I can't really explain why. It's just an old shop full of lovely old books and quirky furniture. But it's more than that. It's knowing the history. Who passed through those doors. Who sat down and read those old books or played the piano, ate supper at the rickety desk, slept on those creaky divans, read their poetry or sang their songs. It was everything, and more than I expected. We just turned a corner and there it was.
There's something in the air in Paris, some kind of energy, I find the same thing in Italy. But when we stepped inside that shop there was a different kind of energy. As though when each of those creative minds passed through... they left a little whisper of themselves behind...
(...and no, I hadn't been drinking...)
...have you ever had a similar experience?