Shakespeare and Company

May 18, 2026,

Greetings from the reunited,

Among the museums and towers and ancient edifices of Paris, there is a tiny corner that not every visitor manages to see. Nestled in the bohemian Left Bank, is a small, crowded bookshop named Shakespeare and Company. I didn’t know I would see it, but then it felt like I was always meant to.

We had escaped the long lines and the bustling throngs of tourists, and gone exploring a quieter neighborhood and nearly stumbled upon this sidewalk filled with tables nested around a small fountain. There was a green awning with the shop’s name, which we almost missed because we were entranced by the chalkboard message written below it.

I will leave it to others to share the full history, other than to tell you a kindred soul founded the shop, George Whitman, back in the early fifties. When he first opened, he had named it ‘Mistral’.

George Whitman had walked and hitchhiked across the U.S. during the depression, and then wandered into Mexico and South America. In all the miles, including riding the rails with other hobos, he was touched by the care that was offered him by strangers.

In time he made his way to Paris and was inspired to create this bookstore. It was more than simply a bookstore, but while its inhabitants have changed, it remains a respite, and a place of ideas.

Over one doorway was a vaguely biblical message that I had to write down. “Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.” In the moment, I didn’t know it was a quote from George Whitman, or why, but I wrote it down.

We elbowed our way through the close rooms, where shelves were lined up to the ceiling with books. At a glance, it seemed chaotic, but people reached for the works they were searching for and carried them to the cashier.

The steps going up to the second floor were softly hollowed from generations of readers. Written on the risers was a quote from the poet Hafiz: “I wish I could show you, when you are lonely or in the darkness, the astonishing light of your own being.”

If the word ‘eclectic’ had not been created, a visitor to this place would have spoken it out loud, perhaps in the upstairs reading room. Worn, overstuffed chairs, a typewriter facing the window, a piano, tiny tables whose only purpose could be for a single cup of coffee or a glass of wine.

And everywhere, books. People sat in every space, on window ledges, on the floor, and read. Even a page, even a word, seemed to satisfy a need we all had. I leaned against a door jamb, the paint worn from countless hands, and felt something ease in me.

In earlier days some travelers slept in the bookshop. Authors, philosophers, artists, filled the rooms, clustered around the teetering tables on the sidewalk. It was a gathering place of thinkers and adventurers and vagabonds and people of letters.

When I was a younger man, I traveled around the country on my bicycle, wandering much in the same way George Whitman had four decades before. Exploring, with little agenda other than to go and see. In every single day, I was astonished by the care that was offered to me by strangers.

The first good bicycle frame I owned was called ‘Mistral’.

My mind swirling from the beautiful chaos of Shakespeare and Company, I ordered a cappuccino in the café and sat with others at table outside. There were newspapers, made of real paper. There were guidebooks scattered around, people were talking to each other, laughing, sharing travel tips, reveling in the companionship.

In the moment, I didn’t recognize what I was experiencing. It wasn’t until I got up to leave that I realized it was that same feeling when you come home after a long trip. When you feel yourself surrounded by your things, your people, and the sounds and aromas of what you love.

Of course, all of that can be anywhere you go. Every day holds new experiences and adventures, and we should always make the most interesting choices. But tucked inside all of those explorations can be a sliver of whatever you feel as home. A familiarity that resembles love.

It is when we gather around the fire with people we meet on the trail. It is when we share a laugh with strangers on the subway. It is in the stories people share. It is there when we sit on the grass with people who love the same music we came to hear.

It is when we feel astonished by the care that is offered to us by strangers.

Hope this finds you welcomed,

David

This essay was written by the author and does not include Ai content.

Copyright © 2026 David Smith