Bon Appétit

What's on the menu? Borrowed books and a place to belong.

On this dreary, gray morning, the only sunshine I could imagine was the kind you find between book covers. So, I set course for my local public library.

Twenty minutes later, I trudged through the library’s glass doors with my 100-pound bag, overpacked with the essentials: two journals, a laptop, AirPods, a charging cable, keys, and my favorite pen, ready to set up camp. And looking around, I could see I wasn’t alone.

I wasn’t alone. The public library always fills me with a deep sense of belonging. Maybe it's the laminated card—proof of membership. Or maybe it's the quiet power it holds. To me, a library card has as much clout as a Meta Blue Check, assuring everyone that my book lover badge is official, notable, and authentic. But more than anything, the library feels like a crowded dining room table. Everyone's invited—family, neighbors, even the stranger your mom just met at Costco. There’s always a seat, and something comforting to fill your plate. It may not serve banana bread or mashed potatoes, but it offers nourishment all the same—Austen, Allende, Morrison, Lahiri—served warm, scented with well-loved paper and possibility.

I wandered into the heart of the stacks and found an empty seat at a long community desk. My neighbors were well-settled: the man three seats to my left was fast asleep, upright in his chair, and the woman to my right was devouring her book like a plate of mom’s spaghetti.

I had a modest list of to-dos and mostly kept my head down all morning. But just as I was finishing my coffee, a new visitor caught my eye. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, topped with a leather jacket and motorcycle chaps. A bandana held back his long hair, and a gray-and-white mustache framed his face. He looked bone tired—like the night had missed him entirely. The deep circles under his eyes hinted at a caretaker, an entrepreneur, or a midnight oil burner who refused to let the party end. But his smile was bright, and his presence curious.

I wondered what brought him here today. He had no bag with him, no books to hint at his plan. For a second, I thought maybe he intended to join my neighbor three chairs down in a nap—but his confident stride said he was on another mission.

He made a beeline for the Cooking section. Methodically, he pulled books from the shelf—one, two, maybe a dozen—until he found what he was looking for. He nodded at the open page in his hand, closed the book with satisfaction, and tucked it under his arm.

Then he strolled over to the Self-Improvement aisle. Two cases in, he pulled a book from the top shelf—again, no hesitation. He knew it. Knew right where it lived. Releasing the book from the crook of his arm, he stacked the two together to admire them in his hands. Visibly pleased with his haul, he strutted in the direction of the checkout desk.

I’ll be damned, I thought. Don’t judge a book by its cover.

I was waiting for him to select a book by Jim Morrison or Jupiter’s Travels by Ted Simon, shake hands with a friend by the window, or snag a documentary film on DVD from the shelves.

Instead, I imagined motorcycle saddlebags stuffed with library books cruising down Interstate 75 and giggled to myself. If I were asked on a game show, “What’s in this saddlebag?” and the answer was Julia Child and Brené Brown—I wouldn’t go home with a dime. But I love the thought of a book and its happy borrower both enjoying the wind in their hair.

Anyway, he filled his plate with his favorites—and some of mine too. And as he exited the building, I glanced down at the official stamp on the books on the desk in front of me:

“Belongs to Fulton County Public Library.”

I smiled. Yeah, we do.