by Eric Schenck
There are two types of readers: People that can read just about anywhere, and those that prefer a specific location to do it. I’m the second one. To describe where I’ve done most of my reading, I use the phrase “reading place.”
“Reading spot” sounds too specific. “Reading nook” also isn’t quite accurate.
I’ve had a number of reading places throughout the years, and they’ve all given me something different. Here are just a few of them…
It starts in my parent’s backyard. My first reading place is a deck. It’s big and brown and you get slivers if you’re not careful. Some of my first memories are on this deck, and some of my very first books are read here.
I have a variety of reading places as I get older. One of my favorites is my car. It’s named Marvin, and it’s a 1995 Mercury Grand Marquis. Along with baseballs and fast food wrappers, I also store books. Some of them are from my high school classes. Others are stolen from my sister. I lean back in the front seat, after school ends and before baseball practice starts, and knock out a few pages.
By the time I make it to college, my reading place loses a bit of it’s character. Gone is a place specific to me, and in comes one that is applicable to just about everybody: the school library.
It’s still wonderful, though. I’m surrounded by fellow readers that love learning for the sake of it and aren’t afraid to get into nerdy conversations. It makes me feel like I’ve found my people. I like to look at books I’ll never read and imagine I will. It’s my first struggle with tsundoku (getting more books than you can actually read).
My first two years at college, this is where most of my reading happens. There’s no place in particular – usually whatever study room I can find that’s still empty.
The last two years is where I find my place.
I live with five friends in a house, and we have a giant front deck with a white swing. Spokane, Washington is especially beautiful during the early days of two seasons: spring and fall. Around April the flowers start to come out and the sun warms your face. By October, orange leaves are falling all around you and it’s cold enough to put on a sweatshirt. I see all of this from that swing.
The beauty of this reading place is all the more important with what I spend my time consuming. University textbooks can be a bit dry, and the piles of reading that I get assigned for my Political Science classes leave me little time for anything else. The swing knows this, and does it’s best to keep me upbeat.
I discover that a reading place helps you maintain the habit itself. Sometimes a book just isn’t exciting enough to reel you back in. But pair it with someplace that you get to go? That’s when the book takes on a new kind of power. Textbooks become not just some boring assignment, but my price of admission for that wonderful swing.
When I move to Cairo after graduation, I don’t expect to find another place for a while. I know the city is huge, and space of your own is at a premium.
But I do. I move into my first apartment, and the reading gods bless me with a balcony. It overlooks a bunch of buildings and you can see inside the windows. It’s my little slice of peace.
Step outside your apartment in Cairo and you enter a battlefield. People are trying to sell you things, and the unforgiving Arab sun is trying to turn you into a crisp. This balcony is my refuge. My safe spot to connect to Egyptian culture without throwing myself in the deep end. I see families making dinner, kids studying for tests, old people sitting in chairs and looking out from their own balconies. It’s like the movie Rear Window. I’m getting a crash course in a culture from afar, and reading Egyptian authors all the while.
One of these authors is Naguib Mohfouz. The voice of a new country washes over me as I sit next to an ashtray. It’s an English translation, but my Egyptian roommate says it’s fine. Mahfouz was good enough to be a joy in any language. I read on and discover just how right he is.
Living in an actual Egyptian building makes it all feel real. Mahfouz’s stories take on a new color, but somehow, it’s one that I begin to understand. I see the people that he writes about, watch as they eat their dinner. This all connects me to a strange new country. It’s where I start writing stories of how different Egypt feels.
Sometimes my roommate comes to the balcony and we smoke a cigarette. My reading place is shared in these moments. It’s a strange feeling, but it teaches me something important: my reading place is not actually mine.
I have the same experience on rooftop cafes. This reading experience is less secluded, but a bit more exciting. I read while I drink a Turkish coffee and stare at the Nile far below – what could be better?
The more I go to them, the more rooftop cafes form a collection of reading places for me. Tonsi Hotel is where I go when I really want to concentrate. The Carlton shows football matches on the weekend, but the beginning of the week is usually a safe bet with a book. Zamalek Rooftop is a mixed bag.
One night I chat with an Egyptian girl my age. She’s sitting next to me, and she also has a book. Once again, my reading place is shared.
Still, no matter which forms they take, finding a reading place starts to feel like staking a claim. People have been here before, and they will certainly be here after, but for a point in time a little chunk of space is mine. To read. To think. And to lose myself in a different world.
Things change when I move to Germany. Or maybe I do. The country is cold and closed off compared to the aggressive three-year handshake of Egypt. I feel disconnected. My reading places are no longer a way of hiding myself, but rather an attempt to put myself out there.
In my search for one, I take my bike and get lost. I end up at cafes when the weather is bad, and go to parks when it’s not.
Reading outside is a wonderful thing. All your senses are on overdrive and it makes it feel like each sentence is packed with extra meaning. Germany represents a new adventure for me – so do these parks.
German trains are the first time my reading place is in motion. I take trains almost every day, and they give me the stability and consistency I need to prioritize reading.
The language confuses me. The culture confuses me. The stoplights confuse me. But hop on a train? You’re going somewhere new, and you can depend on a good 30 minutes of reading before you get there.
Reading is also a way to force a bit of alone time on myself. College and Cairo were full of socializing. That was great for meeting new people and having my mind surrounded by new ideas. Not so much for sitting by myself.
My reading places understand that. They know that I need time without anybody else – maybe the book I bring along is a way of reminding myself of that.
…
Compared to the first 30 years of my life, the last three have been marked by even more movement. I’ve traveled quite a bit, and that’s revealed a truth of reading places:
The total amount of time you spend at them doesn’t really matter.
Some reading places you have for years. They help you cross off entire lists of books you want to read. In this way, they become part of you. You spend months in them. They watch you get a little older.
Other reading places you have for much shorter. Something special. But fleeting.
For a week a little surf shack with my friend becomes my reading place. I finish Madame Bovary as he’s falling asleep and demand to chat about it.
For an hour my reading place is under a sun umbrella on a beach in Puerto Escondido. I make it to the end of The Grapes Of Wrath.
The last few years I’ve gone back to my parents house quite a bit. This has brought my reading full circle. I’m in the backyard again, surrounded by plants my parents nurtured, sitting next to a house that watched me grow up.
My reading place is still the deck, but now it’s much nicer. Smoother, with no slivers to worry about.
…
Maybe you don’t need a reading place yourself, but I recommend everybody find one. Get yourself one that you really like, and you don’t just have somewhere to read – you have something truly special.
Because here’s the truth-
Each separate reading place is a separate stage of your life as a reader. You’re always different. You’re always changing. Read at the same place long enough, and you start to see just how much time can slip through our fingers.
But go to your reading place and none of that matters. You’ve gone to your place and opened your book, and for just a little bit the world stops, and all that matters is the book you’re reading…
And that’s where the magic of reading really begins.
***
Enjoying the content on 3QD? Help keep us going by donating now.