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!
