Powell's

I am sitting in Powell’s listening to Elliott Smith, after riding the MAX from the Lloyd Center to Pioneer Square. That ride is part of what is known as “fareless square,” a stretch of track that requires no fare to ride. It’s a stereotypical dreary Portland day, and as I walked down 10th avenue toward Burnside Elliott welcomed me to his home. I will always enjoy soaking up the atmosphere of Powell’s. At this moment I’m in the coffee shop with Elliott—Craig Thompson’s book Blankets in front of me—watching all the people around me enjoy books and conversation. This kind of atmosphere is ideal. When I was in the men’s room I noticed the condom dispenser on the wall. Maybe there are other bookstores that have condoms for sale in the rest room, but I wouldn’t believe them necessary anywhere else. At Powell’s there is a sort of energy among patrons that makes it seem possible to find a member of the opposite sex, have a great conversation, and then move it back to a more comfortable location. Not for me, of course, but I could imagine it for others. The one knock on Powell’s right now is that they don’t have the book I need to read for class on Tuesday, and I thought I might be able to get it done while I sat here enjoying the atmosphere. Of course, if they did have this lame education book my estimation of the place might lower just a tiny bit. But they don’t, and Powell’s is still one of the coolest places I’ve ever spent time.