delilah_banks

Snow falls in chunks on the commuters of Russell Square. The sky is grey--as it has been since the day I had arrived, one month agocapturing the chill of Londons February in the high clouds. Thousands of people swarm around me with black umbrellas, unknowingly sheltering me from the snow. I have just finished going through Sir John Spanes Museum, a quirky collection of Greek, Roman and English artifacts in an eccentric flat in the Holborn area, and have now started a mission to find the book stores of the Bloomsbury Group; what I really want is an older edition of Virginia Woolfs, The Waves, for my blossoming collection.
A street off the park hides various shops specializing in comics to history. Two blocks from the British Museum, dozens of tourists walk the street trying the find the tube station. Excuse me. Do you know where The Underground is? The girl asking me was wrapped in an orange scarf, black coat, and blonde hair; from her accent, she was from the southern part of the US. I pointed in the direction of the station: You just want to go across this park and across the street. The tube station is a block down on your right. The girl thanks me and rushes off with her group. I could hear them talking about me being an American as well.
The book store I enter doesnt have a sign hanging above the door. It smells like a library and only has one attendant, Adam, and Im the only known customer. The hardwood floors creak as I step, letting Adam know where Im going at all times. The first editions are locked in a cabinet behind Adam; I didnt see any Woolf. In the back of the store, DH Lawrence is wedged between two writers I have never heard of. There are no copies of Lady Chatterleys Lover, only a long essay, Apocalypse, and numerous copies of The Rainbow. I decide to buy both titles.