The books on our living room shelf, on the other hand, were acquired through hours of browsing in bookstores. Lined up at attention from floor to ceiling, they stand as touchstones of my personal geography—bright reminders of places I've been, things I've seen, and people I've met.
While sipping coffee this morning, for example, I glanced at the spine of Lance Morrow's "Fishing in the Tiber" and thought instantly of Cleveland, even though the city doesn't figure at all in Morrow's lively collection of magazine essays. I'd gone to Ohio in December of 1991 to see my friend Stuart and his wife Anula, and they drove me into Cleveland for dinner at an Italian restaurant. Before eating, we braved a bitter gust from Lake Erie to visit a nearby bookstore, where Morrow's book landed in my hand.
