I continued down that same street and stumbled upon an antique store with a charming red awning. I stepped inside and knew the drill: no bags in a place like this.
I peeled off my heavy tote and the white plastic bag holding my Cambodia map and prints for mom. The owner was grateful — and impressed — that he didn’t have to ask.
“Please, place it here,” he said and pointed at a nearby chair.
With my camera around my neck, I walked slowly about the store. It was a small store — only one large room and then a smaller study. It wasn’t overwhelming — if anything it was a quite sparse — and so I took my time studying all of his pieces, knowing that each one was very special.
I asked him if this was his store and he said, “yes.”
I asked him if it was okay if I took photos, and he said, “yes, of course.”
I asked him if he had any boxes.
He said, “yes, look here,” and he pointed to a glass cabinet in the corner by the entrance.
I pointed to a brass box and asked if I could see it.
“Yes, but she’s broken,” he said.
She’s broken.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“What about her?” I asked him pointing to a small wooden box with what looked like birds engraved on it.
“Oh yes, this is a jewelry box — for your necklace or for your watch or for whatever you want. She’s a little broken too,” he replied.
“I love boxes,” I told him.
“Well did you see this?” He turned around to point to an 18th century Chinese cabinet.
“See look,” he said as he opened the cabinet doors to reveal over two dozen drawers, “lots of boxes,” he grinned.
He was giddy — and so was I.
How fun that he got to share with me what he loves — and that I loved it in return.
He was very sweet and made me happy and so I bought the wooden jewelry box.
“One day, when I move here, I will buy more,” I told him.
He was packing up my box in a red envelope that had “Arthur” engraved on it.
“Is your name Arthur?” I asked.
“No, Aldo,” he replied.
He worked diligently behind his Mac desktop from probably 2005. He was just doing what he loved and sharing that with other people. He made my day.
I asked him where I should eat lunch, and he told me that the pizza place next door was very good, but that he loved the cafe down the street — “it is rouge,” he said.
He led me out and thanked me for stopping by and that he hoped he’d see me again. I took a photo of him at the door — I am going to print it and mail it to him.
