The one where Mardi Gras beads dangle from the tree branches outside and across the street's a cemetery with white and gray tombs, which you'll wander between in a moment,
but first you thumb through the vampire books you were obsessed with in college.
(Why are the books stacked like this? Who knows?)
The one where all the books are French children's books. (Fun fact: there are several French immersion schools in this city.)
A porch swing inside. A loft. Small tables, each one set with paper and markers and while your friend buys a Harry Potter book in French, you sit doodling in every color.
The one that used to be a boarding house where Faulkner lived for eight months and wrote his first novel. This store is small but the books reach up to the ceiling. The only clerk tells you stories about New Orleans in the 1920's, which somehow leads to a political discussion because isn't everything a political discussion these days.
The one where the books are stacked in teetery tottery piles and you can only wind between them single file, afraid a quick turn could lead to a domino-toppling disaster. But the guy working here, buried behind books, somehow knows where everything is.
Outside, a band playing in the courtyard. You wade with your bag of books through crowded humid streets, already planning your escape.