You Can't Judge A Book By Its Cover

They say you can’t judge a book by its cover. That you must open up to discover the story that lies deep within, the words that suck you in. The idea doesn’t just applied to reams of paper bound by leather. It applies to people as well. I imagine she spends her day sitting in a dusty library with only the sound of crinkly pages turning and the quiet mind-numbing hum of overhead fluorescing lighting. An effervescent musty smelling breeze meets the dim shadows that dance around every aisle corner. Alone with her own private thoughts and dreams, she reads. She dreams of doing what she loves, writing. She reads when she should write.

She has it twisted. She’s to be the author. She’s to be the signature. If she closes her eyes, maybe she can envision it like I do. Her name embossed in gold foil along the spine. Her face adorning the inside jacket. Her soul radiating brighter with every passing page. How good it would feel to get paid for doing what you love. To make a life out of your passion. When one has a talent, it should be embraced. It should be nurtured and allowed to flourish. It should be shared for the entire world to see. To call out saying, “hey I can write and this is me”…

Lulled by the bath-water warm air my head dips down and for the space of a few heartbeats I rest. My body shivers itself awake with a twitch. Again, leaden eyelids fight a losing battle to stay open and my chin sinks down to my breastbone. This jerky dance of not quite awake leaves my brain cottony and my mouth empty. I walk to the door, shaking my head in attempt to clear it.

I walk briskly, trying to find a breeze or create my own. My golden heels click on the small concrete paths. Sidewalks never widened to accept the girth of the new American. Walkways that remind me what New York looks like in movies. These streets were never gilded or paved with yellow brick. Rather they are grey with flecks of glass and sand making them sparkle in the sun. And abrade young knees like a cheese grater.

The streets are dark and leafy. Colors muted to shades of brown and black bearing only a shadow of their original brilliance. There are no streetlamps here.

I feel like I'm walking in a kaleidoscope. The leaves act as bits of glass, blocking what meager light remains. The gleam makes the environment more liquid than gaseous. I'm not sure whether I swam or walked, but my head was no clearer. I was in a fever dream of Manhattan, lost in a forest of brick brownstones and fluid light.

Stairways lead up to each impermeable brownstone. Everywhere are dark corners in which to hide and kiss. I remember walking here with Lucia; both of us all dolled up more for the world than for each other. I remember how we posed on stairways and kissed, and all I could think was what a good photo it would have been. What a pretty postcard we were.

The streets of the village braid in and around each other. They have no respect for the sensible grid of midtown. They loop and disappear, claiming pretty names and scant real estate.

The destination is my favorite bookstore. The shelves are jammed with original picks; the lighting is bright yet flattering, prices are excellent, and the folding tables outside hold unknown treasures. Doesn't hurt that it is across the street from Magnolia Bakery.

There is a line outside the famed confectionery. I ask the baker/bouncer who stands guard at the door whether they are closing. "Yes, we're closed. Good night" he tells me with a flash of white teeth in the dark night. "Oh, okay" I say, turning to cross the street.

"I was joking! Please, come in!" he yells an apology after me. I see that the bookstore is closing and wave a hand to him, "No, that's okay" I yell back.

My visit to the bookstore is brief. I don't want to keep them open late, so I leave quickly. As I exit the baker/bouncer is waiting for me. He calls out another apology, approaching this time. He wraps an arm around my shoulders,

"Please, I'm so sorry. Come in, I will give you a cupcake"

"Oh no, that's okay"

I get a whiff of the frosting on the humid summer air; the smell of sugar, butter, and fresh baking impossible to resist. I can feel vanilla butter cream melting on my tongue with a sandy crumble of dry cupcake.

"I don't have to wait in line?" I ask

"No, no of course not" He insists

"Well, okay"

Not only can this girl write, but she’s an excellent photographer and I just found out she’s an artist as well! A true triple threat. I wonder if she sees it that way? Perhaps I’m a little biased because I can’t help but be a fan of someone who not only shares a love for that sweet Magnolia depression-era icing, but also sees past the bright lights of the big city and has a true sweet spot in her heart for what makes New York the only place on earth I want to be. The quaintness of the Village and the charm of the Brooklyn brownstones. It's where I'll more than likely soon call home, the missing piece of me. The mixing of new and old. That is what makes NYC unlike any other place you’ve ever been. How could one not fall in love?

Today I celebrate Kira’s new blog by sharing a lick of that buttery cream frosting. Just like you can’t judge a book by its cover, you can’t judge a cupcake on its icing alone. So let me reassure you, her Cupcake post is just the icing, there is still an entire cake to devour and you can do so here at www.ohboykira.blogspot.com

And if don’t think Kira is a good writer, than you obviously don’t have any appreciation for a good book.

(Side Note: If you’re not familiar with the infamous “cakery”, then you are unaware that people wait an hour in line late into the night just for a bite of a cupcake that seems to of fallen from heaven. To receive VIP cupcake treatment is almost unheard of.)