Yesterday I decided that I really needed to read THE NEW YORK TRILOGY by Paul Auster. This was before I found out that I’d been accused of being a literary stalker by Curbed.com AND Gawker all because I wrote about watching Auster buy a package of Oscar Meyer bologna and white bread.

I was up on 57th Street in Manhattan, so I went into one of my favorite bookstores: Rizzoli. I have been going to Rizzoli all of my life. As a child, my parents took me there when it was located on Fifth Avenue, a wood paneled store with coffee table books and foreign magazines.

At one time, they had a branch in Soho, which didn’t last very long. And now that Bendel’s has taken over their old location on Fifth, the sole surviving Rizzoli is on 57th Street between Fifth Avenue and Avenue of the Americas.

When you shop at Rizzoli, you must call Sixth Avenue the Avenue of the Americas.

I found this little bit of Rizzoli history on their website:

Rizzoli joined such prestigious American institutions as Tiffany’s, Saks, and Cartier when it first opened its doors on Fifth Avenue in 1963. In the following years, its landmark building in New York became the center for the company’s national expansion, adding new bookstores throughout the country and establishing an eminent publishing house renowned for high-quality, illustrated books.

I just love Rizzoli, love any excuse to go into Rizzoli to look at their art, photography, and design books. It’s always such a treat;  my own private New York moment – something I do whenever I happen to be on 57th Street.

So I thought, why not buy the Paul Auster book I’d been blogging about there. It seemed like the perfect thing to do.

I carried a lidded container with a light iced coffee into the store. "You’re not allowed to have that here," the security guard shouted. . "Just like the subway," I muttered. They let me leave it by the door. But I understood: in Rizzoli you must respect the books.

The elevator delivered me to the rather small literature department on the 3rd floor and I went straight to the A-section. And there it was — so I grabbed it and took it downstairs, walking past the CD department, which has an incredible collection of international music heavy on the Charles Aznavour, Nana Mouskouri, and the Cesaria Evoria.

I paid for my Paul Auster and went into the F-station on 57th Street at the Avenue of the Americas. I waited an excruciatingly long time on the hot platform for a train and then, when the train arrived, sat in air-conditioned splendor reading "City of Glass", the compelling  story of Quinn, a mystery book writer and existential loner.

"New York was an inexhaustible space, a labrinth of endless steps, no matter  how far he walked or how well he came to know its neighborhoods and streets, it always left him with the feeling of being lost."

A friend got on at Broadway/Lafayette and I stopped reading the book. We chatted the whole way to Park Slope. When I got off at Seventh Avenue, I had the sensation that I’d left something on the train. Upstairs, I  checked my black purse and Rizzoli shopping bag and found that I had indeed left THE NEW YORK TRILOGY on the F-train.

If anyone sees my book on the F-Train, please take it and get in touch with me by e-mail. It cost over $15 dollars at Rizzoli. And all I’ve got to show for it now is a green Rizzoli shopping bag and a receipt. Besides, I really want to read the book.