on my bookcases.

But on the whole, Nook, I think you and are going to be very happy together.

Love,
Unpro

This Used to Be My Playground: Elegy for a Borders

I'm a bad, bad hipster.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about the local.  I live in a neighborhood that yes, is more gentrified than it was ten years ago, but still boasts a bevy of indie coffee bars, clothing stores, restaurants, brunch-y type places, you name it.  It's one of the reasons I pay more rent than I should--I love being surrounded by the ingenuity of my fellow (wo)man.

But today, I cry for a corporate behemoth on Chicago's Mag Mile.

You see, last weekend Borders on Michigan Avenue closed its doors forever. 

And I, the alterna-girl, am heartbroken.

I have a special affinity for Borders, for many reasons.  I love, love, love to read and those SOB's have everything.  I get killer coupons in my email and I don't even have to print them out: just show them on my smartphone and we're copasetic.  Their Seattle's Best coffee kicks ass and their spinach omelet sandwiches are like delicious, eggy crack.

More importantly, however, Borders is my mothership, my point of return at the various stages of my life.

After I lost my virginity and the lucky man had to go to work, I went to Borders, plopped in an armchair, and contemplated how I felt: at once forever changed and exactly the same.  In law school, I went to the local Borders so often the staff knew my name (and I even taught some of them at the university).  When I was a temp in downtown Chicago, I'd head to the State Street location on my lunch break and just browse around, smelling that irreplaceable new-book aroma.  (I've never been an eating-at-your-desk type because I can just feel my ass getting wider with every bite.)

That same year, I even worked at my neighborhood Borders over the Christmas season, dealing with preppy college students, cranky oldsters, and indie rockers--and that was just the staff.  I remember riding the elevator with some of my coworkers after closing late one night.  Someone cracked a snarky joke and I knew that this was my crowd, my neighborhood, where I fit in best.  I knew right then I'd made the right decision to move back to Chicago.

(Not to mention I had a really gorgeous coworker.  Yes, he could be a real douche, but he was also 6'5" and would shelve the books little 5'4" me couldn't reach.  In return, I would work on the bottom shelves for him, as it hurt his knees to squat.  Plus, we would rock paper scissors for who got to work the register.  It's the little things.)

And the Michigan Avenue Borders, well, it was a gateway to all of the above.

I first moved to the city as a college freshman, wide-eyed and innocent as the cows in the farm town from whence I came.  I couldn't believe my luck when I happened upon the Borders--three floors devoted to books!  Imagine that.  My college's downtown campus was just down the street, and for four years I took advantage of the free shuttle service.  Sometimes I'd take homework, but more often I'd grab a stack of books and read to my naive little heart's content.

This past year, I experienced a serious bout of sadness and stress.  I got in the habit of taking long walks to clear my head, and more often than not I'd find myself at the same Borders, choosing some titles and feeling more content for just a little while.  It was on one of these nights a couple months ago, that I heard a cafe employee break the bad news: soon, the store would be no more.

I'm not a huge fan of downtown, especially on weekends.  I've also had a friend work at this Borders, and she's had to deal with more annoying asshole tourists than anyone should have to see in a lifetime.  I can never understand how so many people think Chicago is the Mag Mile and that's it.  It's so much more.

But I'll always be grateful to this Borders.  In some ways, it's watched me grow up, from a college-age pixie to an ambitious temp-by-day to a semi-serious adult still figuring my shit out.  I'll miss the pretty view of the Old Water Tower, the smell of chocolate from the Hershey store, the sounds of hustle and bustle mixed with quiet contemplation.

Downtown will remain, of course, but it'll never be the same to me.

RIP.