Existential Hobos

When I was in my second year of university, I took a course on Existentialism, during which I wrote one of my all-time favorite essays, based on a piece by Jose Ortega y Gasset.

Ortega's essay was called, Man Has No Nature, and his argument was partly this:

Man is what has happened to him, what he has done...
this constitutes a relentless trajectory of experiences
that he carries on his back as the vagabond his bundle
of all he possesses.

My essay was called, "Existential Hobos: Why the Past Sticks With You," and the thesis was that man is born without a project of existence and has to create his life from the ground up. The constant nature of the past, which builds continually, contrasts with the fluidity of the future, which can go in any direction. It is also somewhat comforting, because if we have no predestination, we cannot fail, no matter what we choose as our path.

We are all little hobos, picking things up as we wander through life. It doesn't have to be a material object, either. We are collectors: of behavior, turns of phrase, ideas, habits, quirks.

The things I've assimilated over the years are starting to add up, and (hopefully) they make me a more interesting person. I think mostly about the habits that I've absorbed from past relationships: an ex-boyfriend who drank from recycled glass jars, one who worshiped Metallica, one who wore mismatched shoes, another who liked to run. A roommate from my last year in university used to say that you take one thing from each relationship forward with you.

Likewise, there are habits and quirks from past relationships that will repulse you for years to come: lazy turns of phrase, bad hygiene, lame jokes, evangelical tendencies. I suffer from those too, and have no doubt inflicted my own habits on others. But the majority of relationships have at least one redeeming, and enduring, quality.

I still like to drink from a glass jar now and then (who has time to buy real glasses, anyway?) and lately I've been eager to lace up my running shoes and head out with the puppy. It's a way of reconnecting with the past, for whatever that's worth -- the good, the bad, and the memories.

The essay also considered a vast frustration with the responsibility of creating our own destiny. We take the past with us, but no matter how many or which choices we make, we're never done choosing. And the little hobo's bundle of goods keeps growing.

Coloring Inside the Lines

There's a scene in "The Story of Us" where Michelle Pfeiffer's character is talking about her love for a children's book called Harold and the Purple Crayon. If you haven't read it, you should. But here's the skinny:


A little boy named Harold has trouble sleeping, and to entertain himself, takes his magic purple crayon and draws the world exactly as he'd like it to be. Eventually, he draws his way back to his bedroom and falls asleep, content with the world.


This is pretty utopian, I know, but it's not a bad way to consider your way of being in the world. Think about it: if you can manifest the things that you want in your life, the way you want your personal world, your sphere, to be, you can create the contentment you seek. That's what I'm going for, even if it doesn't always work out that way.


Lately, I've been thinking about Harold and his magic purple crayon. In the same way that you can draw your world around you, you can also draw yourself into a box that separates you from everything that should be the most important. The crayon, then, is a blessing as well as a curse. Crayon drawings are hard to erase in reality, but in Harold's world, if you drew the wrong thing, you could fix it. In life, that's not true.


What is true, in Harold's world and the one we all inhabit, is that you can't draw something for someone else. No matter how much you want to, no matter how much better you think you could do it. We're all in charge of our own crayon.

Happiness is a Warm Puppy

I think that sometimes having a dog is a very selfish thing. Unlike cats, dogs thrive on your love and attention. They need it. You have to be available to a dog in a way that you don't with a cat. And so, even when you don't feel like you deserve that kind of adoration yourself, the kind of worship a dog offers, you've got it. Which can be a good thing in dark moments.


Parker has spent the past week or so obeying commands (this is a true feat) and sleeping curled on the bed next to me. He follows me around the apartment, all 20 feet of it, and watches me from the futon in the kitchen while I work all day. It's almost as if he knows I'm sick with a cold, and have trouble sleeping, and feel overwhelmed by life. The selfish part is that he's getting me through it with walks and playtime at the dog park, instead of a bottle of wine and a vat of ice cream.


Although he did kind of look like he was judging me while I ate frosting with a spoon this afternoon.... must have been my imagination.

Seasons Turn, Turn, Turn

The other morning I woke up and realized it was September. I've been living in Colorado longer than I lived in Toronto. My life is virtually unrecognizable from the wintry day I drove away from Marchmount Road. The leaves here will turn soon, they tell me, and by late September it should be snowing in the "high country." I picked up my ski pass on Monday in Aspen, from a young woman who moved here from a small town outside Ottawa. I felt excited and Canada-sick at the same time. Life is rolling along.

It's been a very exciting summer, though. The weather was more beautiful than I dared to imagine. I went on my first solo vacation, dubbed "the vision quest." Apparently my vision was a bit blurry as I adopted Parker soon after my return from Moab. Puppy has been a handful but a great focus for personal growth. I like to think we bring out the best in each other.

This summer, I've learned a lot. How to deal with a broken down vehicle (and the 'helpful' men who come along afterward). How to hike and camp outdoors and climb a mountain, and dance like a marmot under the full moon. I taught Parker to heel. I've figured out how to say what's on my mind and get what I need, most of the time. I figured out how to balance my checkbook, for goodness' sake, which is a feat that probably should not have taken 25 years.

I feel at home here and comfortable and safe. Carbondale is my town, and I hate to be away from it, even for something as exciting as the Democratic National Convention. Which, by the way, was unbelievable. In a good, interesting, I-saw-Anderson-Cooper-up-close kind of way.

Carbondale has changed too, in the months since I rolled down Main Street for the first time. We've got four-way stops at almost all the intersections, for one thing. I knew I'd adapted when my reaction to this was, "Whoa! That's a big deal!" They've been putting in little traffic-calming islands, and burying power lines underground to make the street prettier. I noticed the other week that in the morning town workers sometimes sweep the cigarette butts off the sidewalks, which explains why they're always so clean. When Parker and I go for our first walk of the day, we greet our regular pals, including the King of Main Street, T. Ray Becker, who affectionately (or gruffly, as a cowboy might) refers to Parker as "his" dog. The health inspector came to the Black Nugget and now Parker and his dog friends aren't allowed to go inside -- which he still doesn't understand when we walk by. He thinks he did something really wrong, I guess, to get banned. Ryan, the owner, had a baby last weekend and the whole town seemed to know about it, sharing the details excitedly with any familiar face.

"Peyton Marin O'Hara! 7 pounds! Marnie had her at 1:30 this morning! Ryan's on his way back from Glenwood with pictures!"

It seemed like Carbondale hosted a festival or event every weekend this summer: 5 Point Film Festival, Mountain Fair, Festival de las Americas, a fundraiser for the Carbondale Center for Arts and Humanities, First Friday concerts, Sundays in the Park, and finally, last weekend, Carbondale Citizen Appreciation Day. They blocked off Main Street so the local police could serve bbq pork and corn on the cob, and soda, free of charge. A stage provided live music, there was dancing, and after dark the fire dancers lit up the street.

It was the town's way of saying, "Thanks for living here."

Well, Carbondale, thanks for having me.

Beauty and Truth

There are moments in your life when you look around and realize how good you have it. At least, there have been in mine. And they've been more and more frequent since my Colorado adventure began.

The catalysts vary – a gorgeous view, a look from someone I love deeply, a wet dog nose nuzzled into my neck in the morning, singing in the car, or breathing hard on a hike.

The last eight months have been full of transitions and lessons and struggle. I’ve hurt, been hurt and healed. I hope I’ve grown.

I can say how I feel. I can say no, thank you, and I don’t have to do what everyone else does for fear of what they will think. I know where my limits and boundaries are. If I like to do something, I will, and if it really isn’t my bag, I won’t. I know that someone who really loves me will also love whatever body I’m in. When I’m angry, I’ll tell you, and damn it, if I want to yell about something, I’ll do that too.

Last night I was moved by honest words -- the type that come from a place of reflection and make the world a better place for being spoken. Our last few weeks have been a discovery process where I felt buffeted by waves of revelation that I wasn’t sure I could handle. But I’m a different person now than I was a year ago, and everything else has changed as well.

Someone loves and respects me like no other before, and my life is infinitely richer because of him.

Life With Parker

It’s been three weeks since I became Parker’s new mom, and I have to say the little guy has made some big changes in my life in such a short period of time.

Parker is settling into Carbondale nicely – he has adapted well to an active social life and has a favorite local pub that gives out dog treats. He likes to play with other dogs at the park, where we go several times a day for long walks.

He even enjoys camping, which we’ve done a few times at Brandon and Janelle’s new place in West Glenwood. See “Who’s the Boss” for more on how much Parker loves wide open spaces.

My days now start with a wet nose and a walk through downtown Carbondale, wearing a hat of some kind to prevent widespread terror at my bed head hair. We usually stop by the coffee shop before the walk. Parker stays tethered outside, looking in longingly and eventually barking his disapproval if the operation takes too long.

Because I’m working at home, the pup and I spend oodles of quality time. If I have an interview, he comes along and stays either outside or in the car while I work. Tethering him outside has proved problematic, as he tends to bark until my return. Who knew a creature could like you enough to get anxious until you come back?

Parker has had several adventures in his short time chez moi. The first was getting his nails trimmed at the vet. The vet, whom we see all the time out and about, has an office directly across the alley from my apartment. It’s a sweet little clinic with a big scale and lots of great things to sniff if you’re a dog. Parker liked it a lot until he realized he had to get up on a shiny steel table. Dr. Ben put the “party hat” on – (a cloth cover for his nose) and when it was all over Parker couldn’t wait to get the heck out of there!

But when his eyes got red and he started pawing at them, I made an appointment to go back again. Diagnosis: conjunctivitis. Treatment: hold your dog down while he squirms wildly and put a thin line of antibiotic in his eyes three times a day. Wow. Should be gone in a week, though.

Aside from the vet, Parker’s other adventures have revolved around outside freedom. At the park two weekends ago, we thought it might be okay for him to go off-leash. This would be the park backing on to cow pasture. For a while, Parker was playful and stayed close by. But then a huge bovine caught his attention and he was off like a shot – jumping the creek and running right up to the herd of large black beasts.

If you’re thinking, “that sounds awfully cute, what’s wrong with chasing cows?” – think again. In Colorado, ranchers have the right to shoot any animal that is “worrying cattle.” Or any animal unlawfully on their property. So you can imagine my panic at Parker’s staunch refusal to return to the safe side of the fence. I haven’t let him off leash there again.

But Parker’s best and most unbelievable adventure thus far has to be what shall henceforth be known as “The Great Escape.” It goes something like this:

Parker and I have a normal day, interspersed with several walks and a bike/run (he runs while I bike) in the late afternoon. He seems tuckered out and crashes on his bed while I finish my work. Soon it’s 5 o’clock and time to go to my Spanish class, where I have a quiz. I decide to leave Parker at home and leave house keys at the Nugget so Jeff can check in on him later. I tell the dog I’ll be back soon and head to class, leaving a message for Jeff on the way.

After the quiz (which went well, by the way), I check my phone and see that I’ve missed several calls. Odd, but I step out of the classroom to listen to the voicemail.

“Hi Tory, it’s Ben (this would be Dr. Ben, the aforementioned vet) over at the Nugget. Parker just ran over here, he just ran across the street. I think someone’s trying to call Jeff… But he’s here, and I guess you’re in class right now, but give me a call when you get this.”

I now understand the chill of fear these calls invoke for mothers, whether they be moms to dogs or children. I feel helpless and terrified. It takes me less than 45 seconds to run back into the classroom, grab my books, and bolt for the street.

The other voicemail is from Jeff –

“Hi, I’m sorry to tell you this over the phone, apparently Parker is at the Nugget… he busted out the screen in the front window. He ate Gabe’s chips, and it looks like he tore up a scarf in your bedroom.”

At this point I am running in flip flops, carrying a notebook and textbook, wearing a dress. As I walk into the Nugget, Parker’s head peeks around the corner in the pool room, where a kind soul has hooked him to a radiator by his leash. He sees me and looks overjoyed, if that’s possible for a dog. As if he’s saying, “Hi mom, look what I did!” Or, as Jeff put it, “You left him alone, so he decided to come find me.”

Our friend Adam dryly observed - "He's a little Houdini! He busted out the screen, man!"

It’s not so much that Parker ate a whole bag of jalapeno cheddar chips, or that he demolished my bath pouf (not a scarf, as originally thought). I just can’t handle the idea of the fearless car chaser bolting two blocks on his own. So I guess puppy is getting a crate.

But in the meantime, a moment of appreciation for living in a town where your dog gets loose, but heads straight for the local bar where your friends hang out. And when he gets there, one friend will take off his belt to make a leash, and another will give you a call to let you know he’s alright.

Who's the Boss?

Yesterday was the big day -- after spending the morning filling in as host at the station, I hustled down valley to eat, shower, and adopt.

Parker and I met on Memorial Day weekend, when Janelle, Brandon, Jeff and I went to visit the animal shelter. We took Parker (under his alias, Dennis) for a walk, and I fell hard. The next day, I went back for another walk and dropped off an application to bring him home.

Let's do the basic Parker info: the shelter says he's a mix of Boxer and Hound, he's between 6 and 9 months old (they estimate 8), and weighs in at about 40 pounds... for now. He will probably gain another 30 pounds before he's fully grown. Based on my dog history, which includes a number of chubsters, Parker is a bag of bones. Or, as a friend put it yesterday, "he's got a little Santa's Little Helper look going on."

After days of anxious waiting, the shelter approved me as a new owner and I agreed to pick him up on Saturday. In the meantime, I thought, I would prepare my apartment, get some dog toys and a collar and leash. None of this actually got done. Nor did my laundry, but that's another story.

So after breakfast with the boys, Jeff and I stopped at the Coop to pick up a leash and collar. And I couldn't resist buying him a little fleece "baby" squeak toy (although the squeak leaves something to be desired. Like noise.) Back into the Silver Bullet and off to the pound.

By the time we creaked our way up the mountain to the Colorado Animal Rescue shelter I was vibrating with a mix of nerves and excitement. Last time I got a shelter pet, my mom was signing all the paperwork. Now it's my responsibility, which is a big deal. And a little scary!

The process took about half an hour, but soon I was walking (or being dragged!) out the door with Parker on the other end of the leash. When I opened the car door, Parker hopped in like he was an old pro, and settled himself comfortably on my lap. Next stop? Petco, of course!

Parker got coos and pats from almost everyone we saw. And he proved an affable dude, making friends with everyone from a tiny schnauzer named Harry to a gigantic pitbull, name unknown. When you adopt a dog, Petco gives you a little book of coupons for things like toys, food, leashes and treats. Parker picked out a tug-a-rope, and I picked out some mini dog biscuits for training and a blue bone-shaped name tag. Jeff and Parker then spent some quality time while I hit up Target for a dog bed and a giant lint roller.

By the time we got home to Carbondale with all the goods, Jeff and I were both ready for a nap. He got one. I didn't. Parker liked the apartment, but he was really interested in checking out the town. So after Jeff went home, out we went, heading for the Rio Grande Trail. This is where I discovered that Parker likes cyclists and motorcycles, but fears roller blades. And he's a chaser. Or he would be, if he wasn't firmly attached to a human wrist. More on that later.

After our outing, Parker decided that he would lay down for a rest. On my bed. Only once the bedroom door was shut did he resign himself to the blue dog bed. Which should be too small for him in about a week. Apparently large is not a good definition of my dog. So Parker had a siesta while I caught up on e-mail and tried to reach the family for a webcam. Which eventually happened but I can't remember what was said because Mom and Giva were laughing too hard at my attempts to maintain order.

Next up was Parker's first BBQ. Grilling out is the new obsession for the Carbie crew, and Brandon and Janelle just moved to a new place in paradise. It's in West Glenwood on a beautiful estate with a rushing creek, lots of grass, and even some wild turkeys. Parker really enjoyed the space. I enjoyed him enjoying it, until he skipped out under the fence and headed for the river. I ran after him, hopped the fence, and found him standing on a rock inches from the roaring water. However, I did discover that hollering "Parker, COME!" will draw the desired response. No more fence jumping for puppy.

Instead, he decided to chase Brandon's truck down the road. Off I ran again, and imagine the horror when a motorcyclist (seriously, what are the chances on a random backroad?) gunned his engine and Parker took off running. I hopped in the cab with Brandon and we chased him down. Apparently, he's good off leash as long as there is no chance of someone driving away. Obedience school should have something for that...

Aside from the car chasing adventure, the dog is great. I can even get him to respond to the command "sit." And he really seems to like the radio station, where we're hanging out this morning. Which is a good thing, because radio is going to be a pretty big part of Parker's life. Hope he likes public broadcasting.

Big News in a Wiggly Package

I am adopting a dog! I pick him up on Saturday. He's 8 months old and a bundle of energy. I'm naming him Parker. Wish me luck!

Adventures in Auto Repair

I knew something was up a few days before it happened – the Silver Bullet had been making strange noises and shuddering a little bit at stop lights. And I was paranoid because I had just given the car a good report to Mom and Dad. But I still wasn’t prepared for the shrieking sound I heard as I turned off the highway at Thunder River Market.

I am supposed to be on my way to the Colorado Mountain College for a Latino Youth Summit. When I hear the shrieking, above the sound of my tiny speaker system, I make a pit stop at the gas station to pick up some radiator coolant.

When I get out of the car, I see clouds of white steam billowing out from under the hood – accompanied by a hot smell that seems like it can’t possibly be a good thing.

I go inside and ask the cashier where the antifreeze is. As I pay for it, he looks out at my car and says, “Ma’am, you need to let that cool down before you put this in, you know. It’s overheating and it’s leaking all over the place.” Then he proceeds to describe in graphic detail what will happen if I try to remove the radiator cap while the car is warm. His advice – pop the hood and wait a while.

But it turns out that popping the hood -- something I learned to do on my cross-country drive (see All Signs Point West) -- is like sending up a flare, drawing crowds of men who want to root around under the hood of your car and consult each other (not you) about what could possibly be wrong with the vehicle.

They flock to the Thunderbird, one after another.

“Is this your car, ma’am?” In several cases this opening statement is even accompanied by a tip of the cap.

“Yes, it is.”

“Are you all right? Do you have someone you can call?”

“Yes, thank you, I'm fine, I’ve called AAA and they’re sending a tow truck.”

“ Let me just have a look here…” Man proceeds to stick hands under hood, leans down to put ear close to radiator to determine where the leak is originating…

I’m happy to report that by the time the tow truck arrives, all but one of the passersby has diagnosed the problem as a lower radiator hose. And the cashier has come out, waved me away from the car, and poured in the coolant for me. The tow truck driver works his magic, clears his passenger seat, and off we go to the local AAA-certified shop in Glenwood Springs.

At the shop, the diagnosis is confirmed – a blown radiator hose. So I leave the car, which the mechanics dub the Thunderchicken, and head down the street for some companionship and a trip to the bank.

When I return an hour and a half later, the car is idling out front. The mechanics tell me they need to take it for a test drive to determine the engine temperature. No one is pleased when I explain that the temperature gauge in the car has not worked since I’ve had it, and that the other gauges are similarly quirky. Out they go, as the customer service guy tries to tell me that he’ll charge me 146 percent of his original estimate. He tells me that he attempted to contact me but couldn’t reach me – which is baloney, since I point out to him that my cell phone never rang.

I become paranoid that he may be doing this because I’m a girl, which is probably not true, but still makes me angry. During my adventure, I have learned that a AAA certified shop is required to charge within 10 percent of the original written estimate. So I bring this up, then fold my arms and make a very stern face. I stare him down until he reluctantly revises the bill. I am very proud of myself.

By the time the Thunderchicken is returned to the shop, the deal is done. I climb behind the wheel, move the seat back up, and drive off for Carbondale. When retelling the story later, I will be chided for not calling the gents, all of whom have mechanical expertise, it seems. The lesson of the day seems to be, learn to change your own hoses. And it’s a good reminder of how quickly life can change – from TTC and high heeled boots to hiking shoes and do-it-yourself car maintenance.

Hangin' With Hank

Since my last writing, I’ve fallen in love. His name is Hank and he recently turned one. He has soft blonde hair and huge eyes, and a smile that melts your heart.

I’ve been baby-crushing on Hank since I met his parents, Jeremy and Melissa, at a fundraising dinner early in my Carbondale days. Hank tried to eat my microphone. I think he likes radio.

As far as babies go, Hank is pretty awesome. He’s almost always laughing, sticking out his tongue and opening his eyes really wide. A very happy child. Melissa tells me he screamed for the first few weeks of his life, so maybe he got it all out.

Jeremy and Melissa are awesome too - they live just at the end of my street. Jeremy works at the Colorado Rocky Mountain School, which is a local alternative high school. Melissa works at the library and is taking some classes. Last Sunday, the four of us went out for brunch at Ella on Main Street. Hank entertained us, and the staff, in his adorable khaki cargos and nylon vest. And I offered to hang with Hank Monday night for an hour while Jeremy went to a meeting and Melissa was still at work.

By the time I got to their house, I had been through five hours of public hearing at the Garfield County Commissioners’ meeting. (See previous posts, re: commissioners who wear cowboy boots and rodeo belt buckles) After tense talk about oil development, I was ready for some kid time. Hank greeted me with a big grin. Jeremy and I chatted for a while and Hank amused himself by petting the cat, Scrabble, and laughing. I felt better already.

Just before Jeremy left for his meeting, he deposited Hank in the toy box to "toy surf." He said he’d never done that before. But Hank loved it. He flailed around a little bit, then arranged himself in a seated positionwith a variety of toys around him. And proceeded to stay there for 50 minutes. I tried to cajole him to come back and play on the carpet or the play mat. Nope. I’m fine here with my talking Backyardigans guitar and my stuffed giraffe, thanks. Oh, is that my toy cell phone ringing? I’m sorry, I should really take this call.

It should be stated that the toy box is huge - about the size of an old-school steamer chest, but made of kid-friendly plastic by Playskool or a similar outfit. And Hank stayed in of his own free will. It was pretty excellent.

And a good reminder that sometimes the simplest things can make you the happiest. After an hour with Hank, I felt better by leaps and bounds. Maybe Jeremy and Melissa will let me take him to the park next time. I bet he’ll like the swings as much as I do.

Rastlin', Raisin' and Rudin

Somehow March has crept up on me, with its warm winds and deceptive sunshine.

Carbondale is a warm and often muddy place these days, and the remainder of the snow that covered the parks and playgrounds is melting fast.

One of the best discoveries I’ve made in the last week and a half is where the local swing sets are. There is one at the brand-new elementary school, but the trouble is you risk looking very creepy if you head over during school hours. Yesterday I found a better spot - the swing set at Sopris Park, in the middle of town. It’s still a child-sized swing set, but it’s better than nothing. When you swing up, you can look at the peaks of Mount Sopris and the mountains that surround it. The view is unbeatable (apologies to the CN Tower). It is a very peaceful way to pass the time, listening to my indie rock and moving rhythmically back and forth in the air. I may have a swinging addiction, actually.

Another exciting event from this past week has been the women’s arm wrestling championship. Yes, that’s right. The local community radio station (not to be confused with KAJX, where I work) is having their spring pledge drive and they hosted an arm wrestling competition as part of it. It was held at Phat Thai, my very favorite place to have a dance party -- although that isn’t such an honor when you consider the dearth of dance party places in Carbondale. But I do love it.

Marci came down on Saturday night for the festivities. We arrived at the bar and teamed up with Phil, the reporter for the Glenwood paper, and Stevie Z from KDNK, the aforementioned community radio station. The next step was to register for the action, and a helpful man wearing silly glasses and gold chains assisted us in choosing our stage names: Hav Marci! and Victory is Assured. As more and more women poured in to add their names to the list, I was shocked - I never see this many women on the street. Where did they come from? Had they been training for this? Would we survive?

Following close behind the crowds of women were crowds of men, who seemed elated at the chance to watch the gals battle it out. Soon the small dance floor area was shoulder to shoulder. Helpers brought out a special arm wrestling table, about bar height with pads for the elbows and a grip for the inactive arm. They put this on top of a foot-tall riser, then set up a video camera to pipe all the action to the HD televisions behind the bar. This was a highly sophisticated operation!

It wasn’t long before the noise precluded conversation, and Marci and I exchanged nervous glances as we waited for the announcers to call us to the “ring.”

I got to go first, since my name was on the top of the registration list. As I squeezed through the wall of people between us and the table, cheers roared through the crowd. I don’t think this was a personal endorsement, just a collective release. I raised my arms above my head, drawing more cheers. The excitement was intoxicating (although that may have been the Mexican beer). I did a muscle pose and made a tough face. (If you are laughing out loud at that image, just remember a) that is an appropriate reaction and b) I live in the Wild West now!) More cheers. My opponent stepped up to the same reaction - and I worried a bit at her wiry arms. They looked strong.

Our referee, Mr. Vail, wore a black and white pinstriped shirt and a small white bow tie. He positioned our arms and ran the rules quickly before declaring the match begun. I locked eyes with the opponent and felt the resistance of the wiry arms against my own. The chalk I had dipped my hand into made a small cloud of dust that hazed the air between our faces. I held on, thinking that if I could just maintain the strength to keep her arm center, she would eventually give out. The crowd was cheering wildly, and I could see Marci out of the corner of my eye. I felt it would never end. And then, suddenly, I felt her arm go a little slack. I gripped harder and pushed her to the mat, a battle of wills, won. My win was declared and again I raised my arms, hopping off the riser into the crowd and weaving back to my posse.

I describe that in such detail because it is the only fight I won. In the second round I was crushed by a woman nicknamed the Hammer. It was painful and quick. But I’m already thinking I’ll train for next year!

The rest of arm wrestling night was similarly ridiculous. Phil had to drive back to Glenwood Springs, so he missed the dance party that ensued after the arm wrestling champ was crowned. Marci and I cut a rug with Stevie Z. When Steve took his tired self home to bed (poor pledge drive exhaustion!) we continued the dance party. I danced with people I had never met, I danced with people I had seen before, I made ridiculous conversation with familiar faces. And then, around 2 a.m. we wandered home. I count the night a smashing success, if for no other reason than I met my stated goal of uniting under-30 media types for a few hours.

The remainder of my weekend (Sunday) was spent recovering from the debauchery. I don’t know if it’s the altitude or if I’m getting old, but the festivities hit me hard! Good thing I had no big plans for the day.

What else did I discover this week... well, Saturday afternoon I went to the grocery store. I know this doesn’t seem very exciting, and to be honest it wasn’t. But for some reason I saw most of the people I’ve met in this town while walking to and from the store with my reusable grocery bags. I got waves from car windows, honks, and hellos. Either I knew them or I had something stuck to my butt. I hope it was the former.

Monday marked the beginning of the pledge drive at the station. Having come from the luxurious comfort of CBC life, a pledge drive was pretty much a foreign concept to me. Ask for money for public radio? Are you serious? In any case, it has turned out to be a blast. Well, except for the super-long days preparing long-form stories for our in-depth (no pun intended) water series. But Tuesday morning was my big on-air debut. I joined our executive director and program director at 7 a.m. for two hours of silliness. Andrew and Steve (exec and program directors, respectively) are hilarious, and at this point they had been pitching for four days. The first half hour was nerve wracking, but the ice was broken when Steve congratulated me on my "first trimester in the valley.” Of course, he meant that I had been here less than three months. We all dissolved into giggles moments later when we went off the air, and I couldn’t help but think, when would this ever happen on CBC? Ever? Andrew also interviewed me on my favorite stories in the valley so far, and I got to talk about all of the communities I’ve visited in my six short weeks as a local. I pulled eloquent prose out of my hat, talking about public radio as a place for local voices, and the importance of giving voice to all the communities of the huge geographical area that surrounds Aspen proper. I also got to wax poetic about Carbondale, which I referred to as “my ‘hood” - that’s right, I’m so badass. Again, when would this informality reign on CBC? The coolest part of the whole deal was calling someone later that same day for an interview, and he knew who I was because.... he HEARD me on the radio that morning! It was such a crazy feeling. Later I stopped in at the Lift and introduced myself to thank them personally for their donation to the pledge drive, and one of the guys behind the counter looked positively starstruck. I was like, dude, this is public radio we’re talking about, I cover town meetings and oil shale. But no matter. I’m making my mark. My next on-air action is tomorrow afternoon, for the 4 to 6 All Things Considered slot. Should be interesting!

Continuing on the amazing pledge drive week, Andrew and the gang have brought NPR political editor Ken Rudin to town for a talk (tonight, actually) at the Hotel Jerome. The news team got the best deal, though - Andrew took Mitzi, Marci, and me out for dinner with Ken last night. We went to Aspen’s oldest restaurant, The Steak Pit. Despite this quaint name, the restaurant is not exactly informal. I was glad I’d put on mascara and worn a nice sweater with my jeans and snow boots, let’s put it that way.

Ken Rudin is amazing. He’s like the funniest version of any relative you’ve got. He is instantly endearing, humble and sharp. His wit is quick and he can quote any line from When Harry Met Sally (which makes him my new NPR crush - sorry Loren Jenkins). As I mentioned, Ken is the political editor for NPR, which means he assigns and produces the reports of the political team. He also writes a column and appears on various NPR shows, does a political podcast, and takes part in panels on CNN and other networks. Amazing. He gave us the short version of how he came to be the Big Kahuna of politics at NPR, and it’s like something you read in a book - he was working in a law firm as an office manager, writing his own quarterly political newsletter. He left his house one day and saw a news type at a bus stop, and talked his way into a research position (which he was overqualified for but took anyway for the chance to get in the door). That research position lead to covering the ‘84 election, and he kept bumping up to bigger and better things until he got where he is today.

The other thing about Ken that was neat to talk about is his collection of campaign buttons - he has more than 70 thousand! And no, he doesn’t have them on display at all times. I asked. He keeps most of them in bookcases organized by year, campaign, state, etc. A man after my own compulsively organized heart.

So I’d love to tell you more about Ken, but I’ve got some swings to visit and then I’m heading up to Aspen, to see if I can finagle more air time and then stop in at the fancy gym before I go to the talk tonight. It’s a rough life, but somebody’s got to live it!

Crazy little Carbondale

If all of the people who worship Ralph Nader moved to a single town, it would probably be Carbondale. I feel out of place because I don't rock any political bumper stickers on the T-bird.

Favorite bumper sticker so far: Born right the first time.

In any case, Carbondale is a little town with a historic main street and surrounding little streets with mostly single-family homes. The population is somewhere between 5,500 and 6,000 people. From the door of my apartment, it takes about three minutes to walk to Town Hall, or the library, or the food co-op, or... pretty much anything. Moving to Colorado has been quite an adjustment, not just because of the scenery -- and oh, how I miss the ocean -- but the idea of living in a small town again.

And make no mistake, Carbondale is a very small town. Much like Seal Harbour, there’s an excellent chance that even if you don’t know who someone is, they know exactly who you are and are keeping a close eye on you. If that is true: here is what they're seeing:

The day usually begins with a jaunt to the coffee shop. Since I'm working from home, I've decided to forgo buying a coffee maker. Otherwise I might leave the house only for interviews. Plus, because all of the local papers are free, I have to walk to pick them up at the corner anyway. And the coffee shop guys are hilarious. First, let's set the scene.

The place is called The Lift, and it is sandwiched between the one-screen movie theater ($7 a show) and the Moonbeam Candle Company/Sherpa Imports. It's a long narrow room - probably 60 or 70 feet front to back. The walls are a warm dark color, and the floor is wood. In the back, there are tables, chairs, couches, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on one side. The ceiling and floor are narrow-panel hardwood, the latter worn to a deep shine.

There are three regular coffee dudes during the week, and a gaggle of coffee gals on the weekend. The dudes are the most fun. One is perpetually hollering, even while taking your order. A young looking blonde with curly hair says "swell" is his favorite word, and if you go for coffee in the afternoon, he is playing chess with the hollering guy. The third is a short and swarthy fellow, with a backwards ball cap and Massachusetts attitude. He talks up all the regular girls and stalks about, clearing tables.

I spend a lot of time here, on weekends especially and mornings when I have the luxury of time to read the paper and people-watch.

In the mornings while I drink my coffee and review the headlines, well-dressed women and men in pressed khakis stream into the shop. The men furrow their brows and stare at computer screens, then pick up their blackberries or iPhones to make Very Important Calls. There are young moms with adorable children who must be on vacation, wearing puffy jackets and chatting with their companions. And once in a while there are people my age, studying books or typing away at their computers as they wake up. There is also a curious character who wears a jaunty cap with curls of silver hair escaping and glasses with thick lenses and a small magnifying attachment on the right side. He carries a backpack into which is stuffed a worn green kneeling pad, such as one might use while gardening. He orders espresso.

If it weren’t for the Range Rovers and Audis parked along Main Street, this might be a scene right out of a Western. Many of the men wear cowboy boots, and at the restaurants they proffer their ten-gallon hats to the coat check person for safekeeping as they head in for dinner. A local pub has antlers mounted everywhere, in addition to vintage ads for beer and coca-cola, and black and white photos from the local rodeo. The prized possession of the pub seems to be the jukebox, which plays a mix of classic oldies (Steve Miller Band, the Beatles, Crosby Stills & Nash) and rousing country anthems (Nitty Gritty Dirt Band!). I fully expect to see tumbleweeds this summer.

My small apartment is in a prime location, just behind Main Street in an alley. My neighbors are a cute couple and several Latino guys who always seem very shy when I say hello. My landlords are Julieta and her husband, Ricardo, who have recently moved back to the U.S. after living in Venezuela. They are very sweet and lovely people.

The apartment itself is great for one person, with a miniature stove and oven, huge fridge, and limited counter space. There are open shelves for plates, dry goods, and cookbooks.

The front room is big enough for my desk (which finally arrived in its protective crate Thursday) and a small kitchen table set given to me by a popular romance novelist on the board of the radio station. There is a large front window that lets in light during the day and gives me a distraction when I can’t concentrate on a script.

A hallway runs from the kitchen to the bedroom, with a door off the to the bathroom on the right. The bedroom is larger than the kitchen and has plenty of storage - two closets! The former tenants also left me a double bed, and Mike and Margaret donated several lamps and a large coffee table to the cause as well. It’s starting to feel quite homey, actually.

One of the (only) great things about living alone is that it forces you to meet people. And Carbondale is a very friendly place. Several times I’ve gone out to eat alone, with a book, and met someone by the end of the meal. One night I went for a drink and ended up at a dance party. I met my new hairdresser over an import at the local young-folks watering hole. And I may have acquired a second job teaching spin classes after a coincidental meeting with the town’s coordinator of fitness and recreation at the new community center.

Work in the valley is similarly small - I see the same reporters several times a week, and most of them are my age. What am I saying, most. I’ve really got two media-pals. There’s Steve, who works for the Carbondale community radio station, KDNK, and Phil, who writes for the Glenwood Springs Post Independent. I see bylines from others, but I have yet to meet them.

The stories are small-town style: which new housing development will get approval to build, and how many affordable units will be included; how to solve the local traffic problem; whether dogs will still be allowed to run free at the nature park. But the characters are delightful! If I could photograph them all, I would. And the personalities alone beg to be recorded for posterity. For example:

The commissioner of Garfield County is John “Wyatt” Martin, a man who presides over his meetings wearing a bandanna around his neck, tucked into his open-neck chambray button-down, tucked into his large leather belt, securing his worn Levi’s jeans, which fall over his well-worn caramel cowboy boots. During long discussions, he leans back in his chair like a man who hates to sit, and strokes his long grey beard with one hand -- his long grey hair is secured at the nape of his neck in a full ponytail. His drawl is captivating, and his manner is not exactly curt, but definitely laconic.

Or take the sheriff of Pitkin County: Bob Braudis. Sheriff Bob is a giant of a man, with a stern look and a soft heart. He has recently co-written a book, and is taking vacation days for a book tour around the state. His office is in the basement of the Pitkin County courthouse in Aspen. Sheriff Bob wears jeans and button-down shirts, and his dress uniform hangs on the stone wall of his office, along with photos of his family and degrees from various institutions. Bob has been sheriff for 21 years, and worked as undersherriff for 10 years before that. He has no qualms peppering his speech with four-letter adjectives, and he calls it like he sees it. In years past, he took heat for refusing to go after small-time drug users, and for his close friendship with Hunter S. Thompson. He makes no apologies for either, which makes him even more adorable. Sheriff Bob is proud to proclaim, "This is still the Wild West!"

Most days, I feel a bit like a stranger in a strange land. Things are different here - from the highly articulate “streeters” you get with little hassle, to the ease of scheduling interviews on even controversial subjects. There is an awareness that small communities have to cooperate and live together somehow, and work past the divisive issues. People are kind to each other, and to newcomers. And while those things are familiar from years spent in Guysborough County, it’s a long way from the Big City. I find myself missing the anonymity of Toronto’s streets, the pubs and restaurants where no one knows you and your life is one more mark on a constantly shifting landscape.

A little bit of Toronto came to me, of course, when Mihira visited last weekend. More on that adventure, to come. For now, I’ll get back to my coffee and newspaper, before I head back to the apartment for lunch. It’s a snowy afternoon, and the flat light wouldn’t be much good for skiing. But it is Saturday, and everyone wants to be outside, including me!

Suddenly Snowbound

My hosts, Mike and Margaret, tell me that part of the trouble with weather reports here is that forecasters can't really predict how fast a storm will move in. The thin air, the mountains, and other forces beyond the control of meteorologists make the predictions slightly better than a crapshoot.

Side note: What is a crapshoot? If you can tell me, you could win a postcard from Aspen....

Anyway, back to my story. This is what M & M told me Saturday morning, when the weather predicted two feet of snow by Sunday afternoon. Margaret also says she has done the math, and more than 14 feet - FEET - of snow has fallen since December. Of course, some has melted and then more has come. But that's a lot of snow in any case. The snow we heard about on Saturday didn't come until Sunday night, and then only in light fluffy flakes that dusted the cars in the front yard.

So when I left for my first day of work this morning, I was pretty confident that the "storm," such as it was, had passed. I headed to Carbondale to check out an apartment, which is a one-bedroom just off the main street. It was not unreasonable to worry that the woman I was meeting might be otherwise engaged... in labor. Her due date was today! Luckily, the baby was eager for her mom to find a subletter. The place is so pretty - a warm yellowy kitchen/living area, with a cute little stove and a huge fridge, and then a short hall to the bedroom with two large closets and between front and back rooms, a spacious and pretty bathroom. All in all, a sweet spot. The bedroom is a pretty blue-green. Yes, I am a sucker for a nice paint job. And I was so relieved to see how awesome it was, and that Meg (the mom-to-be) wanted to rent it to me, that I hugged her. I hope that did not cause her pain, but it was a pretty big hug. I left my number for Julietta the landlady to call, and set off for Aspen.

The drive to the station revealed two things: the brakes on the T-bird are a bit weird, although they do work, and the road was increasingly icy as I approached Aspen. But I made it in about an hour (thirty to forty minutes is the average, I'm told) and settled in by filling out paperwork and rearranging my desk. My story for the day was about an airport runway extension, so I headed out to the airport in the mid-afternoon. Roads didn't seem too bad, although they were nothing to celebrate either. Back to the station I went. Then I waited a long time for a callback which never came. By the time I vetted and voiced my scripts, the snow had started in earnest. The early morning reporter, Marci, came back in and told us she was planning to sleep at the radio station. I helpfully went out to the car and grabbed the pillow I threw in for the drive and never used. We trudged through at least 4 inches of fresh powder and snow that showed no signs of stopping. Marci got a sleeping bag from her trunk, dismantled the couch cushions, and headed for a back studio.

At this point I still intended to drive back to M & M's house. I had even picked up orange juice from the store for Margaret. Then Mitzi left and called minutes later to advise that I should probably think hard about the drive. I did, and quickly decided that weird brakes plus old car plus heavy snow plus MOUNTAIN equals, stay where you are, damn it! So I called Mike and told him I was staying in Aspen and not to worry.

"You're not here," he said, "And I was trying to think like your father... staying there is the conservative thing to do. We'll see you some time tomorrow." He also said I should enjoy the orange juice.

With that call taken care of, I trudged out to the car again, this time to grab a selection of warm clothes from the massive duffel bag still weighing down my trunk. I startled a young guy working late at the nonprofit next door to ask if he had a sleeping bag (he didn't, although he searched valiantly), and settled in for the big snow.

Even though it is late here, Marci and I aren't alone in the station. Volunteer DJs spin jazz all evening. Gary Whipple was hosting earlier, and we chatted about Toronto (he's from Rochester and visited Yonge Street in the '70s). He also walked in on Marci's makeshift room and then felt bad about it. She does have to get up early, after all. Now there's a woman here, and I have no idea who that is, but she seems a little distressed that she has company.

All in all, a very interesting first day. Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to go curl up on the other station couch, and wait for the snow to stop. And tomorrow, it might be time to see about some skiing.

Riding Shotgun to Rifle

I have now been in Aspen for slightly more than 24 hours, and I have to say - it's been overwhelming. Not in a bad way, but in the same way that they are when you realize you've just made your favorite jeans into cutoffs. An act that cannot really be undone, and which in the long run you realize you might not want to reverse, but something the full impact of which you failed to grasp at the moment you sliced through the denim with a pair of scissors.

My morning began early, as my new boss said she would pick me up at 7:30 for the drive to Rifle. We would start there and work our way back to Aspen, touring the down valley area as we went. Down valley is code for anything below Aspen here, and I'm not sure if it is one word, two words, or even proper grammar. In any case, I hopped out of bed, prepared myself, and had a quick bite to eat with my hosts, Mike and Margaret. Their standard poodle Emma joined us as well, but she didn't have any bacon. By the time Mitzi actually pulled up, it was 8 o'clock. Her dog Ashay rode along with us in her little Subaru.

Rifle is a town that has recently been booming, thanks to the development of oil and natural gas. Guess which company is leading the charge? EnCana! Interesting Canadian connection. TRIVIA ALERT: First person to e-mail me the name of the project(s) EnCana has been involved with in Nova Scotia gets a postcard from Aspen.

We stopped in Rifle so Mitzi could do an interview with the head of the Garfield County library system. Then we took Ashay for a walk, during which he did a very good imitation of a billy goat (we ran into two goats among a field of tractors alongside the road). The walk was brief, and then we all piled back into the car to go back to Glenwood Springs. Something I learned about Glenwood Springs today - it's not just a name. There is an actual hot spring the size of an Olympic swimming pool that is open to the public, daily, in the middle of town. I think I may be brave enough to check it out this weekend. Another thing I learned is that Glenwood is home to a Target and a Lowe's building store, AND a Pier 1 Imports. I am no longer concerned about furnishing the apartment I do not yet have.

We pulled in to Target long enough to determine that a) they are sold out of snow boots and b) as Mitzi says, it's the only place near Aspen where you can buy underwear that "isn't a beaded thong." Back in the car, after forcibly removing Ashay from the driver's seat. He really doesn't like to be left out in the car!

In Carbondale, we visited the outgoing reporter's apartment. It was nice, but it is definitely a basement. Then Mitzi and I split up for a while and I walked around the historic downtown, stopping for a bagel and to look for rental signs. There is a one-screen movie theater (currently showing Atonement) where you can buy a 10-show pass for $60, and a cool little coffee shop called the Lift. I had a bagel with "marble mafia" cream cheese. I did not see any mobsters.

By the time I returned to the car, I was ready for some quiet time - and to be off the road. So Mitzi dropped me off at my car and I drove up to Aspen (I know, that's not actually off the road at all). I parked at the station, checked my e-mail, called on a promising apartment lead, and then talked to MB who called at exactly the right moment. I also took some photos of the view from the station, and of the station, and of Ashay, who is kind of my new favorite thing. I will post the pictures as soon as I get online on my own computer.

At the station I also met Marci, the newsreader and reporter who was hired just three months ago. She is super nice. She took me to the bank, where I opened a bank account so I can put my greenbacks safely away. Then we went to the post office and I followed her to the Aspen Club and Spa, where the station has free memberships. I asked how that works, and Mitzi says they do a trade - the station does "underwriting" for them by basically running little ads for the club, and they let us all go there for free.

And holy crap is it a good thing it's free. For those who have the point of reference, think Spring fitness club in Halifax. There's a greatroom entrance with a huge flat screen television, stuffed club chairs, and a clothing/athletic wear/jewelry store next to it. Then there's a HUGE open space, circular, with a walkway around on the mezzanine level. Below, the weight room and fitness studio are in the center. On the mezzanine, there is a pilates room, two other studios, a herd of treadmills and other cardio machines, and a cafe called "garnishes." And also a sports medicine clinic and performance training center.

Off the back is a three-lane lap pool along with an indoor and outdoor hot tub. And down the stairs, a full spa (massage for $150, anyone?) and hair/nail salon. But most stunning is the locker room. Oh, my. You come in to fluffy white bath sheets - no washcloth-sized hand towels here - for the taking, plus fluffy white robes and complimentary spa sandals. Then perhaps you'll have some tea, from the selection of herbal teas kept in the pantry area. After some refreshment, you can head into the locker area, where each custom cabinet wood locker has its own key, and you can sit in club chairs while you discuss the designer ski jacket you saw hanging in the coat closet. The shower area has a women-only jacuzzi, steam room, and sauna, plus teak lounge chairs everywhere. The makeup area has hair dryers that actually work, lotion, hair spray, mouthwash, hair brushes, shampoo, body wash, razors, you name it. I actually asked a well-dressed woman if the hair brush was hers, and she looked at me like I was from another planet. "No, those are for everyone to use..." as she moved a little further away down the counter to finish applying her mascara. Pardon my Prada, madam.

While in the fancy shmancy locker room, a woman my age came in with a LULULEMON gym bag! Before I could stop to restrain myself, I blurted out, "Are you from Canada?" She looked startled but said, no she had gotten it in Denver. Accomplishing two things - a) a new place to get my Lulu fix, and b) starting a conversation. She works for a nonprofit here called the Aspen Institute (more on that below) and her name is Becka Jane. I hope I see her again, and perhaps she won't think I'm a weirdo when I interrogate her about her Reverse Groove yoga pants.

After the gym I decided to mosey on down the mountain back to Mike and Margaret's house. I had an invitation to dinner with a bunch of Mitzi's friends and people from the station, but I wanted to chill out instead. Which was an awesome idea. Mike and Margaret were on their matching Mac Powerbooks when I got home, and we all sat and watched some news on the huge TV before they whipped up a "quick and simple" dinner of pounded chicken cutlets encrusted with panko, green onion and parsley, carrots sauteed in butter and ginger, fresh crusty bread, and salad with avocado and homemade dressing. Unbelievable. I've been pretty darn lucky in grub the last few days! I won't be as enthusiastic when blogging about my own spaghetti and marinara sauce dinners.

We all sat to eat and M & M told me all about the Aspen Institute and the lecturers that come to speak here through the year. It's quite the roster - Madeline Albright, Karl Rove, Bill Clinton, Al Gore, Thomas Friedman to name a few. And Mike described the new physics society summer festival and the famous authors who come to do book signings in town. It sounds like King's at high elevation, really. Which leaves me even more determined to start the Aspen chapter of the Alumni association. No word on whether they're into sherry.

Pop culture alert: For those who know of my fascination (infatuation) with Wolf Blitzer, you'll appreciate that he is a regular attendee at many Aspen fundraisers/festivals/conferences. Oh, Wolf. He may take over from Rick on the crush list. Unless Rick skis in Aspen. Then he will always have my heart.

Mike and I talked all about great books and great bread - and discovered that he has the exact book about the science of cooking that my father bought me last year at a used bookstore! We're like three peas in a pod, Mike and Margaret and me. And Mark, I guess (that's my dad, for the uninitiated).

After supper we all sat down again with our respective computers and watched Maria Sharapova win the Australian Open. Tomorrow M & M are going skiing, and I am going exploring again. I'll let you know if I get up the courage to hop in the hot springs!

Down the Road to Denver, and Up in Altitude to Aspen

When I woke up in Lincoln, Nebraska, one of my first thoughts was that I ought to be going. Not that the locals were unfriendly. In fact, every person I met was cheerful and incredibly helpful. But my mind was already in Colorado, and my body needed to catch up.

So after a hearty breakfast of oatmeal and yogurt, I hit the road for the local coffee shop, The Blend. It was like a scene from Fargo or some Midwestern sitcom - the woman behind the counter makes a mocha and hands it to the guy in his work coveralls and says "There ya go, Ben. Have a good day now." I took my latte to go, along with a shirt that reads: I got mugged at The Blend. I couldn't resist. Maybe I will wear it to my fancy new gym and upset all the celebrities. 

The rest of Nebraska can be summed up in a few sentences. The road was flat and the scenery was farmland featuring large seeder-looking machinery. The things I noticed while I whizzed past were, in order:

Buffalo Bill's Ranch (followed by his grave, located west of Denver)
A huge archway over the highway in the middle of nowhere and with no apparent historical or cultural significance.
The Heartland Museum of Military Vehicles.
A town called Gibbon (which is a type of monkey I doubt lives in said location).
An original Pony Express Station.
A truck stop the size of a department store where church services are held each Sunday in the TV lounge.
And then, in Colorado -
A large bird of prey which landed in the middle of the road, in my lane, forcing me to change lanes rather than fly away from whatever it had landed on.

Driving into Denver was amazing. I didn't really see much but lights, because it was already dark. The twinkling seemed to go on forever, and spread out in front of the car as I crested the hills. The TomTom helpfully shouted me to Susan's mother's house, which is gorgeous! It was my first time meeting her, and she was so welcoming. What a nice way to finish a long day of driving, with a friendly smile and lovely surroundings! The house has many pieces of Susan's art, which I had never seen and which made the space feel so calm and peaceful. 

It wasn't quiet for long, though! Setsko drove me to a basketball game where we met up with Susan's sister, Nancy, and her kids - Nick and Jessica. Nick is very tall and a basketball player. Jessica is all grown up since the last time I saw her - way back when in Seal Harbour! After the game, where I saw a step team (the only comparison I can draw is that "stomping" style of dance that was so popular in New York a few years ago, I can't remember the name) perform, along with the varsity "poms" and the cheerleaders. So much pep, I tell you! It was amazing to see. They must have practiced so hard, and the performances looked practically professional - in high school!

After the game Setsko took us out for supper and we all got to know each other and chat about Colorado. It is so nice to know that I have extended bonus family in Denver. I hope they will all come to visit me in Aspen, but Nancy says not until the snow melts! After a good meal, we went back to Setsko's house and called it a night. I slept like a rock! 

This morning, I had my first taste of Japanese pancakes, which were so delicious! They were light and fluffy but crispy on the outside and I can't even describe how good - you'll have to go to Denver and have Setsko make some for you! We had tea and pancakes and then I prepared to hit the road. I had a travel snack of cake and coffee, which was delicious and infinitely better than truck stop food. 

After a car wash (six states' worth of dirt and grime!) I headed for Aspen. The roads were dry and clear, but I had to struggle to keep my eyes on the highway - the mountains rose up on the horizon like a picture or a painting and I have never seen anything like it. It's no wonder religion seems so popular here: one look at these mountains and you have to think there's a higher power designing the landscape. 

Driving through the mountains was not as arduous as I had feared, thanks mostly to the dry conditions. It was a bit unnerving to drive by signs reading "Falling Rock" and "Avalanche Area." And the tunnels under the mountains are not my favorites. The further west I went the less I wanted to drive back to Denver! I'm sure that passes, though. The T-bird was a champ. 

I tried to stop for food in Vail but after circling the village for 15 minutes without hope of parking, I moved on to the next highway rest area and ate there instead. I was so rattled from the Vail experience that I drove the T-bird's front end directly into a snowbank, causing alarm for the Mexican gentlemen in the construction pickup next to my parking space. I calmly backed up and waved to let them know I was okay. The bumper was unfazed. 

After Vail, the mountain view changed a bit. The road seemed carved out of the mountain, with a sheer face on the right side, red rock mixed with white snow. It was also stunning, and I would have paused except for the "Falling Rock" signs (see above). Other than the breathtaking views, the most memorable moment was for exit 119 on the highway - no name. No, really, that is what the exit was called. Exit 119 - No Name. Sounds like a sequel to The Shining. One license plate also bears mention - two wrinkly old men in a pickup truck, and two words: EAT ELK. Well, if you insist. 

Glenwood Springs was a quick drive-by. I paused at a 7-Eleven to call the station and alert them to my imminent arrival. My excitement was dampened by getting my boss's voice mail. So to cheer myself up I drove through Carbondale on my way to Aspen. What a beautiful town! The sign actually calls it a city, but I'm not convinced yet. The main street is made up of small red brick row buildings with shops and storefronts. There are also several candy-colored townhouses and a few freestanding buildings. The highlight however, is that just moments from this picturesque downtown, there is a field of cows. Yes, that's right. A field of cows! As I rejoiced at the proximity of livestock to my new home, I passed a field of horses! I'll have to make friends with some farmers.

Onward to Aspen, I said to myself. And so I went, up up up the mountain. Apparently snowplows don't "do" Aspen, so the streets became snow-covered and hard packed. I commandeered the valiant T-bird (by this point making a squeaky sound at each braking and a mildly worrying grumble) up the hill and through the little streets to the Red Brick building where the station is housed. I pulled over, grabbed my coat and purse, and promptly walked into a rec center gymnastics class. That explains why an eight-year-old held the door for me. Turns out the radio station is next door, with its own entrance. 

It's a small place, and as I walked in, people appeared from everywhere to say hello. They told me I was the most exciting part of the day! I got the grand tour, an offer of a free couch (with a snazzy print), and checked my e-mail. Then Mitzi and I went on a walking tour of Aspen, with her dog Ashay. Ashay is five months old and a beautiful golden labradoodle. He also really likes to smell tourists. So we went all around town - from the station, past the post office (they're really big on Post Offices here, more on that another day), up the hill to the library, which is beautiful and clearly well funded, through the walking mall area (Christian Dior, Burberry.... and LUSH!! ) and back around to the station. I met several city parking employees, a reporter from one of the papers, the deputy sheriff (who was hammering a sign in at one of the shops because apparently there's not much to do in the way of enforcing the law here), and a few of Mitzi's friends. Ashay met several poodles and a shih-tzu who looked very offended at his bold advances. 

I also learned that there is so little crime that sometimes there is no police officer on duty(!!) at the station, the newspapers are all free (except the New York Times, which is available everywhere in those corner paper boxes), and new reporters get a free welcome meal. 

Before I got the food, though, Andrew took me to the home where I'll be staying, with Mike and Margaret. They are members of the radio station board and really smart people. They have a gorgeous and huge home, one level with three bedrooms, an open concept great room/kitchen/dining room, and floor to ceiling windows on both sides of the house. After a few minutes getting to know them, Andrew whisked me away (a small snow squall on the way down the mountain convinced me that I was done driving for the day) to a bistro in Basalt to meet Mitzi for dinner. 

Super secret trivia: someone I met today was present at Mariah Carey's private Christmas eve church service in Aspen. Yes, that's right. She has a private Christmas eve service. 

Dinner was delicious (I did not eat elk, which was on the menu, but there's always tomorrow) and now I'm going to hit the hay. Mitzi comes tomorrow to give me the tour de down valley. We'll start in Rifle and work our way back to Aspen, stopping in Carbondale for what shall henceforth be known as the Great Apartment Hunt. Wish me luck!  

All Signs Point West

Day two of the trip, day one on driving alone. Well, alone except for the TomTom my parents loaned me. For the uninitiated, a TomTom is a GPS navigation thingy. It tells you how to get where you're going and shouts out helpful(?) instructions to direct you. So after hours of driving straight, a vaguely British voice comes from nowhere - "IN 200 YARDS TURN LEFT!" If nothing else, it kept me awake.

So, the day began waking up in the fancy hotel with the little sister. After the ritual of suitcase stuffing and double-checking for items left behind, the hotel staff fetched the T-bird. I dropped little sister off at the art museum and got out of town. Unfortunately, I didn't think to get coffee before getting on the highway. Outer Chicago has a lovely outlet mall, if you're ever out that way.
Then I remembered I needed a pay-as-you-go phone for the road. It was around that time that I saw a Target. Another successful detour, and I was back behind the wheel.

One noteworthy moment from today was learning how to pop the hood of the car. I noticed that the oil light was blinking a few hours into the drive, reading "low." I wasn't terribly concerned, because some of the T-bird's quirks include a light informing me that the emergency brake is on (I don't think that's been true since the early '90s) and a gas tank that reads 125% full. I guess the car is an optimist.

When I pulled over in a place called Dixon, IL I had to read the gas receipt, because I had no idea where I was - the TomTom worries about those details. I filled up, bought a Subway sandwich from the least enthusiastic employee I have ever come across, and went outside to check the oil. I pulled the trunk-popper button and the hood jumped up a few inches. Promising. So I went to the front of the car and tried to lift it. No success. I crouched down, I wiggled my hand underneath, I begged it to open. I cursed my four-inch heels and then God answered my blasphemy with a young trucker. He took pity and opened the hood for me, then demonstrated so I could do it myself. Probably the most embarrassing moment of the trip thus far. I am happy to report that I subsequently checked the oil, located oil in the car kit my father provided, and emptied said oil into the "engine oil" opening. I did debate for a moment whether motor oil and engine oil are the same thing. My best guess is yes, because the car is still running.

The outskirts of Chicago seemed to go on forever. But when they were over, boy were they over - nothing but flat road and farmland for what felt like forever. At some point, a sign informed me that the People of Iowa welcomed me to their state. Sadly the welcome wagon was a series of rusty tractors and farm equipment covered in snow. To be fair, I did pass the birthplace of Ronald Reagan and the Herbert Hoover Presidential Museum. The highway even became the Ronald Reagan Memorial Highway.

My favorite part of Iowa, though, was the Iowa-80 Truck Stop. I had just stopped for gas half an hour before I saw the sign proclaiming it to be the largest truck stop not only in Iowa - oh, no. This is the largest truck stop in the WORLD. Definitely demanded a photograph, which I will post at the earliest opportunity.
It was filled with religious t-shirts, shot glasses, and many, many truckers. Also a section of porcelain collectibles, oddly enough. I refrained from purchasing any of those things, and instead phoned in to the family and took a coffee to go.

After the Iowa-80, I drove until I hit Des Moines, which is more than two hours! I had no idea states were so big. In Maine, two hours will get you from Portland to Boston!

I spent an inordinate amount of time in Des Moines searching for a mall where I could wander around for a while for a break. It took so much time I decided to just have a quick bite to eat instead. But not before I stood outside the car long enough to lose feeling in my hands - just five short minutes, my friends. This is one cold region. So I went to a restaurant called Old Chicago (oh, the irony) and had a turkey burger.

By the time I rolled in to Lincoln, my check-in kit was the last one on the desk. The hotel is all suites and mine is a "studio" which is the size of my old bachelor apartment in Halifax. It's cozy, it's off the road, the internet is included, and they tell me there's a hot breakfast in the morning. What more could I want, you ask? How about an exciting drive to Denver? And maybe a souvenir magnet from the Cornhusker State.

Interesting trivia learned today: Nebraska is the home of Arbor Day. Ronald Reagan was born in Illinois. For some reason the Presidential Library and Museum is also in Illinois. The Nebraska state slogan is The Good Life. And somewhere in Iowa, a person is living in a town called "Exira" - remember that for next time you play Scrabble with proper nouns.

The Windy Way to the Windy City

The first leg of the trip was Toronto to Chicago. As usual, I left lots of final details until the morning of departure. I was taping boxes and labelling things to the bitter end. Mihira and Genevieve helped load the car, which was a true art. Luckily I could still see out the back window!

Driving through Ontario was so much less exciting than I expected. We crossed back into the United States at Sarnia with no problems, and then drove through Michigan. It seemed like a very long time, and after a while we got confused about which state we were in. A helpful woman at WalMart told us that despite our hopes, we were just West of Lansing. "Where did you girls come from, anyway?" In a sign of complete cabin fever, we laughed hysterically for at least 15 minutes after the exchange.

The final stretch into Chicago on the Skyway was snowy but uneventful. The plows were out in force and I'm happy to report the T-bird brakes are in good shape. Perhaps not so for the little sister's nerves! She promptly got on the phone to the parents to complain that I didn't let her drive.

It was all worth it when we pulled into the hotel - wow, fancy! I got a great deal online, which is the only way we could stay at a four-star place. The Aspen job is not that lucrative! Nice gentlemen parked the car for us and whisked our bags up to the room. Meantime, Mihira had arranged for room service to deliver a bottle of wine. A big surprise! After foraging for food in our swanky surroundings, we are tucking in for the night.

Tomorrow, Genevieve stays to explore Chicago and I hit the trail again. Next stop, Lincoln, Nebraska. Stay tuned for tales of the wild west.

Set to Go

I am balancing my laptop on my lap as I type this note. Tomorrow morning, I hit the road in my shiny silver T-bird. First stop, Chicago. The younger sister is along for the ride and then I leave her and continue on to Lincoln, Nebraska.

The last few days in Toronto have been amazing. I am continuously surprised by the love of my friends. I enjoyed myself so much in the past few days and am grateful for your support on this adventure! Stay tuned for postcard challenges and maybe even something exciting that is unique to the Centennial State.

I intend to blog my way West, in case you're interested to know just how the drive is going in a 1989 loaded with more clothes than any single human should possess.

I'll miss you, Toronto. I'll miss you, friends. Remember: Colorado - it's not as far as you think!

Word is Out

The big news is a big move - in late January, I'll be heading out to Aspen, Colorado. I've accepted a full-time radio news reporter job at Aspen Public Radio. A real job! How cool is that?