About eight years ago I took a road trip up to New York City.

I was 22 and a little lost and a little sad and I wanted nothing more than a chance to go to the one place where from the age of 5 I felt like I belonged.

I spent my time walking all over the city. I watched dancers taking breaks between classes at Julliard. I milled about in Tiffany’s and picked up tasty little gifts at Dylan’s Candy Bar, just next door to Serendipity III.

I pondered in Central Park and observed the rats in the subway. I soaked up the view from Brooklyn.

Across the street from Zabars on the Upper West Side, where my eyes danced across exotic foods as if they were impressionist oil paintings, I caught sight of a little bookstore. It looked as if it had been carved right out of the wall, narrow, enchanting and snug – and filled to the brim.

Books lined the walls way beyond reach in all shapes and sizes. Along a stretched out staircase, they were piled high on each step, making it impossible for more than one person to comfortably get up and down at once.

Just inside the door, I stopped, turned to my left, and there was a book of poetry titled “I’m a Stranger Here Myself,” by the English poet Ogden Nash.

I am all about symbolism, so I picked it up.

Last year, this time a little less lost, a lot less sad but still a little in need, I returned and was thrilled to find the shop was still there, now known as Westsider Books.

Like a time-honored ritual, I turned to the left again and found a collection of stories about the city I consider home called “City Lights,” which I tucked under my arm and carried home with another – a book about family, which my aunt bought for me when I wasn’t looking.

The symbolism of that little trip was as sweet and sugary as cupcake frosting, I tell you.
Books have been ingrained in me since I was a child. They are a bit of a bridge to other people – you talk about what you’re reading with a friend, make suggestions, share and swap. My mother always has something she thinks I ought to read. One of my favorite things to do is looking for just the right one when getting a gift for my older brother or my father.

I like to be surrounded by them. They’re like people. Sometimes you love them, sometimes they love you back. Some are to be respected, others avoided. The childhood ones are cherished; the conventional ones, a guilty pleasure.

It’s hard to tell where I gathered this love of books, maybe with “Where the Sidewalk Ends” or “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Whatever it was, it solidified as I got older in coming down the steps in the middle of the night and seeing my grandfather with a book in his hand.

When I am at my most troubled, I can usually pull myself out of it by wandering through aisles of biographies and travel essays.

Last week, at the grand opening of A Casperson Books, I couldn’t help but get a little teary as classical music played overhead and those who’d gathered for the official ceremony waited for the introductions and prepared speeches.

My grandfather would have approved.

He was a frequent visitor to Casperson’s when Al’s father, Ralph, was still behind the desk.

He would take the books he’d finish and head into Niles and come back with more. I envied his voracious appetite and I still do, as I tend to put my reading after all other items on my to-do list.

Ever since I had the chance to talk to Al about his move to downtown, I’ve found the space itself has been an unexpected comfort.

I chat with him about the success of the renovation, he tells me what he hopes for the shop. My grandfather and his father now gone, the symbolism is not lost on me.

Reading has certainly changed over the years and I am as embracing of it as anyone else. When it comes to easy reads or fiction novels, I’ll download them to my iPhone. I wouldn’t turn down a Kindle or a Nook.

But there’s something about a book.

There is something about those bound pages that stirs the need to know more about the places I’ve yet to be. About 1930s Chicago. About the mind of George Gershwin or the adventures of Ernest Hemingway, the heart of Emily Dickinson.

I head back once the work day is done and the chatter that filled the front of the shop shortly after the ribbon cutting is over.

Wandering to the back, turning a corner, I found an old copy of Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” and I couldn’t resist. Maybe I’ll try to cook something from it. Maybe not. But I haven’t been able to stop looking at it.

I wonder about the shelves it sat on before mine. The family dinners it was responsible for. The tears shed over recipes gone wrong. I’m in love with its history, which is why I love bookstores like Al’s and Westsider in New York.

The cookbook is tattered and worn and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Books are kind of like people that way. Meant to be loved for what they have been, what they are and what they will be to you.

I pick it up off the shelf and turn to my left. And there, right in front of me, is a copy of Ogden Nash’s “I Wouldn’t Have Missed It.”

I grabbed that too. For symbolism’s sake.

Jessica Sieff is a reporter for the Niles Daily Star. Reach her at jessica.sieff@leaderpub.com.