Since we were going to have to travel somewhere to see a Springsteen concert, we knew we needed to examine other factors when choosing a city for our destination. What led us to decide in favor of seeing Bruce in Portland was a bookstore: Powell’s. Powell’s is not just any old bookstore. Powell’s is the largest independent new and used bookstore on the planet. It covers an entire Portland block. I have longed to gaze upon its tall shelves and get lost in its maze of stacks ever since I heard about it years ago. To me, Powell’s is every bit as bigly a deal as Bruce Springsteen himself. As far as they are both cultural icons, they represent important values to me.
So we braved a day of flight delays, stormy weather, tires-spinning-nowhere taxi rides, and closed restaurants, to bundle up and trudge through bitter winds and across whole blocks of sidewalk and road ice—for the purpose of making our pilgrimage to the Holy Grail of those of us who are called to read. (Yes, reading is a calling.) We made it to Powell’s! Only to be met with this disappointing sign on the door. I was speechless. Even the little choo-choo train of weak swear words that show up in my head sometimes when they are perfectly appropriate—even those bad words couldn’t manage to blurt out a thing. I just stood there at the locked door. I wanted to cry, but my tears would have immediately turned to drops of ice in the freezing wind. I was glad I had this diamond-point Bow Tie o’ the Day to be with me through this bleakest of literate moments.