Nostalgia for Borders

It's not easy to confess, but I think I'm a book addict. It started pre-kinder, when my cousins taught me to read. By second grade, I was a library junkie, helplessly hooked. Borders fed my addiction in ways I couldn't have imagined until they opened their Philly store on Rittenhouse. It was just two blocks from my house and I could not stay away.

When that flagship site first opened, there were lots of independent bookstores in Philadelphia. Most seemed small and dim compared to the bright, expansive aesthetic promoted by Borders. The store had leather club chairs for browsing and cappuccino for those times when only caffeine could sustain a good book binge. Coffee and books, leather chairs, the occasional Wednesday night jazz combo playing on the second floor...the place offered stimulation and comfort to urban thinkers.

Poetry and performance groups convened there. I remember a guy pulling a flute out of his backpack one night, to accompany a poet. Jazz aficionados and world travelers converged in the cafe to drink espresso and critique the world. Borders was the only place in town with a good selection of literature in Spanish, French or Russian.

Economists say that Borders fell because the chain's prices were undercut by Amazon -- a global store with no chairs or coffee. They also say that Borders failed to embrace E-books early and lost out on that market. While these things are true, I also think Borders followed the irritating example set by banks. First these corporations put a sales outlet on every corner to try to stamp out competition. Then they end up with huge overhead costs that turn them into dinosaurs. Consumers lose out once more.

No matter why it happened, the death of Borders makes me sad. I'll miss my browsing marathons and spontaneous chats with other book fiends. But I'm keeping my favorite Borders memory:

One night I helped a friend from Spain edit a paper he'd written. It took hours to knock the warts off his grammar and smooth out his prose. By the time we finished, we were the only people left in the cafe. I went over to the cashier and, while waiting to get some change, I felt someone brush up behind me. I turned to find myself standing face to face with Bill Clinton, America's sexiest presidential candidate. Yes, he touched me right away and with both hands. I swear he could have been a faith healer if he hadn't gone into politics. With one palm on my shoulder and one on my hand, he sent a surge of electricity right through my body. I had him sign a Borders napkin which I gave to my Spanish friend. For myself, I kept nothing but memories of his blue eyes and the glare on Hilary's face as she looked on. It was before we knew what we know now -- about Bill and about Borders. Goodbye, old innocent days, goodbye.