A few years ago, either before or after the Richmond race, I traveled a bit north to Charlottesville for the sole purpose of visiting the oldest independent bookseller in Virginia. New Dominion Bookshop, first opened in 1924 by Christopher Columbus “C.C.” Wells, did not disappoint, from its brick-lined sidewalk and vintage-feel window display out front to the secret rose garden ‘round back. In 1926, the shop was moved from its original location to the one here, notched into a lovely old building at what they call the Downtown Mall.

I parked a block or so away and walked to New Dominion, surprised at every step by the town of Charlottesville, itself. It wasn’t what I expected, as most new places aren’t. It was welcoming and quaint, old and new blending seamlessly to offer familiarity alongside a fresh perspective. It was nearing the dinner hour, and there were twinkle lights everywhere with a hum of conversation behind the heart-plucking tones of a string quartet. Glasses and plates clinked in accompaniment from outdoor seating at The Whiskey Bar, and I wished, though only for a moment, for a companion to share it with.

I don’t like to be alone in a strange town, however welcoming, after dark, and so I made my way to the store. It was smallish, but with grand bookcases reaching well beyond my fingertips toward the vaulted ceiling and a gang of suspended glowing lamps. William Faulkner is said to have visited the shop in the late 1950s, when he was the writer-in-residence at the University of Virginia. I very much liked the idea of walking the same path as a writer whose work made such a deep impression on me, but truthfully, it neither added to nor took away from the experience.

History aside, I found the shop beautiful and interestingly curated, with all of the right titles jumping out at me. I purchased a copy of Ernest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, and the bookseller questioned me with an ever-so-slight note of judgement, if not disdain.

“Hmmm… what draws you to this particular book,” he asked, one eyebrow raised the tiniest bit.

I must have looked like such a tourist. Okay, I *was* a tourist in my black jeans and Summit Racing t-shirt, racetrack rubber stuck to the graying white soles of my black Vans.

I explained why I was drawn to the book – it was one that I hadn’t yet read but had been wanting to for many years, that I wanted to learn about the author’s experiences with his (now very famous) friends, navigating Paris in the 1920s as writers. Apparently, my answer was enough, because he nodded and stuck a bookmark between the pages, then gestured to the back door.

“You should stop and see the rose garden, it started blooming a few weeks ago,” he said, unsmiling but with a softened expression.

I felt like I was doing something I wasn’t really supposed to do when I opened the window-paned door to the secret garden, my purchase tucked into a canvas tote printed with roses and the bookshop’s logo. As I stepped out, the air was warm yet damp, and I was greeted by the scent of rain on pavement mingling with fresh roses. There was such a colorful assortment of blooms, some petals still holding drops that glistened with the reflection of twinkle lights. It was perfect.

This is the magic in between. This is what gets missed when I race from point A to point B. I forget that these bursts of life are everywhere, all the time and always, and I’m grateful when I remember to find them and feel them. xo