"When Owen Was King and the Pints Were Cheap.”

Flashback Friday finds me drifting back to Church and Market, wondering whatever became of Owen the cat, Aardvark Books’ resident monarch, after the shop closed in 2019—its final page in a 40-year story.  How sad is that?

Owen was no ordinary feline. He ruled the shelves and hearts with the elegance of a seasoned paperback.

It was March 26, 1999. San Francisco still carried traces of its literary soul back then—bookstores like A Different Light on Castro Street (now closed), and Aardvark Books east of Castro. These places stood like portals to quieter times, resisting the blur of apps and algorithms. You could walk in and feel the pulse of Baldwin, Brontë, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Anne Rice. And you’d meet Owen.

I had just settled in with James Hilton’s Lost Horizon when Owen—orange, graceful, and ever so lightly mischievous—leapt into my lap. Smaller than Morris the Cat, but magnetic enough to pause any page-turn. He purred like memory itself, climbed my chest, kissed my nose, and curled up, one paw on my shirt, the other at my waist. I read. I smiled. I lingered. And then I bought a used copy of East of Eden for $12.50.

Next door was Pilsner Inn—my nook. The $4 well drinks from Monday through Wednesday drew me in, sure, but it was the soul of the place that kept me. A garden out back cradled a still goldfish pond where nostalgia swam just beneath the surface. Couples played pool nearby while I read—quietly, contentedly. The bartenders poured more than liquor; they poured atmosphere as cannabis drifted through the air like memory, shared without judgment—just part of the atmosphere the bartenders so effortlessly conjured.

And when I needed literary communion beyond the Castro, I headed to Little Italy, to the iconic City Lights Bookstore on Columbus Avenue. There, time slowed differently. It was three stories of radical prose and revolutionary spirit, humming with the ghosts of Kerouac and Ferlinghetti, with poetry that didn’t just whisper—it thundered. I’d wander through its rooms, absorbing the weight of pages that had shaped movements, friendships, whole worldviews. City Lights didn’t just sell books—it invited you to stand still in a rushing world.

I imagine some of these places are gone now too, or altered beyond recognition. San Francisco has changed—more polished, less poetic. But I hold onto that stretch of Church Street, and the pockets of North Beach, with Owen and the books and the pints and the pond.
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Some places imprint their own kind of chapter on you. That was mine.