Boulder, You Beautiful Bastard

I was surprised by the long TSA line at 3:30 in the morning on a Monday at Midway. I was also (much more pleasantly) surprised that the very-airporty Irish pub was open that early and serving alcohol, meaning my airplane nap would be substance-assisted. 

The three of us sitting at the bar were all in our early 30’s, clearly single, and with varying degrees of facial hair (none were cleanly shaven). I caught the guy sitting next to me staring at me through the mirror behind the liquor bottles as he open-mouth chewed the greasy breakfast served to him on a paper plate. I grimaced at the $27 tab for a Guinness and a shot, and thought, “This scene would be an awesome painting to have on my wall.”

Not thirty minutes after landing in Colorado, I was in love with the place. My bus driver to Boulder was a spitting image of Zach Galifianakis from the movie Masterminds, complete with well-groomed facial hair and mullet. I went straight from the airport to a weed dispensary open at 9am. The lady behind the counter was bubbly, well-informed, extremely helpful, and cute to boot. “Where would you go for breakfast?” I asked her.

Her spot was only two blocks away. There was a wait when I got there, but by the time I got out of the bathroom, a seat opened up at the bar. I saddled up next to a lovely old woman who chatted with me for the better part of 15 minutes. She gave me recommendations on places to check out before I left, then I scooted her chair out when she was done because she was too tiny to get out on her own.

The bartender brought me a cinnamon role pancake appetizer for my chivalry, then I followed that up with the Benny Duo – one half steak-and-eggs and one half latka-lox. There was hip, contemporary alt rock playing over the speakers, a vibrant-but-not-overwhelming buzz to place, and it was filled with beautiful young women in combinations of hippie and hiking attire. I thought maybe the flight crashed and this was my heaven. Or maybe I was still asleep on the plane, and would eventually wake up to a sore back and the more standard gruffness I’ve become accustomed to living in larger cities. But it just kept being awesome.

One odd thing: people seemed to keep almost running into me on the sidewalk. They either walked on the left side of the walkway or haphazardly veered in my direction while making eye contact that would normally indicate their recognition of a human presence. Maybe they were all just magnetically drawn to my love of the town. Or maybe there was a glitch in the coding for these NPC’s, and we’re all in the Matrix. But whatever, I guess. Small price to pay for an otherwise-perfect experience.

I felt inspired to write there. It’d been such a long lull of forcing myself to sit down and type. I don’t know if it was Boulder, in particular, or just the experience of newness, but I grabbed emphatically at my little notepad with a fair amount of regularity. (Author’s note: I’m presently back in Chicago and forcing myself to sit and type this). 

The hostel I ended up in straddled a creek and was nestled between tree-lined, snow-covered mountains. I had my first real hit of mountain air while I was standing outside smoking a cigarette of all things. I caught the edges of it on an inhale, then purposefully sucked as much air through my nostrils as I could muster. I let the smell of dirt and snow and pine fill my awareness and my eyes rolled back into my head like I was hitting heroin. 

The combination of sleep deprivation, weed and alcohol consumption, and early sunset meant I was in bed and asleep by 6pm. True to hostel form, I was woken up intermittently by the comings and goings (and snorings and fartings) of the roommates I hadn’t met. No matter – still a solid first day.