Two Types of Tea

There are two entrances to the Barnes & Noble bookstore in downtown Santa Rosa. At 700 4thStreet, one can step into the establishment under the deadpan stare of a security guard who strives to control the hoards of literary fanatics. Or, one can traipse into 200 D Street, where a Starbucks siphons patrons from the street and into the bookstore. To make the reading more enjoyable, Barnes & Noble has brought Starbucks to Steinbeck with a cafe in each store. Come, drink one of sixty million beverages served each year. Try one of eight million scones and cookies. Devour one of three million grilled sandwiches. Paninis, juices, and bottled iced coffee sit in a refrigerated case. Above them lie pastries on a glass shelf. Below the glossy treats, a sticker boasts, "Real food. Simply delicious."

A glass barrier and wall separates the food from the Fodor. Book cases of the exact same shape, exact same length, and exact same width block out pathways, intersecting at ninety degree angles. Each shelf wears the exact same shade, a mix of dark chocolate and mildew. Translucent glass walls, which look onto both streets, balance the shelves' heavy color. Like White Campion in a field of dull grass, stand alone displays of sale items or popular teen fiction provide momentary respite. Signs reading "Top selections bargain priced" proudly plant themselves on each rack. Spines stiff, covers flat, layout identical, paperbacked classics stand on one bookshelf unit. The likes of Tolstoy, Fitzgerald, and Stein line up underneath the fragmented sentences "Enduring works. Affordable prices."

The Barnes & Noble JR area, cornered in the back of the store, entices children with a white, yellow, and green arch supported by two elephants on squat columns. Apart from this entrance, there is no other break in the barricade of bookshelves corralling the kids; one cannot leave, or enter, without passing the elephants. This playpen comes complete with an employee who prevents children from escaping by handing them a Maisy Mouse board book while their parents enjoy a frappucino over a tabloid or two. Handy age recommendations top most of the shelves. ABCs and 123s are for ages zero to three, ages five to eight receive chapter books, and Newbery Award Winners may be given to ages seven to twelve. What would we do without such helpful advice?

Whether perching on a hard wooden chair on the upstairs landing or searching for a seat downstairs, the ambiance remains uniform. Every pocket of air carries the same scent of dismal nothing. There are no definitive aromas or potent fragrances. The only movement of air comes from the swell of other customers passing each other to claim one of the seven cash registers. Or the business section. Or the books on depression. Even the speakers on the straight-jacket-white ceiling cannot set their Michael Jackson tunes apart from the quarter-hearted bumble of complaining human voices.

Walking down the dark, carpeted steps of Petaluma's Copperfield's bookstore to the Used and Rare section creates a storm before the quiet. The reproach of rubber soles on rubber-edged stairs make the concrete basement floor as comforting as a gallon of milk to a Habanero victim. Next to the stairs' railing sprawls a beaming glass display case; a bookcase at one end and a well-worn support corner snuggle it into the corner. With a fibrous coffee-bean bag weave, a slouching and unassuming couch seat provides a personal view of the glass case's contents: flyers, newspapers, buttons, and bank notes; a 1949 Empire magazine crows " 'Howdy' Petaluma Industry" and a 1951 pamphlet commemorates the city's centennial.

The basement air has a thick enrobing quality, akin to breathing snow. With the scent of tortillas in the history section and dry noodles around the horticulture books, mixed aromas overwhelm the lungs. The air's potency is thinner upstairs, like a bowl of whipped cream rarified with a drop of almond oil. The floor shifts in some places, bowing with a trampoline's tension. Near the journals and poetry, I hear the floor squeal and smell the fresh, ambient towels in my aunt's Humboldt redwood home.

Chess tables nestle by shelves of stories and displays of series along the back wall. A flaming sun set in the linoleum welcomes children to an area where they can find book reviews written by peers, new board games, or favorite author appearances. Bean bags nuzzle a column painted as a sequoia redwood, stretching beyond the ceiling. A perpendicular wall sports a mural of misty sky with a polar bear emerging from a cloud and a castle rising from feathery fields.

Walking past displayed books on teas, I remember the rainy day I decided to buy a peculiar book. Self-conscience about its subject matter, I refrained from asking for assistance and perused the reference titles instead. To my delight, I found The Book of Poisons cradled between an exploration of poetry and a guide to the flower language. The only item I ever purchased at Barnes & Noble was an iced tea.

A chasm separates a bookstore where one buys a book on hot tea from a bookseller where one purchases an iced tea. Industrialized technology would like to forget that such a gap exists: why buy a hard copy when electronic books are available; why drink French pressed coffee when four dollar vanilla mochas are available; why read a classic novel when exciting film versions are available. Why engage in anything so elitist when everyone else enjoys mega store mediocrity? By renouncing the superstore that sells text between two covers for the store that provides literature, we choose to value the lessons of the past generation and gifts to the future generation more than desires of our own generation. That chasm is the difference between giving human imagination the reach of a sequoia or scope of the sky and the resignation of a mind barricaded by shelves.
--Sierra