Main Library, The City Library, Salt Lake City, Utah

 
If you drive up to the wrong (west) side of Salt Lake City's Main Library, you might just drive on by, certain that there is no way this can be the very same place about which you've heard nothing but rave reviews. It would be a fair decision, too, as the west bank of squareness is so square and oppressively beige, you might mistake it for a sad, nameless county office that issues permits for tiling the floors of the sanitation department's broom closets.

But if you turn any corner, you'll find a weird and wonderful thing: The Most Extra Library in Existence. Clearly someone had a vision. There were lots of floaty ideas lilting all around, and they were scooped up with a butterfly net and put into an architectural, build-a-scheme, Thing Maker, hooked up with jumper cables to a picture of the Colosseum, and two tween boys with bras on their heads flipped a switch and WA LA, Main Library.

It's won all sorts of awards, which it should for ambition alone, but my first impression of the site was one of dread and unease, as I again found myself sinking into the subterranean depths of the adjacent parking garage. It was a narrow, sketchy scene reminiscent of the J. Erikson back in Dallas, except it was somehow spookier. More echos or something...but it freaked me out. It was also super narrow, so navigating was a little stressful--I could see all the marks from fenders and tires that had not quite made the turn at every stingy bend.

I took the elevator up to the main courtyard and walked out into a scene from Star Trek...you know the ones where they're at Starfleet Academy on Earth and you can still see the Golden Gate Bridge but there are a ton of new, soaring buildings with glinty, spiked edges that always remind me of The Jetsons. The western edge of the library is a fake out, a boring lie. The remaining three corners, if you can call them that, are anything but boring. It is a concrete and glass wonder, a sight to behold. It is nothing but winged, glorious curves. I was in lurve.

The tail of the curve is made up of individual little square units whose purpose was difficult to determine. They basically look like glass and metal boxes attached in a neat row, each no bigger than a standard foyer. According to Wikipedia, they contain things like radio stations and studios (x).

The space within the curve of the library is a grand, open plaza, with a recessed amphitheater right at the base of the main building. The plaza also features a waterfall and geometrically patterned garden spaces.

Main entrance (l) and the first view of the urban room (r).

The main glass doors lead into what is called the "Urban Room," a moniker so rigorously understated that I had to triple check the map to make sure I got it right. It isn't a "room," it is a cavernous, monumental open space of glass and metal. It is a sort of atrium or courtyard, with windows soaring all five floors to the top of the structure. The Urban Room has shops, restaurants, and seating areas where you can sit, drink coffee, talk with friends, or just wonder at the views all around you. I saw ladies lunching and business folk meeting, laptops open, spreadsheets queued.

When viewing the library proper from inside the Urban Room or out in the plaza, the open and airy design exposes four floors of nothing but books--rows and rows of stacks--and trendy but modest seating situated along the expansive banks of windows. The fifth floor appears mostly administrative, with some meeting rooms and access to the garden roof. When I entered the building, I scoped the place out a bit from the main floor, but my ultimate goal was to grab one of those primo desks--the higher the better.

Main elevator bank (l) and the four main floors of the library (r), viewed from the Urban Room.

Before heading to the elevators, I looked around the first floor and found, to my delight, plushies of Where the Wild Things Are encased in displays near the children's section. In light of my recent Magna experience, imagining those monsters running rampant through the library, biting books and stomping on furniture, seeing the Sendak display was a little on the nose, but a treat nonetheless. This library, though eight years older than the Magna, showed few signs of brutish beasts roughing up the upholstery or climbing up the stacks.

Safely encased for minimum tomfoolery.

The layout of each floor is expansive and generous. There is a lot of open floorspace to balance out the multitude of stacks, lounge furniture, and desks. The furniture and carpet follow a cool blue, gray, and silver template to match the streamlined, futuristic aesthetics of all that glass and metal.

Circulation.

Information.

I have a love/hate relationship with heights. I love to see incredible views, things that knock me on my ass with shock and love, but if I get a little too self aware then it's time for the cold sweats and maybe a little swooning (exactly the sort of thing you want to do on a precipice). For example, I am good with viewing the Grand Canyon from the rail, or even going up into a very tall building (good-ish), but those viewing decks made of Plexiglas, where you walk out onto freaking nothing so you can feel like you are levitating high above the ground? I think fucking not. Hell to the no. Noooooo.

The scary elevator ride.

So I love glass elevators, and if I am not stuffed onto one with other people, all the better. But the glass elevators at the Salt Lake City Main Library have one extra surprise in store, something more extraordinary that lifting people to and fro and all with an open view of the entire five stories of the Urban Room. They go fast. Which is great! You get where you want to go in no time at all. But it is also terrible, because your stomach is still trying to stay on floor one while your bodily self is zinging up to floor five. So, I was a fan of the expedience, not so much the experience. Blerg.

I checked out five for a few minutes, then headed back down to four since I was set on getting a good spot. As I headed toward the seats that faced the plaza, I started to notice an unbelievable aspect of the SLC Main that I hadn't processed earlier when taking pictures from below. The library is open on all sides and throughout, where there are bridges from the main sections to the bathrooms or back storage/staff areas. This is most evident along the wall interior to the massive Urban Room, where you can just look over the side and all the way down to the ground. As I walked through the library I realized this had to be a place people would try to kill themselves; the barriers are only waist high and it would be all too easy to just jump. Later when I researched the library via Wikipedia, my assumptions were confirmed. It even has it's own subentry, which is incredibly sad.

The view from the Bridge.

You have to wonder what they were thinking when they designed the building. It seems an obvious consideration, so what's the logic? I refuse to believe that no one thought of the suicide factor when creating a building where people could jump from five or four stories, to their likely deaths, with no more effort than bending over the edge and dropping. A person would not even have to climb. Even if you put the prickly subject of suicide to the side, you still have to consider the ramifications of library staff having to deal with these incidents. The toll it must take.

It's incredible to have such an open space, but I realized that part of that wonderment was based on the fact that most things are built to discourage the human impulse for self destruction. It's an interesting and exciting experience because we are so rarely afforded the chance to stand at the precipice without a safety net of some sort.

My desk.

Looking straight down.

I set up shop near the windows facing the plaza and got to work. Each desk has its own outlet for electricity and the chairs are simple but comfortable. I worked for awhile, but eventually two distractions were too much to overcome.

First, that view. It was as the planners envisioned: Something to remember, something to write home about, something else. The drop is one thing, especially since desks are right up next to the glass and that is all there is, no concrete barrier even. But the plaza down below and the Wasatch mountains in the distance? Every few minutes my eyes would wander, because I couldn't stand not to look. It was too beautiful.

A view of the plaza from my desk.

Second, the homeless population. Of all the places I've visited, the Salt Lake City Main Library had the largest contingent of homeless patrons. You have to remember just how large this library is--it is enormous. They hung out in the amphitheater, and those with carts had set up semi-permanent residences near the glass boxes in the tail of curve. Many others were inside, surrounded by bags, in reading chairs and at desks.

It is important to note that no one bothered me--everyone minded their own business, found their spots to hang out, and kept to themselves. Were it not for my sensitive nose, I wouldn't have cared, but the as the day progressed, the smell of urine intensified and I had to leave. Remember, my stomach is made of tissue paper and hot acid, so anything that triggers my nausea is a non starter. I simply must go or face inevitable, vomity consequences.

My point is that plenty of less sensitive folks would be perfectly fine -- I saw no disturbances or anything that worried or alarmed me. All in all it was a very positive library experience, though probably more for the architectural splendors than the practicality of library usage. Of course, any view can become mundane after awhile, so I am sure regular patrons, while pleased with their surroundings, are far less distracted by the awesome structure than a traveling flatlander like me.

My last stop was the gallery, also on floor four, and a great addition to the Main Library's offerings. A few of my favorite pieces are featured below.

Laura Erekson Atkinson, (l) Build With Three Kinds of Brick, 

Mixed Media on Wood, and (r) A time to Build Up, 

Mixed Media on Wood (capitalization per the installation).

Laura Erekson Atkinson, Cities of the North, Mixed Media on Panel.

Natalie Kaye Stallings, Life in a Contradicting Shadow, Oil on Panel.

Really. Do Not.

Anderson-Foothill Branch, The City Library, Salt Lake City, Utah

Not far from the Millcreek Community Library I found the Anderson-Foothill Branch library (part of the City Library system). I could almost hear "Don't You Forget about Me" playing as I walked up to the steps and toward the main doors. I was getting a very 80s vibe and, much to my later delight, I was right on the money.

I'd spent a productive morning at Millcreek, and if I hadn't gotten hungry, I probably would have stayed. It was a truly relaxed place, and I would have had a harder time deciding if I should stay or go, but my wandering reflex is borderline urgent. I obeyed my desire to journey onward, knowing I had the time to spare.

When I entered the Anderson-Foothill library, I was immediately drawn to the mega vaulted ceilings, a sure sign of extraneous design choices popular in the 80s. Hell on the heating and cooling systems, but doesn't it look rad? You know what: It does. It is incredible to see one of the living monuments to 80s aesthetics, but modern love of 50s Gas Station Chic will soon totally eclipse one vision of what our future was going to look like. At least I can photograph it now and preach against runaway destruction of our architectural history. Who knows, maybe they'll meet me halfway...eh, who am I foolin. Call me a careless optimist, but I still believe the past lifts us up beyond the tainted logic of forever trashing our collective memory. Its a bit of an obsession.

The Lonely Table

The 80s were also apparent in most of the furniture, save the computer bays, the most obvious update from days just past disco and well before "the net." The pink, burlap fabric and rounded, wood edges were a dead giveaway. The library itself is dark despite the many windows, but to me if felt more like a safe little slice of heaven to burrow in and think.

So I busted a move to the back of the library and found a (sort of) perfect spot near the large bay window (tinted, of course). There was a lonely, stray group table off to the side, spotlighted for maximum sadness, and a bank of tall, two-top bar tables right against the window. I am still not sure why higher ground would make me study smarter, but there was clearly a method to the madness.

The greatest clue of all was the design on the table top I was using--totally tubular fer shure. While I was distracted for a moment, cherishing all the artifacts of years gone by (like, check out the electrical outlet box thing?), the Anderson-Foothill afforded me yet another stellar opportunity to buckle down and write my little face off.

Glendale Branch, The City Library, Salt Lake City, Utah

Horace Mann Middle School wasn't all bad. If I were to make a pie chart of my experiences there from 1984-1986, it would look like this:

Of course the spectrum of the largest part of the pie is broader than the rest--there were days when class proceeded without incident. Those are the parts where the "little" was learned. It was an ugly, hateful place. The constant delinquency and supercharged hormonal hysteria made it a hotbed of bad memories and terrible lessons, few having anything to do with reading, writing, or arithmetic.

I was no angel, either--while I didn't maliciously tease or torture other students, I cheated on exams, passed in fraudulent homework, and got away with academic murder because the teachers' expectations were so low. They were dealing with misbehavior beyond their training--it was obvious, pathetic, and sad.

From a student's viewpoint, however, the teachers' and administrations' failures only served to promote two things: A complete lack of trust in the system, and that taking advantage of broken environment was acceptable not only in order to survive but "thrive." A few of my HM teachers, if they remembered me at all, would describe me as a lazy but bright student who did well in most of her classes. The rest (save one*) would say I was a great student, lots of potential. That one* was my art teacher, who made a promise to me early in the semester then welshed on it. My very first "F"...and another lesson learned.

But only the high and low percentages are relevant here, when we talk about the Glendale Branch Library, a beautiful, new building that is part of the greater City Library system. When I drove up to Glendale after leaving Magna, I was still hopeful, though guarded. This is a newer building, by 5 or so years, but the ravaged state of Magna taught me to not expect too much.

There was one class at Horace Mann Middle School that I remember fondly. Beyond fondly. When I think of it, I get a glow, the light goes soft, and I start to smile. Sometimes I even get teary eyed if I think of it in the right moment (for example, now). What was this magical Safe Space? I've mentioned it in this blog before: Shop class. Our teacher--we'll call him Mr. T--neither suffered nor pitied any variety of fools. It was the only class that was 100% under control, calm, and productive. I loved drafting, sitting in all that silence, the only sounds were the whisper of pencils gliding across paper and soft murmurs of students quietly asking Mr. T questions. Everything I made in that class turned out right, and I never stabbed, cut, or burned myself (or anyone else) using the elderly equipment to create napkin holders, peg games, etc.

How was this miracle achieved? How was this class so different from all the rest? Were the students so terrified of maiming themselves that they behaved without question? That was part of it. The rest was just Mr. T. He simply did not allow monkey business of any kind. Not even for a second. Kids respected and feared him. Most said they hated him. Mr. T was "mean." I never got the impression he particularly liked any of us, either. But I liked him. He made an otherwise blistering hellhole into a quiet oasis of creation and meditation.

Shockingly enough, an environment like Horace Mann, where even fake work gets an "A" because you "tried" is incredibly destructive to a person's sense of self worth. Nothing you do actually matters. So creating something real, something tactile, that truly is "A" worthy work in the midst of such a shitstorm of mediocrity meant the world. The whole freaking world.

A similarly quiet, warm environment can be found at the Glendale Branch Library. When I walked in the doors I was refreshed to see the wide open space, humming with the soft sounds of computers running, light conversation, and the muffled sounds from the streets outside. As I wandered through the library, taking pictures and checking out the scene, I saw no obvious signs of abuse above and beyond what one could expect of a two year old library with trendy furniture.

As I passed by, staff members smiled greetings, friendly and ready to help. The library was bright but comfortable, vast but homey--it was, and I say this with all sincerity, Library Perfect.

There were tons of perfect places to set up my laptop and write to my heart's content. They even had those fun pop up outlets in the tables to make the whole writing endeavor easier. I settled in and worked on my blog for hours.

The worst classes at Horace Mann Middle School were gym and mathematics. Gym was a big joke, where kids participated in the sports they were interested in and goofed off, ran rampant, and otherwise acted a fool until the hour was over. This was also the clearest example of disconnect between admin/teachers and students. Aside from the obvious insults, threats, and aggression most kids experienced in gym class (not to mention the humiliations of the less athletic kids being forced to catch the sportsball with their faces), our gym class had two additional, superfun aspects, both extremely sexual. Which is what you want in a middle school gym class, right? Right?

The first was administration's insistence that all children wear exactly the same uniform for class. I remember it well: for the girls, navy blue jogging shorts and navy blue and white striped t-shirt. For the boys, khaki shorts and a white t-shirt. Before the school year started, and after moving from our beloved house and to a school district we knew nothing about, my mom even embroidered my name onto the right breast of my new gym shirt, in lovely cursive, which I took unbridled shit for from day one onward. Every time I think of that hopeful act, I want to scream. All the other kids just wrote them names across the front in magic marker.

The problem wasn't that we had to change for gym, or even fancy, embroidered names, it was the fact that the wide-legged shorts we were required to wear by admin and the school district--all sold at the same uniform store--dropped open and exposed our underwear for all to see whenever we did sit ups or push ups, a required part of the calisthenics routine we had to complete every godforsaken day. And since we were a forward thinking school, gym was mixed, so all the boys would stare, gape, and make nasty, vile comments through the entire ordeal.

Any appeals to administration fell on deaf ears. Both the principal and vice principal were out of touch and didn't much care, anyway. Boys will be boys.

Where were the teachers, you ask? Well, they had their own problems. That was part two of the Sexual Politics of Horace Mann's gym class. After warm ups, the boys' libidos were also warmed up, and the harassment went on for the remainder of the hour. We ignored the disgusting comments, threats, and promises, and deflected the wandering hands as best we could. You'd think a gaggle of teen aged girls would be enough, but some of the boys liked to test the limits and would also harass the female gym teacher. Mostly it was innuendo, as fumbling and stupid as little teen boys whose nuts haven't dropped can manage, but it got physical on more than one occasion. Administration did nothing, and we cycled through four female gym teachers in 8th grade alone.

Mathematics was less about sexual harassment and more about chaos incarnate. It was almost completely unproductive every single day for an entire year. The kids went wild from the minute they hit the door to the minute they left. They screamed, shouted, threw things, talked with friends, ran around the class, and generally acted like, well, junior high kids at their worst. It would be rude to compare an out of control middle school classroom to zoo animals. We're all well aware that zoo animals are better behaved.

I don't remember our elderly teacher spending much time at the board, writing formulas or lecturing us on the fine points of pre-algebra. He spent most of his time at the intercom button, threatening to call the principal. He would just stand there, shaking, his lips quivering, his finger positioned over the button, making repeated appeals for us to quiet down, be quiet, settle down, I will call the principal, I will. All hour long. Sometimes he'd give up, sometimes he'd call the principal, who would show up, give a speech (to a group of now-quiet, little asshole fakers), and then leave with no consequences, no follow up, and certainly no change to the format of the class.

Eventually I gave up, too. I'd hand in homework and do fairly well on quizzes and tests, but I spent most of my time writing poems and songs in my journal, and enlisting the fellow metal-heads in my class to help make a definitive list of Bitchenest Rock Bands. I would look at our teacher (whose name I remember but will not write here, not even by initial), standing there paralyzed in terror, and knew that I hated him, too. Not because I thought he was a bad person, a bad teacher, or deserved it, but because it was too awful and sad a sight to bear. I hated him for making me see it.

At 3:10 every weekday during the school year, the Glendale Branch turns into my 7th grade math class, with elements of my sexed-up gym class, but with a 21st century twist. The kids start streaming in, in singles and groups, and begin to occupy every open table and seating area as close to the back of the library as they can get. All told, on the day I witnessed the transformation of the Glendale Branch from a library to a juvenile detention center, there were about 40 kids in all, possibly more. I didn't sit there and count them, but there were a lot. And you know how kids become so much more when they aren't supervised? Every kid becomes like three kids, with the volume dialed all the way up and the self control turned completely off. It got loud and rowdy fast.

In they came, screaming, shouting, tearing through the aisles and finding their friends or favorite places. They knocked over books as they invaded, not stopping to even acknowledge it in the first place, let alone pick the books up. As the crowd grew, the noise rose to a cacophonous roar, pitted with mind bending shrieks of the demented and damned.

I could hear some of their conversations, though it was difficult to follow much more than snippets in the din. They talked about the dick pics they sent to each other, and dropped the f-bomb generously throughout every conversation. There was a lot of Big Talk in squeaky voices. It was painful to hear, not just because the volume was really up there (we're not talking library loud, we are talking cafeteria loud), but because it was beyond embarrassing to witness. So much puffery and strutting, so little to back it up.

My educator sister and I have discussed the phenomena of middle schoolers, and how their age and hormonal changes basically make them temporarily insane. To add insult to injury, not only are they unbalanced maniacs with no impulse control, they also smell. As I sat there, thankfully nearly done with my Arches entry and only needing to add the photos, I couldn't help but notice the rising stench of bubblegum, hair gel, and pit sweat. I was transported back to Horace Mann Middle School, 1985, and it was both hysterical and horrifying.

I felt bad for the library staff, who wandered through to pick up the books knocked over in the stampede and stood silent and sheepish at the edge of the sea of screaming meemies. The most anyone did to try to wrangle the hoard was a weak, "Guys. A little loud, guys." I guess they don't have an intercom button to push. In a sense, I would bet that really is the problem. I doubt the staff has the administrative support to keep the kids in line. And clearly the kids have nowhere else to go after school, so this is where they are, unsupervised, unaware, and unhinged. From opening until 3:10, Glendale is a library. From 3:10 to who knows when, Glendale is a cockfighting pen full of stinky, bubblegum chewing chickens, squabbling, pecking, and twisting in a tarantella of teen angst. I didn't stick around long enough to find out when the chaos abates--my post was done and so was I.

As I walked out I noticed some of the single kids that had streamed in with the boistrous groups. They sat quietly at tables nearer the front, homework out, pencils up, heads down and studious. For a moment I was back in Mr. T.'s beautiful shop class, and my heart hurt so hard for them it almost took my breath away. Stay strong, kiddos. It really does get better.

It was also a Big Lesson learned about Google reviews: Sometimes people are just whining and behaving like brats who would complain about anything to anyone, but sometimes they are right on the money. I am a big believer in not using Google reviews abusively--try to spread as much positivity as negativity--but when a business or public space needs a big warning sign placed in front of it, you have to say something. I should have heeded their warnings, and would have felt 1000% better about the Glendale Library if I had only just packed up and left at three, but I didn't. And I got a genuine flashback some wisdom in exchange.

Marmalade Branch, The City Library, Salt Lake City, Utah

I love Salt Lake City. It is quirky, family oriented, flawed but fabulous. The highways get you anywhere you want to go with little brake action or congestion and the streets are laid out with generous "parking" lanes and bike paths. The street naming conventions would be easy to learn (for most, not me), and are very different from anything I've seen before (numbered instead of named, with some exceptions). You can see the influence of the Mormon forebears in the creation of the city, especially when it comes to orderliness, but there are districts that defy the rules, bending to and fro and naming their streets after something other than numbers. 

When I drove from the Arches National Park to Salt Lake City, the clouds that had been threatening all day finally crowded in. At some point in the long and winding drive, they seemed to descend all around me, and a fussy, pattering rain commenced and never let up for the rest of the night. 

It was full dark before I reached SLC and my AirBNB and I could see no more than the illuminated streetlights, headlights, and signage in my path. I met my AirBNB host, who showed me around the generous space I would be occupying for the week, and settled down for the night. 

Main Entryway

My ongoing ill feelings--so treacherous, flittering, and vague--came on full force the next day after I attempted breakfast. The day was rainy and gloomy and I decided to just lay down and relax at the AirBNB. I needed to get my mind off of my ongoing troubles, or else circle the toilet bowl of despair worrying about the rest of this long leg of the trip. Back in the olden aughts, my work friends discussed the phenomena of "Soft Place to Land" movies and shows that we would watch when sick, sad, or otherwise compromised. For some it might be movies like Hope Floats, The Pelican Brief, or maybe The Juror (I remember a discussion about the psychological soundness of seeking out movies where heroines were in peril but would, without fail, save their own damn day...maybe sometimes with a little help from Denzel). At the time, I named Practical Magic as a top choice for me. In later years, Law & Order main and Law & Order Criminal Intent joined those ranks. It was a dark day when they were removed from Netflix.

Feeling cloaked in fatigue and light nausea, I decided I wanted to watch something mildly criminal, a gentle violence, if you will, and settled on Blue Bloods. I didn't have high expectations, and it turned out to be the exact balm I needed to coast through the day. There is no end to the comforting presence of Magnum PI's mustachio.

The next morning broke open vast, cloudless, and shiny bright. The rains had finally passed. My mood and overall condition followed suit, so I got ready and set out for my first SLC library: Marmalade Branch.

Now, you will judge me for this next part. You will say, UM. You will say, Everyone knows this. You will say, Ugh. But honestly, I had no sense of Salt Lake City's geography. None whatsoever. When traveling, I tend to study up on a town either while I am there or immediately after. I knew about the Church of the Latter Day Saints and I knew they had hosted the Olympics at some point. And I knew they had an ambitious library system based on the research I did complete prior to my trip. Oh, and the lake. I knew about the lake. Because, well, obvious.

But I didn't know about the mountains. 

Lounge area looking out to the terrace.

So out of the AirBNB cul de sac I drove, toward the main roads that would lead to the highway. I can't remember exactly when my vantage reached the perfect point, on a hill unobscured by an immediate treeline, but suddenly there they were. Everywhere. Mountains to the left, mountains to the right, and not in the distance but up close and personal (oo another soft place to land movie, methinks). I could see individual trees near the peaks. The eastern, more abundant and dramatic range is the Wasatch; the western range is the Oquirrh (x). I spent much of the drive to Marmalade yelling at the massive, intrusive, gorgeous beauty all around me. And laughing at the fact that I'd been in Salt Lake for something like 36 hours and had only just realized Where I Was.

(To be fair to myself, I don't watch winter Olympics and barely watch the summer ones, mostly for the gymnastics. I think the last time I watched the winter Olympics was when two little glitter babes in bejeweled swimsuits were whacking each other about the knees and crying at Disneyworldland because silver isn't as good as gold. Which reminds me: Wasn't Oksana Baiul phenomenal? God that was a great ending to a cosmically stupid era in our collective culture.)

Check out materials, search catalogs, pay fees...

By the time I reached the Marmalade district of Salt Lake City, I'd recovered from my geographical shock. I had to park on the side of the road since construction was still taking place for whatever lot the library would eventually have, but there were no parking signs or rules posted anywhere and the area was safe and residential. On top of that, I parked in front of a church with one of those sprawling, hyper green lawns with the grass so feathery, dense, and light that you kind of want to drop whatever you're doing and take a nap on it. 

The Marmalade Branch of the City Library system is hard to miss as you approach it by foot or car. The architecture is stunning, modern, sleek, and exciting. As I approached the building I took what felt like a hundred different shots of the exterior, but knew none could really do it justice in the end. Two dimensional photographs can be incredible representations of our 3D world, but there's no matching first person experience. The wind, the smell of the trees and grass all around, the sound of the street, the glint of the sun off the glass and chrome features of the library itself, and how it changes as you approach. 

You can't tell from the photo, but there are glass
walls on either side of the Return wall.
Another Librarian Aquarium! 

The reason I am in Salt Lake City for a week is based on the treasure trove of libraries in this area. I knew I wanted to see the Bonneville Salt Flats, so would be passing through Salt Lake, but had no designs other than maybe staying a night on my way through. It was in the research of libraries along the way that I realized I would need to spend more time here. The City Library system has clearly had a lot of resources poured into it (and I am very excited to see the main library, which is supposed to be incredible) and the libraries I have visited thus far have proven my online impressions to be correct. 

Marmalade's visual wonders continued on to the interior of the space itself: deep, rich, wood ceiling fixtures, bright, mellow light, and all the sleek, modern conveniences of a library that was built only a year ago. The tall glass walls afford incredible views of the surrounding mountain ranges and the city itself, and there is even an outdoor deck with plenty of seats and tables to study, read, write, or just enjoy the surroundings.

Each lounge/seating area features a different styling: bright orange, green, gray--and the light fixtures are inspired. I was particularly charmed by the cut paper globe installation in the kids' play area.

My Study Room.

The best part, however, was the availability of study rooms. There were tables around, but I wanted a closed space just for me, and library staff was kind enough to grant it. The study rooms were along the glass wall, so I had a view of the terrace and greenspace just behind it, two real walls to block the other study rooms, then another glass door and wall leading to the library and stacks. The room itself was perfect: comfortable, quiet, and exactly what I needed to complete my "Two Days in Durango" story/entry.

There was a two hour limit to the space, however, so I had to vacate for a minute to see if I could renew. The rule is first come, first serve, so if no one was waiting on the list, I would be able to get the room for another hour. The library was fairly busy, but not so much with people like me, so I was able to get the room for a solid three to complete my work. 

The City Libraries are semi-relaxed. They really don't want you eating in any of their facilities, but I was told if was cool about it, no one would care. So, no juicy, drippy burritos but peanut butter crackers are probably okay. They are completely fine with covered drinks, e.g. a venti iced coffee from Starbucks or a bottled water if you are into that kind of thing. Marmalade even has a cafe where you can buy coffee and treats, have a seat, and relax or talk with friends. When I left the library, the place was hopping, so it's evidently a popular spot and a good source of revenue. As long as libraries manage their spaces effectively, food & drink can occupy space with precious books, but the key is professional, firm, consistent supervision and execution of the rules. And, of course, patrons who respect those rules and follow them.

The kids' play area.

Library Doggo, Fluff Ambassador. 

I even saw a doggo patiently accompanying her Tall Man in the stacks and surreptitiously took her picture to share here with the world. I know I am violating her privacy but she's so cutey wootey that I HAD TO I JUST HAD TO. Look at her lil sweater it has skulls on it omg. Also, I miss my fluff faces so much and it was nice to see another fluff face, even if she was a dog variety fluff instead of catty fluff.

Marmalade was exactly what I was expecting when I viewed the online profiles of the City Library system, as well as the county library system that co-mingles with SLC and its outlying suburbs. In this case, I could judge the book by its cover. But as we all know, it's wiser not to. A lesson I soon learned, double fold. More on that in the next couple of entries...