Tea in the Library (9 page)

Despite a fascination for tales of derring-do on the mountains, my ambitions have never reached as far as wanting to actually climb on ice and snow (nor indeed on those scary sheer rock faces that rock climbers scale like Spiderman). Snow is not my milieu — my total inability to ski (yes — I have tried!) has been a disappointment, as skiing would be an obvious way to spend time in mountain scenery. But I am afraid that is not to be. So I settled on the ambition to trek in the Himalaya.

Now, as explained earlier, this was an ambition rather far from the physical realities of the moment. It was also a long time before I found the mental fortitude to take even the first steps. The big barrier I threw up was that “nobody would go with me”. I used this one for years. It was certainly true that no-one I knew wanted to go trekking in the Himalaya, but of course once I finally decided to recognise that for the excuse it was, the answer became clear: join an organized trekking group as a loner. The group of ten that I finally met up with in Kathmandu consisted of ten people — eight of them traveling alone. So there. 

But there were a few other “action points” to cover before that Kathmandu meeting. Fitness, for a start. I had been known to try a little aerobics when it was all the rage in the eighties, and I wasn't a complete blob. But there was a lot of work to be done. The sequence went something like this: (a) a growing
need
to see the Himalaya; (b) getting over the idea that someone I knew had to come with me — I
could
do it alone; (c) lose the weight (I used Weight Watchers and got it done); (d) book the trekking trip — eight months away! (e) enroll in a gym, book a personal trainer, and tell him I HAD to be fit enough to trek within eight months.

Well, it all happened, and there I was, with my friendly companions, our head Sherpa Dawa, and his two Sherpa helpers, flying in to Lukla in the Himalaya. This flight is both incredibly scary (the very small plane flies lower than the peaks, and the runway at Lukla is uncomfortably short) but incredibly beautiful. My nose was glued to the thick, scratched airplane windows, agog at the sight of those mountains. The place was all I had dreamed it would be, and walking at altitude was indescribably difficult. I was far and away the slowest of the group. This visit was an eight day trek on the Everest trail, as far as Teng Boche, where there is a magnificent view of Everest and Ama Dablam (“the beautiful mountain”), the world's highest Buddhist monastery, and wonderful vibes in the thin air. But it is still several days walk from Everest Base Camp. I regarded this trip as a “reccie”, to see if I could do it. I could! Just.

Despite this being a relatively short Himalayan trek, it included what was, for me, a huge challenge. No, not the altitude, the yak dung, the pit toilets, the lack of plumbing, scant food, cold, or rats running over your sleeping bag. All that I could handle, especially if I didn't think about it beforehand. The suspension bridges were in altogether another category. I had (I can now use the past tense! — I think …) a phobia about suspension bridges. I blame small boys who would wildly jump on the suspension bridge in a park we used to visit when I was very young, just to make it swing wildly and hear the little girls squeal — perhaps that explains it. In any event, this was a factor that almost made me re-think the Himalayan adventure. I knew there would be bridge crossings on the trail — in fact, there were seven bridges, which means fourteen crossings, up and back — but who's counting? I had decided that I would just grit my teeth and walk across. We came to the first bridge. It was short. It wasn't very high above the river. It was unfortunately missing quite a few boards, but there were enough … I stepped out bravely. A short way across I was overcome by an intense longing to hit the deck (what there was of it) and cling there for dear life. I managed to get to the other side, but things were dire. There were six bridges to go, many of them high above the raging Duhd Kosi (The White River), and hundreds of metres in length. And then we had to come
back
.

I decided that there was nothing for it. I had to confess all to Dawa, our Sherpa leader. Now, this guy had climbed on Mount Everest! Imagine confessing to an Everesteer that you were too scared to cross a perfectly safe bridge, just because it swung a bit. It was a humbling moment, but had to be faced. Dawa, bless him, was the consummate professional trekking guide. No doubt he had seen it all, and come across many weird trekking clients. His first piece of advice was to wait until everyone else was off the bridge to be crossed — this took some time, usually, since the trail was the main highway of the Himalaya, and apart from trekkers there were many porters, locals, and yaks. Dawa waited with me at the next bridge. Finally it was clear, and we set out. He stepped out first, and he suggested that I hang on to the straps of his backpack and keep close behind him. This I did, not exactly closing my eyes, but peering at my feet  and repeating a mantra that came into my head — something inane like “one, two” over and over. It steadied me enough to get across, and Dawa and I crossed every one of those bridges in this ignoble (for me) fashion, usually with the rest of the trekking group waiting on the other side, laughing and taking photographs.

Nevertheless, I stuck to the modus operandi that worked, and set out heart-in-mouth on each crossing, repeating my rhythmic mantra, which I came to think of as “the Duhd Kosi Waltz”. Repeated successful crossings lessened the terror a smidgen, but I continued to cling to Dawa's straps — and confident poise — all the way.

There must be a lesson or two in this somewhere.

Everyone has heard lawyer jokes. These are not only unflattering, they can be positively vicious. They range from jokes about overcharging and dishonesty, to fantasies about extermination. It seems no one loves a lawyer.

It was so cold last winter that I saw a lawyer with his hands in his own
pockets.

How can you tell when a lawyer is lying? His lips are moving.

Two probate lawyers were overheard while discussing a current case: 
“It's such a splendid estate. What a shame to squander it on the benefi-ciaries”.

How many lawyers does it take to change a light bulb? None, they'd
rather keep their clients in the dark.

If I had but one life to give for my country, it would be a lawyer's.

You're trapped in a room with a tiger, a rattlesnake and a lawyer. You
have a gun with two bullets. What should you do? 
You shoot the lawyer. Twice.

What do you call 20 lawyers skydiving from an airplane? 
Skeet.

Did you chuckle? Now imagine spending your life as a lawyer. As a professional, you may try to do the best by your clients and keep good ethical standards. You may even develop quite a passion for this. But you are (if foolish enough to admit to your profession) the butt of jokes like these. Of course, the truth is that the legal profession — like most other walks of life, including doctors, clergy, teachers, lifesavers — has both some bad apples and some great phi-lanthropists. This is not the place to debate the lawyer's role in the community (if I'm sounding defensive about those jokes, it is probably because I'm a bit thin-skinned about them. You try having your life's work ridiculed). But have you ever heard any bookseller jokes?

Consider this one:

A bookseller wins ten million dollars in the lottery. His ecstatic friends
ask him what he plans to do with the money. With a huge smile on his
face, he answers: “I'll keep selling books until the money runs out!”

And on the subject of retailers:

A retailer was dismayed when a competitor selling the same type of
product opened next-door to him, displaying a large sign proclaiming - 
“Best Deals”.

Not long after that, he was horrified to find yet another competitor
move in next door, on the other side of his store. It's large sign was even
more disturbing — “Lowest Prices”.

After his initial panic, and concerned that he would be driven out
of business, he looked for a way to turn the situation to his marketing
 
advantage. Finally, an idea came to him. Next day, he proudly unveiled
a new and huge sign over his front door. It read, - 
“Main Entrance!”

In the world of lawyers, there is plenty of mingling of members of the profession, at conferences, networking functions, seminars and similar get-togethers. Lawyers deal with each other every day, usually on opposite sides of cases, often representing antagonistic parties. One gets to know ones' colleagues and makes some friends among them. But if that colleague
—
or even friend — works with a rival firm, it usually pays to be circumspect in discussing the operation of your own firm. It was my experience that often the person I was chatting to over drinks would dearly love to snaffle my clients' work from me, and that rather colours the interaction.

The world of the bookseller, I found, was quite different. No doubt there are booksellers out there who have a healthy sense of rivalry and wouldn't cross the road to help a novice who moves onto their block, but thankfully I have never met any. Without exception, the booksellers I have mingled with have gone out of their way to provide assistance and advice. I can't speak for other sectors of the retail industry, which may be much more driven by rivalry (and possibly more profitable as a result!), but there is something about independent booksellers that you just have to love.

For a start, they adore their product. Most read avidly. The specialists are true believers in their little corner of the universe. The children's booksellers derive enormous satisfaction from introducing the magic of books to little children. Independent booksellers love nothing better than to have a customer ask them for a recommendation, or to help choose a book. It is all very warm and fuzzy.

They also have the characteristic that they (like me) seem to agree that the world can always use another bookshop, and thus are very willing to help the newcomer. They will not only give lots of anecdotal advice, they will share their own benchmark figures, tell you what they pay staff, what their turnover is, what stock they hold, share their contacts with publishers and other suppliers for the asking, and provide the most amazing support network. They mourn when an independent bookshop closes. They rejoice when a new one opens.

They reserve the real tensions for their relationships with the publishers — trying to get good margins and efficient delivery is essential to their survival — and to competition from the dreaded “discount department store”, which can sometimes sell books more cheaply than the average independent shop can buy them wholesale. Booksellers want to survive like any other business, but somehow you get the feeling that taking over the world is not the name of the game.

I joined the Australian Booksellers' Association quite early on, and timidly attended some sessions at their Annual Conference, taking lots of notes about selling techniques, bookselling statistics, and other nuts and bolts topics. I found myself warmly welcomed. Over the course of the planning and opening of Tea In The Library, I attended several more conferences and meetings of the local branch of the Association, and met many interesting characters. You will find some of them popping up throughout this story.

The first ABA Conference I nervously attended was held in Sydney, and I made it to a few sessions. I found the whole subject of “retail”, in its technical intricacies, quite fascinating. The retail bug kind of bit me. All those Theories about types of customers, attracting people through the door, closing the sale, looking after loyalty — I scribbled piles of notes and pored over the fascinating puzzle of how to
sell
. Who would have thought it was so interesting?