Books and books and books.

As much as I love Prague, and I do, there has been something missing from my life there: huge bookstores. Yes, we have bookstores in Prague, most of them even carry English books. However, there is something about bookstores so big you can get lost in them as you run your hands across spine after spine of books you know you can read. Bookstores so massive you can find a book you didn't know you existed and changes your life or some ancient title which moved you as a child that when you see it again, you smile wistfully and are instantly immersed in memories.

I have somehow managed to be good this trip and not blow tons of money on as many books as I can carry. I think of the sad little library I have in Prague, the one that barely takes up two tiny shelves in my closet, filled with books I couldn't leave behind and I long to fill it out, but now is not the time, I know. There are other things I need to be focusing on, but still, the bookworm in me tugs, kicks, and screams to take all the lovely volumes home with me, to give them a good home with someone who will love them. 

So I torture myself, showing a restraint I never knew I had, by spending more time in Hodges and Figgis than I probably should, roaming the stacks, lightly trailing my finger tips over the words I can understand, soaking in the Irish Interest section which is larger than my entire flat, tempting myself to break, and coming up with ways I could justifying spending way more than I should on books I would then have to ship to Prague and find a place to house them. Yet, in the end I don't. It is like the mere fact it exists and is waiting for me is enough to keep me in line. However, I make no promises for when I come back.