Today was a day for exploring new lands. Today was a day for changing. Today was a day for adventures.

It all started over two months ago when my friend Marla and I saw the author Ann Patchett at the Fayetteville Public Library. (I wrote a blog about it. Actually, I’ve written more than one blog about Ann.) One of the things she talked about that night was owning a bookstore in her hometown called Parnassus Books. She said she opened it with her friend Karen, who’d always wanted a bookstore named Parnassus because Parnassus was the mountain in Greek mythology where all the cool gods went to party. (That is, it was the home of poetry and literature. Everybody put your hands up!)

Anyway, that was two months ago, and I honestly forgot that ANN PATCHETT LIVES IN NASHVILLE, until I asked Mallory about bookstores yesterday, and she said, “Yeah, there’s this super cute place called Parnassus.” Well, on the inside I was being a total fangirl, thinking, OH MY GOD, I WOULD DIE. I WOULD JUST DIE. But since I’m thirty-six, I yawned and said, “Oh yeah, I’ve heard of that place.”

For twenty-four hours, it was just about all I could think of, going to Parnassus. Earlier this week, Mallory said, “I think you’re here in Nashville for a reason,” and after I found out about Parnassus, I thought, That’s it–that’s the reason. Of course, in my mind, I figured I’d meet my soulmate or be offered a job, but that didn’t happen.

But still.

This afternoon Bonnie dropped me off at Parnassus, and from the moment my feet hit the parking lot, I felt like I was on sacred ground. This is often my experience with bookstores. However, I’m usually at used book stores. I love the way they smell, I love the way they’re like a box of chocolates, I love the way they’re cheaper.

That being said.

Since I recently sold most of my possessions, I’m more attracted to new things and fresh starts than I used to be. So I was open to what Parnassus had to offer, and within fifteen minutes, I had three books in my hands. (Then it was just one book because I reminded myself that I don’t currently have an income.) But already I was in love with that one book, Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley, which apparently was the inspiration for the bookstore I was standing in. I loved its size, its orange color, its crisp, clean pages. Right in the middle of Parnassus, I was already doing that crazy thing I do whenever I see a handsome stranger on Facebook–fantasizing about the rest of our lives together. I opened the cover and read, “When you sell a man a book, you don’t sell him just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue–you sell him a whole new life,” and I thought, This is it–we were made for each other.

For over two hours, I strolled around the entire store as folk music and the sounds of red dirt strolled beside me. At one point, the music switched to light jazz–piano–and I thought, Gorgeous. And then I turned around and–OMG–there was an actual piano player on an actual piano. Y’all, shit like this does NOT happen enough–if ever–in Arkansas.

Neither does shit like this, unfortunately.

In the humor section, I sat down on the floor, criss-cross applesauce. I found a book called Cheaper Than Therapy, a guided journal that provided prompts like, “Describe your childhood bully,” or, “Talk about your recurring nightmare.” I thought about buying it, but then I remembered that I have an actual therapist AND a blog about therapy, so enough is enough already.

Then I found a lovely book called Bullshit, which talked about all the different words and phrases we use for, well, bullshit–things like “crap,” “poppycock,” and “donkey dust.” But my absolute favorite was “bird turd,” since my late grandpa used to say, “You ain’t a just bird-turding,” which apparently is a line he stole from the author Norman Mailer and something I never really understood until today.*

I thought the book about bullshit would look great on my toilet–if I owned one. But I don’t, so I decided to put that book back on the shelf too. (If only I had this self-control when it came to chocolate cake.) Still, I’m grateful that it brought me closer to my grandpa. This is one of the things I love about books, why even books about bullshit feel holy to me–they’re timeless.

As I moved into my favorite sections–Psychology, Self-Help, and How to Take Yourself Way Too Seriously–it felt like coming home. I think I went through every title three times, ending up with one more thing I couldn’t live without, a book called Be Your Own Fairy Tale by Alison Davies. (I read the title as Be Your Own Prince Charming because–you know–there’s a shortage of those these days.) But really, I adore mythology and fairy tales. Plus, the book was pretty, and I’m a Virgo and Virgos like pretty things. So here–take my money.

As I made two full laps around the store, I continued to fall in love with it, thinking, Someone rather witty must work here. I mean, the section for beer and alcohol was labeled “Dranks.” And there was a top shelf in the kids room with really tall picture books, and it was labeled “Really Tall Picture Books.” Seriously, how clever is all that? I just love a good personality. (A good butt doesn’t hurt either.)

And just look at how cute. I mean–stars. (J.M. Barrie, the author of Peter Pan, said he thought “star” was the most beautiful word in the English language. His secretary, however, pointed out that it was “rats” spelled backwards. What a wet blanket she must have been.)

I guess Bonnie slipped in sometime during my second lap without my noticing. She said she didn’t want me to feel rushed, so she was just quietly reading, waiting, and not rushing.

For a few minutes, we exchanged treasures. She showed me a beautiful poem about children running toward the sun, and I showed her a quote by Dolly Parton that said, “Find out who you are and do it on purpose.” It’s only one sentence, but it could change your life if you’d let it.

Bonnie and I stayed until just before closing time and each got a couple of books. When we walked out the front door, it felt like leaving a sanctuary, a blessed place where dreams are shared.

Afterwards we went for carbs and alcohol, otherwise known as Chipotle. Bonnie and I decided that we could sum our entire week up as Nashville: Tacos and Beer.

After Chipotle, I had a small pep talk with my pancreas, and then we went to the donut shop around the corner. Ever true, my insulin carried me through a decadent chocolate-covered donut, an also-decadent Bavarian-creme-filled AND chocolate-covered Long John, and a cup of coffee that didn’t suck. (So there. My insulin is better than your insulin.) Midway through the Long John, a silver-haired man in a Jaguar pulled up, got out of his car, and came inside. His shirt said, “End hunger now,” so I shoved the rest of the Long John in my mouth, licked my fingers, and thought, DONE. (Far be it from me to ignore directions.)

On an unrelated note, I need new pants.

This evening, my last in Nashville for a while, I holed up in my room with Parnassus on Wheels and read the entire thing cover to cover. (I love it when that happens.) It’s about a traveling salesman who sells his gypsy-style book wagon to a spinster in need of adventure. For several hours, I savored each word, sentences like, “No creature on earth has a right to think himself a human being if he doesn’t know at least one good book,” or “Leave your stove, your pots and pans and chores, even if only for one day! Come out and see the sun in the sky and the river in the distance!”

I was right. We were made for each other.

My therapist says that if you can get one good idea from a book, it’s worth all your time and money. What I love about a good book is that it truly is an adventure. Done right, it’s something you have to go in search of, a treasure to unearth. I think the reward is sweeter that way, when there’s a little work involved. Then you can lock yourself up in a room for hours like you’re doing something naughty and savor each word, some just as decadent as any donut. Of course, when the last page is turned, you’ll look the same on the outside. (Books are easier on your waistline than tacos and dranks.) But if you’re lucky, you’ll be changed on the inside. If ever so slightly, your life will be pointed in a different direction, hopefully one that brings you back to yourself–your charming, dashing, on-purpose self.

*If you’re still confused, “You ain’t just a bird-turding,” means “You’re not shitting me,” or as Shakespeare would say, “Thou speak’st aright.”