I promised myself that I was only here to pick up one thing: a graphic novel that was going to be a birthday gift for my friend. It was a simple task really — I had the title, it was easily recognizable, and would likely be the centerpiece on one of the many display tables at Barnes & Noble.

I started toward the young adult section, a path marked by muscle memory, but — hardly three steps past the entrance —  I slowed to a stop, lingering at one of the tables. I gaze dropped to Babel by R.F. Kuang — a fantasy book I’d been meaning to read. I reluctantly peeled my eyes away, but they darted right back. I grabbed the book. But so it goes, once I grab one, I can’t seem to stop. By the time I had finally made it to the graphic novels, I’d explored a good half of the store, bouncing from shelves where all the romance books were lined, covers on display, to the neat exhibit of classics — oh, there’s that memoir I’d been meaning to read — and back to high fantasy again. 

Before I knew it, I somehow had a stack, five books high, none of which I planned to buy. Instead, I sat down on the carpeted floor in an empty aisle and cracked open the book at the top of the stack. I was ready to spend the rest of my day here — my personal heaven on earth: Barnes & Noble. 

B&N has become the kind of place I’ve developed a routine with every time I visit: I browse each section, curate a stack of books, and then stay until I remember I had a life before I entered the store. In my zen, hours are sucked into the void and by the time I leave, I’m left wondering how long it’s been since the sun set. 

What’s more puzzling is that B&N doesn’t have a great deal of seating either, outside the cafes sometimes embedded by the store’s entrance, which often leaves me with two choices. The first involves loitering in the children’s play area comprised of tiny wooden benches rising barely two inches off the ground. The second is to stake out in the middle of an aisle with my books and the occasional awkward apologies to strangers when I need to scoot away from the shelf they’re trying to browse. 

While some stores might find it off-putting that customers are freeloading off their availability of products, B&N actually encourages shoppers to linger. But even with that knowledge, it’s hard to fathom that a commercial store has the ability to feel like a free, public lounge space. B&N’s convincing disguise as a cozy, intimate bookstore makes it unbelievably easy to forget that I’m even at a big-box corporation. 

They have this warm, almost ambient, lighting. It’s often quiet but you don’t ever have to whisper. They’re designed with an open space in the middle, so no section is too crowded and you can’t get too lost. Even dropping a hardcover book can’t disturb the peace with their carpeted floors. And it’s never too difficult to find a title you’re looking for with their displays that prioritize cover exposure, keeping you from having to dig between shelves. 

But even if you do find yourself needing assistance, you’re in luck because there’s a crucial part of B&N that makes this retail chain radiate such warmth and comfort that many other stores struggle to achieve — its staff. 

B&N employees are more than just people trying to sell me a book; it feels like they’re truly interested in helping me. Every customer service experience I’ve had has been so overwhelmingly positive it’s almost suspicious.

It’s not just the endearing “Staff Picks” shelf or the hand-written reviews under displayed books — it’s the sheer amount of enthusiasm welling from the most god-honest group of book lovers around. Despite the obvious fact that, yes, they work at a bookstore, it’s astonishing the amount of trivia knowledge they have on, what seems to be, everything lining the shelves. 

Almost always, they are able to pinpoint the exact location of a book I’m looking for without so much as a glance at a computer directory. They do this all while assessing books to cater to my taste, raving about their personal favorites, suggesting stories with specific elements they think I’d like, warning me about unpleasant twists. I almost suspect that the B&N job interview process involves nothing but hours of fake requests for niche book recommendations.

I may just be easy prey in a smart marketing ploy, but I couldn’t care less because it worked. To me, B&N is a sacred space that’s revived the joy of buying books in person, and one that handles the customer experience with hospitality, willingness and care.