Be my guide

Well, well, well, look what we have here. 

I have found the jackpot,

 picked the winning ticket,

I have scored big time. 

Would you just LOOK at these babies?! This is the result of a brainlessly-bored college gal who actually cannot wait to get her head back in a book and get these rusty gears cranking in my brain again. 

So, that, and the need to decorate and accessorize my new house at school, meant I needed books. 

Not accounting textbooks—a glorified $250.00 riser I'd only use to raise & lift my picture frames and jewels.

Nay, I needed some good ole books. Ones with dust inside and perhaps hidden strips of paper with handwritten-jotted notes from its original that's the goooood stuff. 

& that's where these beauties come into play. 

100+ year old TRAVEL GUIDES. 

LADIES. (& gents?)

This. is. IT.

The goOoOod stuff. 

Safe to say I screamed a little bit in the back of the store, I did a little jig + a heel kick. Because these guys don't come around that often, heck they are over one-hundred years old.

ne-hundo years. 

Can't you just picture the young lady who was gifted the guide before she jetted off to Europe on a solo adventure of her young lifetime. A period before TripAdvisor, Google maps telling you when to turn, blink, breathe and take a photo. 

I can picture her first arriving in Copenhagen, trying to understand this new currency, language, faces, culture. She climbs in a cab hoping he speaks some English and hands him her scrawled piece of paper with her hotel's address. 

Or arriving in Norway in the wee hours of the morning in the mid-winter, alone. The sky the deepest, truest navy and the Northern Scandinavian wind hitting her cheeks, slapping her exposed knuckles that clutch her luggage handle.  

I see her standing on the bow of a boat, in the midst of white ice, and glaciers dwarfing her. She glances down at her guide's map of the Norwegian Fjords to see exactly where in the world she was floating in this dream.

Far from home, far from the familiar, falling in love with this feeling. 

I picture her plain as day—her dark brown hair tucked under her black knit hat, the fur around her collar tickling her bottom lip when she softly smiles, pink cheeks, her brown eyes glowing because to her, this is the greatest moment of her life.

She clutches her little guide in her hand, determined and not scared. She steps out from the cafe where she just sipped her morning coffee, onto the cold streets where no one knows her.

She has a route in her mind, but hopes to get lost in this wonderful foreign place. She falls in love with Europe, and maybe never wants to come home.