As much as I love the convenience of my e-reader, I won’t pass up on a good freebie paperback from one of the many mini libraries spread throughout the city. Many of these book exchanges are in a sorry state: packed with a jumble of yellowing textbooks with out-of-date information, children’s books that look like they were mostly used for teething, travel guidebooks for countries that no longer exist, bread machine recipe books, and more.
Since taking up running, I’ve developed an eye for quality mini libraries. It’s not difficult to tell which ones have turned into dumping grounds for old flyers, even when whipping by in my sneakers. The best ones have a quick turnover of books, and I’ve learned which ones do after a few passes. The last mini library to make me double back had me finish the last kilometre of my run carrying a mint copy of Barbara Kingsolver’s hefty novel, Demon Copperhead, in one hand.
Coincidentally, a few days earlier, I had come across a Reddit thread discussing books that are excellent from start to finish, and Demon Copperhead was among the most upvoted titles. The copy I’d acquired begins with four pages of accolades from individuals and publications, most of whom I wasn’t familiar with. The Financial Times voted it “Book of the Year,” which doesn’t seem like much of a compliment coming from a group of people who get amped over reading about economic current affairs.
Nevertheless, the story has truly been good every bit of the way. By Chapter 24, it dawned on me that I’d developed feelings for a fictional character. A child, no less. I plowed through these last few uncomfortable paragraphs of this chapter hoping the kid would escape their predicament unscathed, even though I knew the narrative wasn’t headed that way. Next time, I won’t be so quick to dismiss the literary choices of Financial Times readers.
Although I didn’t take it home, this book also evoked a strong wave of emotions:
This book reminded me of Dad. Not that Dad was an adept handyman. Like me, Dad was big on DIY projects. And like me, he enjoyed teasing Mom. Where, then, does Shell Busey factor in this? Well, it all started one day in the mid-90s, at the height of Shell Busey’s local celebrity. While they were out, Dad exclaimed to Mom, “Look, it’s Shell Busey!”
The joke was that spotting Shell in the wild was plausible enough to make Mom look. Shell Busey was a niche local celebrity who had hosted a home improvement channel on the CHEK network for several years. The first time Dad tried this prank on Mom, she fell for it. Knowing Mom, Dad probably managed to pull it off a second and even third time before she realized she was dealing with a “Husband who Cried Shell.” From there on, Dad still did it for the eye rolls, and at some point I’d also gotten on board with the random Shelling.
It’d escalated to the point that I nicked the little gold heart-shaped photo frame Mom kept on her bedside table and swapped out the picture with a newspaper clipping of our local home improvement sweetheart, Shell.
“Look, it’s Shell Busey!” said my inner voice as I pulled this book out of the mini library. Even though I didn’t have the best relationship with my parents, I still carry memories like these with me fondly.
When it comes to encounters with celebrities, I’m not the kind of person who approaches them for autographs or any other reason. It’s not because of the communication barrier, but because celebrities are people, and I’m not a fan of those. Obviously, I’m not beyond telling everyone I know about these sightings, and I would definitely write about it.
Which brings me back to London. (Don’t worry, I’ve reached the part in my travelogue where I’m about to leave London.)
Ed, Hannah, and I had made it to Heathrow, having dragged three boxed-up bikes from an Uber down to Platform B in Woolwich Station for an hour-long ride through central London to get to the airport. As we stood before the British Airways check-in counter waiting for the agent to prepare our boarding passes, Hannah, who was standing opposite me with her back to the next counter, looked at me and, with utmost discretion, relayed that we were in the presence of a celebrity.
“Jude Law is right behind me.”
I looked past her shoulder to verify. The biggest tell was the fact that he was wearing dark sunglasses. If Hannah hadn’t said anything, Jude would have slipped past me undetected. It’s not that he’d aged poorly; it’d just been so long since I’d last seen him in a film that he went from the perfect genetic specimen that is Jerome Morrow in Gattaca to… to just another passenger on a British Airways flight.
Jude Law and his family (plus a nanny) did not join us on our flight to Ljubljana. Instead of Jude, we got Fatema, who we were more excited about anyway:
I’m not in the picture above (no, that isn’t me bent over with my shirt tag sticking up) because I ended up wedged between two strangers many rows back. That is, until one of the strangers assigned me to her window seat as the stranger in the aisle seat happened to be her friend. The flight itself was shorter than our journey from Catford to Heathrow earlier in the day. It’s amazing how many different countries Europeans can hit up within a two-hour flight. For me, a flight of this length would only take me as far as the next province or, if not for my self-imposed US travel ban, to San Francisco.
After collecting our bikes, we were pleased to spot signage directing us to a dedicated bike assembly area at Ljubljana Airport.
The signs decreased in number as we pushed our bikes further into the building, leading us to question whether this space even existed at all. We resigned ourselves to unboxing and assembling our bikes right outside the airport, within view of the Kamnik Alps. Rather than fresh mountain air, we got to work among a cloud of cigarette smoke. I’d forgotten how much Europeans love their cigarettes. Even when I tried to move away, the smokers gravitated toward me, captivated by my bike wizardry.
Just as we were all ready to roll, Fatema uncovered the secret bike assembly spot. It was located at the very end of the building, free of cigarette smoke. There were even two repair stands complete with tethered tools and a pair of floor pumps.
I didn’t set out expecting everything to go smoothly on this trip. After so many travel experiences, I know that the more detailed the itinerary, the more likely it is to fall apart. What I didn’t anticipate, despite my history, was having my health also fall apart. My health metrics, as evidenced by my Garmin Forerunner, had been unstable the whole week I was in London. I’d hoped spending a few days in London would help ease my body into a vastly different time zone before subjecting it to the demands of travelling around a foreign land with gear strapped to a bike. Alas, even that did not work out according to plan: I’d arrived with a cold.
Welp, the show must go on.
