The travelling reader

Since I moved to the UK a few years ago, I've discovered new pleasures in reading.

For example, there is nothing quite like reading a book that is set in a place that you're familiar with. Books that can evoke a memory of Vienna, or Chicago, or the crowded streets of London in rush hour. The stories seem that much more immediate. Recently I was in Edinburgh, and wandered down Fleshmarket Close (the setting of Ian Rankin's book of the same name - or Fleshmarket Alley if you live in the US). I had tea at the Elephant House, the setting for one of the acts in Alexander McCall Smith's latest 44 Scotland Street book (and alleged writing place for JKR's first instalment in the Harry Potter series).

I've also realised how limited my reading choices used to be, fuelled by chain stores, the cost of books in New Zealand (pretty outrageous compared to the cost of living - see this interesting series of posts), and the kinds of authors they teach in University. I don't see any faculty offering a creditable course in, say, American literature, or magical realism. While we do reasonably well in terms of stocking home-grown fiction, we do pretty badly in stocking say, New Zealand poetry or American fiction. Or at least that is how it strikes me.

I've also learned to love the charms of both the behemoth chains (Waterstones Piccadilly being my favourite), and independents (the London Review Bookshop stands out). I love that so much heterogeneity can exist amongst those who consider themselves booksellers. Just as no two bookshelves are the same, so the bookshops. In the weekend I bought Book Lovers London, and immediately began to tick off where I've been, and make lists of "must visits", that should occupy my life for the foreseeable future.