I’ve visited at least one bookshop in every city I’ve ever been to. For me, books—and by extension, bookshops—are sanctuaries of stillness.

Travel, though exhilarating, can often be a sensory onslaught. There’s so much to absorb, so much that demands awe. Like a museum or gallery, the experience can be emotionally overwhelming—devastating even—in the best, most mind-expanding way.

You find yourself empathising with the art, feeling what the subjects in the paintings felt—or, in the case of something like Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, what the artist himself endured or celebrated.

Bookshops, by contrast, offer a gentler kind of communion or conversation with oneself or the books that you pick up.

They let you process the world at your own pace. There’s no pressure to feel or understand everything at once. You can choose to dive deep—or simply admire the symmetry of the shelves, the quiet hum of thought, the colours of spines lined up like a spectrum of possibility.

Even an empty shelf can invite reflection. Or simply a deep breath.