Love me do, Book Panda.

I love Fort for one obvious reason – it smells significantly of mildewy papyrus and old wrapping-plastic. That is, the slew of second-hand books that the book-wallahs sell. You could go to them and demand your copy of Nabokov or Munroe, and the beaming, ecstatic man would scout around his wares for a minute or two, and then emerge triumphantly from the Cocoon with the said title between his fingers. He’d toss the book to you in a hurry, because some flushed customer would be asking for Maupassant or Frey, and you’d open the book, look fondly at the spotted flyleaf, smoothen the dog-eared pages with much affection, and then take the blessed thing to your face for some olfactory appreciation. And The Fragrance would spirit you to some distant Kafka-esque world, and you’d look at the next customer, red with embarrassment. And he’d nod and smile at you, gesturing his understanding in the briefest of moments.