For a few weeks, I’ve have this… idea stuck in my head.
I couldn’t quite put it into words. Through scattered talks with my co-worker Annabel, I tried to summarize it. Finally, she sent me a post on Elizabeth Gilbert’s Facebook page that of course, said everything.
She talked about how when you’re lost, you “must tirelessly search for clues”. About how her seemingly pointless fixations with learning Italian, losing herself in meditation, and going to Bali resulted in:
“Everything.
Absolutely everything.
That journey brought me EVERYTHING.”
If I could look back and pinpoint my clues, they would seem just as insignificant. But I also believe in the journey, and the little things you find along the way. A book in an airport bathroom, a thrift store jacket.
I can’t say I always felt lost during those times, but this past Sunday, I definitely was.
Lost, that is.
I was in Candy (my unfortunately nicknamed SUV, don’t ask), right by Jordan Lake. The lake is huge, gorgeous. But I couldn’t find the exact spot I was looking for.
I went hiking there about… two years ago? I could have sworn it was Jordan Lake, but nothing looked familiar. I would have just pulled over, but I was determined to hike – and everything I could see looked completely flat.
I saw signs for Pittsboro – a town I’ve only been to once, and figured I’d swing by for coffee. After getting a quick cup at a bakery called Phoenix, I noticed an open bookstore across the street. Thanks to a childhood hanging out with Nancy Drew and various Roald Dahl characters, bookstores are completely irresistible to me.
In my adult years, You’ve Got Mail and Notting Hill didn’t help the obsession.
This one is small, but cozy. As soon as I walk in, I greet the older man behind the counter.
“You’re open, right?” I ask, hesitantly. “Everything else around here looks closed.”
“We always open this early on First Sunday,” he explains, leafing through something.
I inquire more about First Sunday. He tells me about the various crafters, etc. who set up shop in downtown Pittsboro each month. As he explains, I try to figure out who he reminds me of, but draw a blank.
“Any other weekend, it’s pretty sleepy around here,” he laughs.
“Well, how fitting for my serendipitous Sunday visit,” I reply, glancing around at all of the books.
“I’m sorry… did you say serendipitous?” He asks, a little quieter.
He smiles when I confirm it, but doesn’t explain why. Twenty minutes later, we’re still chatting as I’m browsing the shelves. I find the travel section and happily start pulling books out to read the back covers.
“This is what I was looking for, Dennis,” I call from the back room, grinning.
Our conversation continues with his questions about my writing, and his history as a bookstore owner. I leave with a list of travel writers he enjoys, as well as a strong breakfast recommendation (Small Street B&B & Cafe).
“See ya, kiddo.” I hear him say as I walk out.
I’m headed towards Small Street when it hits me.
“David freakin’ Carradine.”
Figures.