A second parcel got dumped at the door. ‘Not again, Louis,’ my mom called to me on Whatsapp.
I’ve developed a weird yet cultured habit of traveling. I buy books instead of the rubber yellow ducks in suits or overcoats when I set foot in the UK.
Aberystwyth, the first Welsh city of literature, culturally milked me for almost five months. The book culture there is the very last thing I’d ever imagine in Hong Kong.
I’ve been to several cities in Scotland and England as well. Passing by the first bookshop, you may stumble upon the next after window-shopping at a few coffee shops.
When I explained my cost sheet to my mom, she looked both convinced and suspicious. ‘Listen, 80 pounds for the shipping. 30 pounds in total for thirty books. Most of them are more than 80% new. And I found this 1906 edition of The Warden by Trollope!’ My mom perhaps didn’t know who Trollope was; she surely understood my vehemence.
I have no intention of baiting Hong Kong bookstores and the Asian chain ones. I am just suggesting a rather interesting souvenir. I haven’t bought books in other countries yet. The price difference seems quite promising.
My heartfelt thanks to Martin and Emily at Ystwyth Books for their unfading help. Gratitude to Martin for leading me to that haven of shelves, to Emily who was always there with a kind check-in, and to the gracious lady who unearthed treasures on the Victorians—though I’m terribly guilty for not catching her name.