Saturday, March 30, 2013

Henry Miller did not marry Marilyn Monroe. That was Arthur Miller.

As we were driving along Highway 1 in The Big Sur, the road wove away from the ocean and into the redwoods and something caught our eye:





It was intriguing and enticing and we parked and went in.



It was a shack next to the forest, with a large deck outside and a table with free tea and coffee. They had a variety of tea-bags, but I'd taken my own (naturally.) There was also free wi-fi. Inside was a funky yet serious bookshop, and a young man (I can say that as he was probably a third of my age - OMG, I am ancient) who was charming and helpful and who treated us, not as if we were two grey haired women, but as if we were valued guests. He said "The place was made for people like you, people who just want to hang out." He could teach the staff of City Lights a thing or two. They are so horribly snooty in City Lights, and look down their noses at you, even when you're buying something they probably approve of such as a Tom Waits CD or a Bukowski anthology. Yep, I think the guy in the Henry Miller Memorial Library should run training courses for the staff of City Lights.

We hung out in the sunshine for a couple of hours, emailing, reading, drinking tea, and stroking the resident cat. It was hard to drag ourselves away. 

And in case you'd forgotten, Henry Miller was a prolific writer, but is probably best known as the author of Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn.

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