Geography of My Heart: The Stanford Bookstore

In her column “Geography of My Heart,” Dan Kubota explores memories from her favorite on-campus spots that live rent free in her head.

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The average bookstore patron shopping for a Cardinal crewneck likely won’t see the small child tucked between bookshelves on the second floor of the Stanford bookstore. She’s engrossed in yet another “Rainbow Magic” book, and this time, it’s “Alice the Tennis Fairy.” Kirsty and Rachel have to battle the evil goblins to get back Alice’s magic racket; no ordinary feat! 

I’m on the edge of my seat. I must confess, this is much more interesting than the Wimbledon stuff my mom enjoys. I gasp; they’re stuffing the ball machines with strawberries and cream to distract the goblins! What a novel idea! I’m right in the stands, trying to not get sprayed by the cream and dodging strawberries. I do a little victory cheer to myself as Alice triumphantly reclaims her racket; the fairy land is at peace. 

I close the book, careful not to rip the very thin pages (for some reason, those gray-ish tan pages are always very prone to ripping.) My left leg’s fallen asleep again. Maybe it’s time to get a new book?

The five year old bumbles her way through the aisles, seeing what she can at eye level and sounding out the titles in a somewhat hushed voice (though how hushed is your voice when you’re five?) She pauses briefly to look at the plushies and goes back to the books. The plushies can wait.

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Before I knew of Stanford the University (the prestigious academic institution), there was Stanford the Bookstore. (There was also Stanford the Shopping Center, of course, but the only things worth mentioning were The Melt and their three cheese classic, and La Baguette, because my sister likes their turkey and cheese sandwiches.) The minute my aunt and I passed through those automatic doors, I’d bolt through the store, traversing the complicated maze of mannequins and clothing racks to climb up the mountain of stairs. At the top would be my reward, a treasure trove of books just calling my name. The second floor was a five year old’s dream — all the fun colorful books were at eye level (but not the books with too many pictures; I was a big kid who could read on my own.)

(I confess, I did like books with pictures, but only the big kid kind! My first exposure to physics and biology was the Basher books series; I fell in love with the cute art style and then the simple way they explained my world to me. They made things not seem so big and scary, and suddenly everything was big and scary but scary good.)

Oh, the magic that lingered within the walls of the bookstore. I could get lost in books for hours. My aunt would practically drag me away from the books so we could leave.

One day, I dragged my feet out of the bookstore. It was the last time I would walk through those automatic doors and I didn’t even know it.

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It’s been years since I’ve been to the bookstore. I’m in middle school now; I don’t have time for reading silly picture books. Science projects and book reports keep me busy and far away from fairies and fruit. Books only whisper their stories to me now. Most days, I’m coaxing something, anything out of them; I need answers for my homework. 

I can’t know Tom Sawyer the same way I knew the Rainbow Fairies.

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It’s the fall of 2022, and I’m writing my application to Stanford. Those essays are no joke; they’re really tough to think about. For inspiration, my aunt and I go grab grilled cheese at The Melt, for old time’s sake. We sit at a table (that I now know to be one of the tables on The Arbor side of Tresidder). I’m stumped. As expected, I make no progress on the mountain of essays I have to finish. At least the grilled cheese is good.

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Fall rolls around, and I roll into Alondra, which is located in lovely Florence Moore. It’s a three-ish minute speed walk to the bookstore. I think it’s fate. (Or maybe it’s SLE.)

My family helps me move in. Many trips up and down the stairs to the car and back later, we all walk to White Plaza and there she is. Just as I’d left her. She looks the same as she does in my memory (hazy now, admittedly.) 

I don’t go look for the Rainbow Fairies. Not yet, anyways.

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The average Daily news writer scavenging for pumpkin-spiced teeny tiny pretzels wouldn’t notice the person with the posture of a shrimp furiously typing and deleting a Google Doc aptly titled “The Stanford Bookstore” (she couldn’t think of a better placeholder.) Her eyes are glued to the bright screen of her laptop that’s a little orange (she’s a warm mode kind of girl). She’s got An Earth Day Eulogy by her side; she’s planning on taking that home and reading it later.

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