Being fully vaccinated and needing a temporary escape from, well, just about everything, I decided to fly to Portland, Ore., to see my eldest son and his family. Most of my 12-day visit was spent helping around the house, taking three young grandchildren to parks and playgrounds, reading aloud to them from the same picture books I first read to their father long ago, and catching up with the cartoon series “Bluey” and the docuseries “Izzy’s Koala World.” If the kids grow up with slight Australian accents, those shows are the reason.
Wherever I travel, it has long been my custom to check out the local secondhand bookstores. I carry a pocket flashlight for scanning dark shelves and shadowy alcoves, methodically pull out any hardback with a faded spine to verify the title, and never use a cellphone to compare prices with online listings. If I want a book, I’m not going to nickel-and-dime a brick-and-mortar shop, especially when so many of them are struggling.
Portland, however, is a special case, being the home of Powell’s City of Books. Like the Strand in New York, Powell’s looms as a near-legendary literary haven for readers and bibliophiles. It is gigantic, sprawling, almost overwhelming.
