I wonder how many people think of spending a bit of time in a library when they’re in Italy. Of course, I’m not talking about your average small town affair, filled with tattered 1960s editions of the classics and a bunch of recent best sellers. No, nothing like that.

I’m talking about ceiling-high bookshelves, carved wood reading tables and frescoed walls. I’m, more than anything else, talking about scents: those of old paper, of ink drying on parchments, of the poignant sense of awe hitting you while holding the first edition of a favorite novel in your bare hands.