Take a Book, Leave a Book

On my literary breadcrumb trail across the world

Hostels with shared bookshelves are the best.

Somewhere in Kalamata, Greece is a food-stained, dog-eared copy of Bossypants by Tina Fey, with the occasional annotation by yours truly. 

Actually, I don’t know for certain that it’s still in Kalamata or even still in Greece. All I know is that’s where I left it: on a stool at a beachside cafe, where I’d just finished an iced coffee and gyro pita and people-watched for the better part of two hours. As I got up to go, I left the paperback in the center of the seat, Tina Fey smiling up at whoever next came to the table. 

Bossypants is one of dozens of books that I’ve left in different places around the world, from the fjords of Norway to the Moroccan coastline. Since age 19, when I first started solo traveling, I’ve made it a habit to leave books behind wherever I happen to finish them—whether that’s a bar in Athens or a sushi spot in Sweden. Indoors, outdoors; in plain sight, tucked away…I’ve left every kind of book in every kind of nook and cranny.

The Stranger in Stockholm

To clarify: I didn’t start leaving literary breadcrumbs because I thought it’d be cute or generous or a nice way to leave my mark on a place. I’m motivated not by kindheartedness but by pure necessity. When you’re living out of a backpack—or maybe a small suitcase—you simply don’t have the space for more than a couple of books at a time. And if they’re long or hardbacked? Forget about it. You’re squeezing in one Ayn Rand book max. 

I learned this the hard way the first time I traveled Europe by myself, scrounging up money to pay overweight baggage fees and breaking my back with the tomes I’d decided to carry on my multi-month journey. I quickly realized that, in order to save myself some suffering, sacrifices had to be made. And unfortunately, between things like weather-appropriate pants, a portable charger, and my depression medications, completed books became my collateral damage.

Leaving books random places felt more sacrilegious to me than any actual religious transgressions (of which there were also many). If you’re a big reader, you’ll get what I mean—there’s nothing more devastating than saying goodbye to a book. Even if you just skimmed it, or didn’t get it, or gave it a scathing one-star review on Goodreads, it hurts to see a book go. 

I’ve become nearly despondent after leaving behind works I only felt “meh” about, simply because—for however short a time—the pages were all mine. The whole life of a book, from picking it out at the store, to anticipating reading it, to actually reading it and then finally reaching the very end, is like crack for us literary nerds. 

Every time I buy a new book I picture placing it in my nonexistent-but-aspirational home library, which, in this vision, consists of wall-spanning oak shelves and an ornately-designed fireplace where yet more books rest on the mantel. Every book is of equal value in this library; whether it’s a self-help guide I rolled my eyes at or a mammoth classic I spent weeks carefully studying. There’s also probably a candelabra, or something equally dark academia-coded that will remind everyone I spent way too much money on an English MA. 

The kind of weird shit I was into while getting my MA

I have no doubt that at least a few people in this great, big world have incidentally learned some pretty personal info about me through my responses to different passages and brief journal entries made on novels’ blank back pages.  Also, since I’m a habitual list-maker, I’m pretty sure some stranger knows my top five favorite coffee shops in Florence and my top ten films of the 1990s. I can only hope that they take these recommendations to heart or maybe even feel inspired to write their own lists in between paragraphs.

Imagining what might become of these books is the only thing that keeps me from bemoaning them—the only reason I’m able to bid them adieu without looking back like a longing lover. Did I enjoy leaving The Hound of the Baskervilles all by its lonesome self on a windowsill in Budapest? Of course not. But then, I consider that some curious Hungarian child may nab it on their way to school, or maybe an elderly intellectual will add it to their mystery collection. 

There are so many lives for Sherlock Holmes to live outside of my hands, even if I’m the only one who will write illuminating things like “lol, slay king” next to his lines of dialogue. I like to think that whoever ends up with these books after me will imbue them with new life somehow, whether that means tearing out my drawings (fair), highlighting some quotes, or even just adding a few new coffee stains. 

Every book finds a home eventually (or so I tell myself). Much  like Netflix shows and Pornhub categories, there’s something out there for everyone. And—if nothing else—I trust in the human urge to pick up free stuff off the side of the street. It’s simply who we are. 

On days when I’m feeling especially nostalgic, I feel some regret for not making room in my suitcase when I could have, not leaving behind a pair of shoes or something else instead. I look at my bookshelf and think of what words and phrases I won’t get back. But then, I realize that not having these works doesn’t lessen my memory of them. That’s the surprising part. I remember all these books because I couldn’t keep them. To keep them on my mental bookshelf is more meaningful than having them on a real one.