The locals were fantastic and welcomed me with open arms.
According to our body clocks, we landed in Columbus somewhere between hungry and sleepy.
As is my custom before eating or sleeping, I got out to stretch my legs and get the blood flowing. A wise move after being strapped into a seat all day.
One of my go-to Google searches when arriving somewhere new, something to anchor me and give me a destination, is “record store.”
In Columbus, that led me to Spoonful Records, about a mile’s walk from the hotel through downtown. There was plenty to look at along the way: architecture from a bygone era, hints of old splendor still holding their own and revitalized.
At the store, the locals were fantastic and welcomed me with open arms.
“Hey, friend!” a voice called from behind the register and above a stack of used vinyl she was cataloging.
“Are you happy today?” She asked.
I told her I was now, and asked if people had been treating her the way she deserved to be treated.
“Well, I haven’t broken down in tears yet today, so there’s that.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Sometimes we all just need a hug. You look like you could use a hug.”
I learned her name was Beverly.
“I could absolutely use a hug!” I laughed, just as she leapt over the records at her feet and into my arms.
A solid embrace.
Her coworker Jon, who seemed more like an intern there for the fun of it, jumped into the hug as well.
An hour flew by as we swapped movie, music, and book recommendations.
When I asked where I should grab lunch, Jon eagerly shared some suggestions, while the boss went straight to Google to read aloud a top-rated review.
If heaven had a smell, it would be the intoxicating aroma wafting from the wood-fired ovens of this pizza paradise. From the moment you walk in, the crackle of the flames and the warm, rustic ambiance wrap around you like a culinary hug from the universe itself. The crust—oh, the crust!—is a divine balance of charred perfection and pillowy softness, with toppings so fresh you’ll swear the basil was just picked by angels. Every bite is a sonnet to flavor, a euphoric collision of molten mozzarella and tangy tomato that makes you question every other meal you’ve ever loved. Dining here isn’t just eating—it’s a spiritual journey wrapped in dough and kissed by fire.
“Well, that settles it,” she said. “Though… that review might be a little much. Wait! Jon!”
She looked at the intern.
Then at the profile photo on her phone.
“I’m a local guide,” he admitted.
“You definitely need to read the review of your own record store!” I said.
She did, aloud:
Walking into the record store felt like stumbling into a secret society of groove, grit, and glorious vinyl. The shelves are organized in the most deliciously obscure way—categories like ‘Angsty Folk,’ ‘Pre-Digital Breakup Anthems,’ and ‘Angry Music’ made me want to spend more time reading the labels than browsing.
The owner—a dark-haired oracle of cool with perfectly imperfect bangs and encyclopedic knowledge of every B-side that ever mattered. Watching her alphabetize obscure vinyl next to a section labeled ‘Mildly Haunting’ made me LOL. She recommended a Japanese psych-folk album that I pretended to know, just to keep her talking. If the records weren’t enough to make you fall in love, her quiet smirk when you mispronounce ‘Can’ will seal the deal.”
Jon blushed.
She laughed. “We need to pay you more!”
“I don’t think you pay me at all.”
Those two made me laugh, and made me glad I got out of the hotel.
They told me about the types of customers they get. Just a few usual clichés. I didn’t ask which one I was.
Their agreed-upon favorite? The external processor: the solo customer who talks to themselves while browsing.
“At least you know what they’re looking for,” Beverly said. “And they definitely are not huggers!”
“What am I?” I asked.
“You’re an internal/external processor. You say the good stuff out loud. And you’re a hugger!” Jon declared.
We all hugged again before I left.
I’ll definitely be back.
If nothing else, for the hugs.