The air was thick with the smell of pungent hotdogs and brewing coffee. Clutching a soda in one hand, and a vegetable wrap in the other, I balanced the bag of chips on top. No empty table in sight.

I knew that outside there were shade trees with benches and a cool breeze. Cooing pigeons patrolled the walkways, ready to pick up wayward crumbs. However, the path to that haven led through a sea of vacant eyed teenagers, businessmen on cell phones, and doting grandparents. All visitors, like us, to the National Book Festival.

We edged into the crowd and inched across the floor. Then the way cleared in front of me. With glee I forged into the opening, only to be cut off by an aggressive stroller. The small child looked up with clueless innocence. I was able to curb my forward motion, but the sudden stop sloshed soda over the cup’s edge, coating my fingers with sticky syrup. The chips tilted, and I clamped my little finger over a corner of the bag. A few more feet and we reached the door.

Our triumph turned to dismay. What had been a cloudy sky and a few scattered drops when we entered the building, was now a steady drenching rain. We had already passed the security checkpoint. There was no going back. The crowd was building up behind us, and like lemmings we were forced out into the downpour.

The rain pattered on my hat, and water spots multiplied on my shirt. I caught sight of a narrow dry patch behind the door. Hastily we squeezed into the tiny overlooked alcove. High overhead a narrow outcrop created a respite from the steady rain. A line of decorative stonework ran the length of the wall. The architect might have been appalled with our adaptation, but his artistic touch made a perfect shelf.

Munching on the wrap, we gazed out from behind the propped open door. It created a wall between us and the steady flow of people passing through the entryway. Few took notice of our private dining nook.

Across the street, on the National Mall, the book festival continued. We watched the events like children sneaking a peak at the circus. Red, white, and blue umbrellas bobbed up and down as visitors made their way from one tent to another.

Our hunger tamed, we ventured out from our sanctuary and once again joined the throng. The thrill of getting an autograph was drowned out by the drizzle and the long lines. Instead we strolled past the tents. Under the white canvas canopies, authors revealed secrets from their stories and shared tales of their encounters with the creative muses. Their voices drifted out giving glimpses of the adventures within.

We slipped under one of the dripping flaps and joined the admirers crowded inside. Two of our favorite authors took the stage amid the cheering crowd. The magic of words pulled us into another realm. The rain curtain separated us from the solid world of reality. Beyond the mall the historical stone and marble architecture of history and politics was hidden in the mist. Once again we had become children taking refuge under the fragile tent sheltering the world of imagination.

http://www.loc.gov/bookfest