a soft light, a scent in the air, the quiet murmur of the city.
(guillaume laurant, amélie)

saturday 10/09/10

• roadtrips & stinkbugs & the hard rock cafe
• “excuse me, do you have any lemonade?“

sunday 10/10/10

• football & scottish bartenders & a walk in the park
• “what’s the capital of montana?  by the way, i drive a vintage jaguar.”

monday 10/11/10

• lenox square & red-soled shoes & ruth’s chris
• “if you ever see me wearing these shoes, i’ve won the lottery.“  “yeah, or you’re crazy.“

tuesday 10/12/10

• dressed to the nines & a fall down the stairs & late-night heart-to-hearts two years in the making
• “i never thought i would be here, like this, with you.  it’s like a dream.“

wednesday 10/13/10

• déjà vu & the lobby bar & arguably the best rare tuna steak of my life
• “yes, and she wears a camo thong.“

thursday 10/14/10

• goodbyes & midnight diners & landsharks
• “if this is really the end, at least we had a good run.“

all that a city will ever allow you is an angle on it — an oblique, indirect sample of what it contains, or what passes through it; a point of view. (peter conrad)

you have to pick the places you don’t walk away from. (joan didion)

we have to go. i am almost happy here. (ender wiggin)

summer isn’t a time.  it’s a place as well. (terry pratchett)

the sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. one should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach – waiting for a gift from the sea. (anne morrow lindbergh)

goodbye to deadlines and agendas, commutes and traffic, meetings and conference calls.

hello to laughter and sandy beaches, late nights and bike rides, boardwalks and seagulls.

every year, i return to the shore, along with my family, to relax and recharge, to listen as the sea shares her secrets with me.  and every year, it’s there that i find exactly what i need.

this year, like the last, it’s peace i seek.  a little bit of sacred, golden peace — plucked from setting suns and salty breezes and sand dunes.

enough to sustain and enough to share.

my gift from the sea.

• arrivals and uhauls
• dinner at larimer square, under a canopy of lights
• “slow down!  there’s no oxygen.“

sunday 11/08/09

• prime bar, full of football fans and buckets of coors
• partying it up at mile high station
• “wait.  how tall are you?“

monday 11/09/09

• rounds at the convention center
• a steelers victory & limo celebrations
• “tonight’s gonna be a good night.“

tuesday 11/10/09

• dressed to the nines on 16th street with brian
• dancing and ditching at suite 200
• “you really think i’m stuck up?“

wednesday 11/11/09

• goodbyes
• bathroom corner confrontations at lavish
• “i’m gonna drink ’till i can’t remember my name.“

thursday 11/12/09

• departures
• the harsh return to eastern time
• “anything.  anytime.  for you.“

i was there once before, many, many years ago with a group from my middle school.  we clinched the state championship in the ‘odyssey of the mind’ competition, and got to represent the great state of maryland in the world finals, in colorado.  being an eighth grader and traveling across the country was a pretty big deal.  add in the fact that we got to stay in dorm rooms away from our chaperones, and it quickly became a dream come true.

me and k.t. alone in a dorm room — we had big plans — we brought posters to decorate our room, and fashioned a flag made out of a wire coat hanger and a bra to fly out our window; we held late night meetings in our room and conspired with our fellow travelers into the wee hours of the morning.  it was our first taste of freedom, and it was intoxicating.

not one of us wanted that week to end.  but like all things, especially good things, we quickly found ourselves at the end of our time in colorado.  we didn’t place in the world finals, but i think that was the last thing on all of our minds.  we were all focused on the fact that we had to return to the real world — to parents and homework and siblings and chores and school.  and it was with very heavy hearts that we all boarded the plane back to maryland.

i look back on that time and it’s hard for me to believe that it was twenty years ago.  twenty years ago.  those were magic days.  i still remember the colour of our dorm room bedspreads, and the smell in the elevators to the vending machines, and the songs we sang along to on the radio — like it was yesterday.  truth be told, i hope those days of freedom, twenty years ago, will always feel like yesterday.

colorado, i can’t wait to say hello, again.