Exit 71 on I-15 is nothing short of an oasis. A half dozen bright motels, a couple with restaruant and lounges in them. They cascade down the hill towards the main boulevard, where there is an abundance of friendly convenience stores.
In a short five minute drive you are in Pocatello. I took a walking tour of campus after work today. Very relaxing. ISU reminds me of a different campus where I grew up. Fun to see the same initials in a completely different place, with its own history and configuration.
I like the architecture of these campuses in the Intermountain West. The basketball arenas are good source of inspiration. Idaho State's is one of the most majestic I have ever seen. It's a giant quonset hut with a corrugated metal roof. It looks like a mammoth scale rodeo hall at a state fair. The sides are white and painted with huge letters. The roof makes a rainbow in the school colors---orange and black.
Nice student center too. Friendly to scale. I got an egg sandwich at the bagel chain place inside, sat looking out over the quad. A fireplace at the end of the room. Felt so cozy. Feeling so warm there, I found myself thinking this place must be nice in winter.
Scientific facilities are pure post-war functionality. But it is heterogenous. There is no boring repetition like computer circuits of repeated structure. Each one is highly adapted.
Reminds me of Yale campus.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Pocatello---history and hospitality lessons from Judy G.
Been reading Conrad Hilton's autobiography, Be My Guest. I picked up an old paperback copy in a used book store in downtown Logan that was having an going out-of-business sale. All the books in the entire store were stacked on tables. Lots of remainders, mostly. I didn't feel like really digging into their stacks.
I walked through the whole place without seeing anything I wanted, and then saw the Hilton tome on the way out, on the deep discount car on the sidewalk. I'd never seen it before, but I knew immediately I had to spend the dollar-o-seven for my own personal copy.
Tonight in the motel in Pocatello, I'm further feeding my interest in the history of the American hospitality industry by watching the old MGM musical Harvey Girls (1946) on TCM.
The movie, which stars Judy Garland, came on while I was sitting on bed wrapping up the day's work. Twenty minutes in, my interest piqued by the historical subject, I had to go read the Wikipedia entry on Fred Harvey,
I can't believe that I haven't heard of him before, and about the Harvey Girls. Among other things, Harvey is credited with establishing the first restaurant chain in America. A real pioneer.
Speaking of Judy Garland--ironically last night in the Days Inn in Logan I was also watching TCM, and in between the features, they showed an original theatrical trailer for A Star is Born (1954), which they are showing next week.
I've never seen the Garland version, as it happens. In the trailer they showed, she was singing a scene from this number which she performs in the movie. If you know the movie, you certainly know which song I'm talking about. But not having heard it before, I did a double take when it came on. Some coincidences are particularly delectable.
I walked through the whole place without seeing anything I wanted, and then saw the Hilton tome on the way out, on the deep discount car on the sidewalk. I'd never seen it before, but I knew immediately I had to spend the dollar-o-seven for my own personal copy.
The movie, which stars Judy Garland, came on while I was sitting on bed wrapping up the day's work. Twenty minutes in, my interest piqued by the historical subject, I had to go read the Wikipedia entry on Fred Harvey,
I can't believe that I haven't heard of him before, and about the Harvey Girls. Among other things, Harvey is credited with establishing the first restaurant chain in America. A real pioneer.
Speaking of Judy Garland--ironically last night in the Days Inn in Logan I was also watching TCM, and in between the features, they showed an original theatrical trailer for A Star is Born (1954), which they are showing next week.
I've never seen the Garland version, as it happens. In the trailer they showed, she was singing a scene from this number which she performs in the movie. If you know the movie, you certainly know which song I'm talking about. But not having heard it before, I did a double take when it came on. Some coincidences are particularly delectable.
Pocatello---momentum
Stayed in Logan today until the end of business hours on the East Coast. The Starbucks on the north end of town was particular good for work. I waited for a call that didn't come---didn't mind that---and got to put in some quality time making finishing touches and last minute commits for the day.
I headed north of town on the four lane highway. By that time of the afternoon the roads had accumulated a bunch of the thick white snow that had been falling since before sunrise. It wouldn't have been so bad, but it was just the right temperature to turn to lots of slush. The aslphalt of U.S. 91 had large patches of it, and they got worse as I drove on. The trucks sent huge geysers of slush onto the Bimmer's windshield each time they passed in the other direction, even from two lanes away.
Towards the Idaho border it seemed the crews had plowed only one of the two lanes either direction, the left lane. I didn't like driving there---right with oncoming traffic. But the right lane was left full of slush to such a degree that I feared the car would spin out several times, even thought it was above freezing. I had to drive at barely above forty.
My eyes were glued on the road and my body tense to react immediately from any deviation in the car's direction.
My fears were well founded---a couple miles later I saw two trucks spun out by the road, on either side. The first was in the ditch. Two other cars had stopped to help him. The second one had slammed backwards into the guard rail. A police cruiser was alongside its lights on, as well as another truck
Once I crossed the Iadho border, the roads were thankfully better. I had begun to wonder if I really could make it all the way to Pocatello. But on the Idaho side of the border, the road grade kept the surface drier.
Idaho, as I recalled immediately, is rich in road side historical monuments. They have large enticing signs with the state outline. I whizzed by several interesting ones north of the border without stopping.
There was only an hour of daylight left, and I did not want to be caught outside after sundown when the roads would freeze.
Soon enough I was on I-15, close to my destination. But even here it was snowing hard enough that I could barely make out the mountains on either side.
Never was I happier to get off the road and inside the warm motel room.
I headed north of town on the four lane highway. By that time of the afternoon the roads had accumulated a bunch of the thick white snow that had been falling since before sunrise. It wouldn't have been so bad, but it was just the right temperature to turn to lots of slush. The aslphalt of U.S. 91 had large patches of it, and they got worse as I drove on. The trucks sent huge geysers of slush onto the Bimmer's windshield each time they passed in the other direction, even from two lanes away.
Towards the Idaho border it seemed the crews had plowed only one of the two lanes either direction, the left lane. I didn't like driving there---right with oncoming traffic. But the right lane was left full of slush to such a degree that I feared the car would spin out several times, even thought it was above freezing. I had to drive at barely above forty.
My eyes were glued on the road and my body tense to react immediately from any deviation in the car's direction.
My fears were well founded---a couple miles later I saw two trucks spun out by the road, on either side. The first was in the ditch. Two other cars had stopped to help him. The second one had slammed backwards into the guard rail. A police cruiser was alongside its lights on, as well as another truck
Once I crossed the Iadho border, the roads were thankfully better. I had begun to wonder if I really could make it all the way to Pocatello. But on the Idaho side of the border, the road grade kept the surface drier.
Idaho, as I recalled immediately, is rich in road side historical monuments. They have large enticing signs with the state outline. I whizzed by several interesting ones north of the border without stopping.
There was only an hour of daylight left, and I did not want to be caught outside after sundown when the roads would freeze.
Soon enough I was on I-15, close to my destination. But even here it was snowing hard enough that I could barely make out the mountains on either side.
Never was I happier to get off the road and inside the warm motel room.
Utah State---changing classes
Is there anything more relaxing than a walk across a university campus while a light snow is falling?
Treated myself to lunchtime tour. My rule is to walk to view the oldest main building on campus. Then walk through the ground floor of at least one physics or engineering building (in this case computer/electrica) while perusing research posters, and then also go into the student center.
I caught the last one just as the students were coming and going for lunch, and also attending some kind of career fair in the main ballroom. Basement floor had classic feel of an organic old student union---a post office with old mailboxes, many little offices, ATMs and plenty of places to get something to eat.
Aggies rule.
Treated myself to lunchtime tour. My rule is to walk to view the oldest main building on campus. Then walk through the ground floor of at least one physics or engineering building (in this case computer/electrica) while perusing research posters, and then also go into the student center.
I caught the last one just as the students were coming and going for lunch, and also attending some kind of career fair in the main ballroom. Basement floor had classic feel of an organic old student union---a post office with old mailboxes, many little offices, ATMs and plenty of places to get something to eat.
Aggies rule.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Logan---behind schedule
Meant to be in Idaho by now. Stayed a couple days extra in Logan, mostly to finish a work project. I like to start off the new year with a something really cool, projectwise, and get it out to the user base right on schedule. Had to spent a couple extra days holed up in a motel to pull it off. But seems a green light for tomorrow. Fingers crossed.
A couple cool restaurants here, including the Bluebird, a century-old drugstore and dining room, where I ordered their Manhattan Steak.
Tomorrow maybe a tour of the USU campus before I head out of town. Got a conference call in the afternoon.
A couple cool restaurants here, including the Bluebird, a century-old drugstore and dining room, where I ordered their Manhattan Steak.
Tomorrow maybe a tour of the USU campus before I head out of town. Got a conference call in the afternoon.
Ogden Union Station---singalong with a movie star
Ogden. Booked Saturday night at the Ben Lomond Suites, the old grand hotel in the middle of downtown, where the two main streets intersect.
Period 1930's look preserved in lobby. Renovated rooms, very ample. Turns out to be part of the Choice Hotels now.
A wedding reception down on the Mezzanine Level. Top-floor restaurant. I dined there and ordered a couple of their cocktails,
Ogden is the place where the native LDS power structure of Utah overlaps most strongly with the power of the outside world. Ogden is the outpost of the imperial Northeast, and old European capital, in their dominance of the continent.
This dominance is summed up in two words, which are a huge key to understanding American history---Union Pacific.
Everywhere in Ogden, one need only scratch the surface of the names of buildings to see the people in whom this dominance was embodied.
Banking, guns, and railroads. And telegraphs and cables of course.
Sunday morning I walked down from the hotel to Union Station. As one would expect, it sits at the terminus of the main cross street like a palace.
The museums there were closed for Sunday, but the building itself was open, with plenty of folks milling around, so I gave myself tour. Still plenty of interesting stuff I could read on the walls, and a cool display of historical skis.
Later while looking at the front case of the Browning firearms museum, a young kid comes around and uses the floor space there to make a sign. He strikes me up for a conversation. Turns out he's a local.
"They're shooting a movie here today," he says.
"Local production or Hollywood?" I ask him.
"Hollywood," he says. He tells me the name of the movie. Most of the people milling around were extras.
He told me the name of the star. I recognized from her having been in a popular recent romantic comedy in which she played a high-value young woman who gets pregnant from a one-night stand with a loser slacker male.
"Her career has been in sort of a skid lately," I mentioned.
"That's what happens when you treat people like cra-a-." the kid said, as an aide, letting his voice trailing down to mask the magnitude of the word he used.
"Don't I know that," I thought.
After that I explored all over the building. The main waiting room seemed an exact architectural replica of the Great Room at Hampton Court, but with a pair New Deal era murals on the walls depicting the building of the Transcontinental Railroad, one for the Central Pacific and the other for the Union Pacific.
In the waiting room were about fifty people sitting at folding tables. A family walked in the doors and a woman asked if they had come to be extras. She never asked me that question, as I walked around the room, admiring the murals. I must not have fit the casting.
After I'd satisfied myself poking around the building, even going to the areas upstairs marked off limits to extras and crew (for I was neither), I left by the main entrance at the north end of the building.
There the movie production was in full swing. There were three tables set up with snacks, and the floors was filled with theater lights and tools, with crew members standing among them.
The door to the nearby ballroom was open. Around the door people were clustered watching the shooting of a scene from the movie. The star was in the far back of the room, on stage. She was performing a country music number, ostensibly at community dance. The floor was full of people swaying to her singing. A band was behind her on stage. On her knee was a young girl with the same color hair as the star.
I was fascinated by the use of LED lighting in the curtain behind her, as well as the stationary Chinese lanterns, held in various rigid angles above the crowd. Nice effect. One could use that.
Period 1930's look preserved in lobby. Renovated rooms, very ample. Turns out to be part of the Choice Hotels now.
A wedding reception down on the Mezzanine Level. Top-floor restaurant. I dined there and ordered a couple of their cocktails,
Ogden is the place where the native LDS power structure of Utah overlaps most strongly with the power of the outside world. Ogden is the outpost of the imperial Northeast, and old European capital, in their dominance of the continent.
This dominance is summed up in two words, which are a huge key to understanding American history---Union Pacific.
Everywhere in Ogden, one need only scratch the surface of the names of buildings to see the people in whom this dominance was embodied.
Banking, guns, and railroads. And telegraphs and cables of course.
Sunday morning I walked down from the hotel to Union Station. As one would expect, it sits at the terminus of the main cross street like a palace.
The museums there were closed for Sunday, but the building itself was open, with plenty of folks milling around, so I gave myself tour. Still plenty of interesting stuff I could read on the walls, and a cool display of historical skis.
Later while looking at the front case of the Browning firearms museum, a young kid comes around and uses the floor space there to make a sign. He strikes me up for a conversation. Turns out he's a local.
"They're shooting a movie here today," he says.
"Local production or Hollywood?" I ask him.
"Hollywood," he says. He tells me the name of the movie. Most of the people milling around were extras.
He told me the name of the star. I recognized from her having been in a popular recent romantic comedy in which she played a high-value young woman who gets pregnant from a one-night stand with a loser slacker male.
"Her career has been in sort of a skid lately," I mentioned.
"That's what happens when you treat people like cra-a-." the kid said, as an aide, letting his voice trailing down to mask the magnitude of the word he used.
"Don't I know that," I thought.
After that I explored all over the building. The main waiting room seemed an exact architectural replica of the Great Room at Hampton Court, but with a pair New Deal era murals on the walls depicting the building of the Transcontinental Railroad, one for the Central Pacific and the other for the Union Pacific.
In the waiting room were about fifty people sitting at folding tables. A family walked in the doors and a woman asked if they had come to be extras. She never asked me that question, as I walked around the room, admiring the murals. I must not have fit the casting.
After I'd satisfied myself poking around the building, even going to the areas upstairs marked off limits to extras and crew (for I was neither), I left by the main entrance at the north end of the building.
There the movie production was in full swing. There were three tables set up with snacks, and the floors was filled with theater lights and tools, with crew members standing among them.
The door to the nearby ballroom was open. Around the door people were clustered watching the shooting of a scene from the movie. The star was in the far back of the room, on stage. She was performing a country music number, ostensibly at community dance. The floor was full of people swaying to her singing. A band was behind her on stage. On her knee was a young girl with the same color hair as the star.
I was fascinated by the use of LED lighting in the curtain behind her, as well as the stationary Chinese lanterns, held in various rigid angles above the crowd. Nice effect. One could use that.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Utah Lake---a short cruise on the ice
The entire valley and the lake inside it would be a national park, if it were not already settled.
Saturday. Treated myself to a drive around Utah Lake. From the motel I drove down Main Street through Lehi, an old farming community now crowded because of all the new construction in recent years. It's not a bad commute to the city, and just over the ridge that separates the Utah Valley from the Salt Lake Valley
The new housing developments stretched south along the west side of the lake past Saratoga Springs. The the road got narrow and the land way to barren slopes overlooking the lake, large mining landowners, no trespassing signs, all the way south to U.S. Highway 6.
Through little Goshen, and then one turns north and follows the back roads through a rural farming community. Then the road, still paved, hugs the large rock mountain along the lake.
This is what Death Valley would look like if it were still a lake.
The arroyos are plantless all the way up the side of the mountain. But instead of a salt playa, there is actual water.
Or in this case---ice. Recent thawing and refreezing had made the ice plates slam into each, making a frozen wave that jutted upwards, just beyond the reeds. It was a good spot to park and walk down beside the water, and look across at the snowcapped Lake Mountains.
I followed the road all the way around the point, past old ranches, some with for sale signs, to Lincoln Beach, an old state park with a marina. Families are parked out on the ice, having impromptu ice hockey pick-up games against the Wasatch Front.
I walk down the end of the rock pier and then out onto the ice, crossing over to the end of another pier. Then to get back to shore, I walk edright into the marina between the piers, as if mooring myself on the boat ramp.
Saturday. Treated myself to a drive around Utah Lake. From the motel I drove down Main Street through Lehi, an old farming community now crowded because of all the new construction in recent years. It's not a bad commute to the city, and just over the ridge that separates the Utah Valley from the Salt Lake Valley
The new housing developments stretched south along the west side of the lake past Saratoga Springs. The the road got narrow and the land way to barren slopes overlooking the lake, large mining landowners, no trespassing signs, all the way south to U.S. Highway 6.
Through little Goshen, and then one turns north and follows the back roads through a rural farming community. Then the road, still paved, hugs the large rock mountain along the lake.
This is what Death Valley would look like if it were still a lake.
The arroyos are plantless all the way up the side of the mountain. But instead of a salt playa, there is actual water.
Or in this case---ice. Recent thawing and refreezing had made the ice plates slam into each, making a frozen wave that jutted upwards, just beyond the reeds. It was a good spot to park and walk down beside the water, and look across at the snowcapped Lake Mountains.
I followed the road all the way around the point, past old ranches, some with for sale signs, to Lincoln Beach, an old state park with a marina. Families are parked out on the ice, having impromptu ice hockey pick-up games against the Wasatch Front.
I walk down the end of the rock pier and then out onto the ice, crossing over to the end of another pier. Then to get back to shore, I walk edright into the marina between the piers, as if mooring myself on the boat ramp.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Provo---just for fun
Friday afternoon, a half hour before sunset.
The girls in the BYU Bookstore were awesomely friendly. They kept me lingering at the cash register, when I was buying my merchandise, asking me questions.
'What kind of accent do you think I have?" asked one, a brunette, before turning to help another customer.
"Do I get a hint?" I said, turning to taller blonde who was at my register.
"Canada," she whispered to me with an aside.
When the brunette was done with her customer, she turned back and repeated her question.
"Uh, Kansas?" I asked, purposefully botching it.
That threw her off.
"I'll take that," she said, thinking about it.
I looked at the blonde.
"And you..." I said, as if trying to discern the answer in her thoughts.
"You're from...around here?"
"Yes," she said, delighted.
"Pleasant Grove," she said, mentioning a town up on the other side of Orem.
"I was just playing the odds," I said.
They were intrigued when I told them I was here "just for fun," as they put it.
They understood when I expressed my appreciation for the unique beauty of Provo and the Utah Valley. I told them it was rare in the U.S. for a mountain range to rise so steeply and starkly from the west, instead of from the east.
"That means that the mountains catch the afternoon sun, instead of the morning sun," I told them.
They grow more exquisite as the day wears on, especially covered with snow.
"And here they even make a semicircle, all around you," I said, motioning my arms wide, from one end of my peripheral vision to the other.
Pleasant indeed.
The girls in the BYU Bookstore were awesomely friendly. They kept me lingering at the cash register, when I was buying my merchandise, asking me questions.
'What kind of accent do you think I have?" asked one, a brunette, before turning to help another customer.
"Do I get a hint?" I said, turning to taller blonde who was at my register.
"Canada," she whispered to me with an aside.
When the brunette was done with her customer, she turned back and repeated her question.
"Uh, Kansas?" I asked, purposefully botching it.
That threw her off.
"I'll take that," she said, thinking about it.
I looked at the blonde.
"And you..." I said, as if trying to discern the answer in her thoughts.
"You're from...around here?"
"Yes," she said, delighted.
"Pleasant Grove," she said, mentioning a town up on the other side of Orem.
"I was just playing the odds," I said.
They were intrigued when I told them I was here "just for fun," as they put it.
They understood when I expressed my appreciation for the unique beauty of Provo and the Utah Valley. I told them it was rare in the U.S. for a mountain range to rise so steeply and starkly from the west, instead of from the east.
"That means that the mountains catch the afternoon sun, instead of the morning sun," I told them.
They grow more exquisite as the day wears on, especially covered with snow.
"And here they even make a semicircle, all around you," I said, motioning my arms wide, from one end of my peripheral vision to the other.
Pleasant indeed.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Orem---inclined planes of snowy rock inspiring fear and awe
Back in Utah. In the heartland of the state---Utah County, south of Salt Lake, over the hills, in the isolated valley around Utah lake.
Above, to the east, shining in the afternoon sun, are the peaks of the Wasatch Ranges, like a row of judging sentinels, craggy and draped with snow, looking down from against the blue sky.
My motel along the interstate (just "up the road" from the Aria in Vegas, as it happens) is flanked by not only the usual contingent of convenience stores, other chain lodging, and fast food, but also by an enormous sheet metal yard, a vinyl supplier, a timber frame construction specialist, and the two prominent home supply big boxes, facing across each other.
One cannot but be inspired to build something, maybe out of PVC.
Above, to the east, shining in the afternoon sun, are the peaks of the Wasatch Ranges, like a row of judging sentinels, craggy and draped with snow, looking down from against the blue sky.
My motel along the interstate (just "up the road" from the Aria in Vegas, as it happens) is flanked by not only the usual contingent of convenience stores, other chain lodging, and fast food, but also by an enormous sheet metal yard, a vinyl supplier, a timber frame construction specialist, and the two prominent home supply big boxes, facing across each other.
One cannot but be inspired to build something, maybe out of PVC.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Las Vegas---viva la vida local
Just wrapped up a long weekend in Vegas. It was Red's birthday wish, and I was happy to comply.
At the end of last week I drove out from Denver to Salt Lake City---all in one go, a rarity for me---and left the Bimmer in long term parking there, the third different airport where I've done that in the last few months. After a fifty-five minute flight in perfect weather, allowing a great view of the Grand Canyon, we touched down at McCarran. Back in Las Vegas.
At the airport, I wanted to text Red to meet me at the bar in the terminal, so we could pretend we didn't know each other, but my plan was thwarted because we arrived at different terminals. But that was about the only thing during the weekend that didn't go splendidly.
I'd booked our place at the Aria, the nearly-new resort in the middle of the Strip. During my visit here last February, when I stayed at the Elara, I had spent a bit of time staring down from my room at the Aria, thinking how beautiful it looked in all its postmodern metallic glory.
It didn't disappoint. The Aria is one of those all-inclusive resorts where you hardly have to leave, unless you want to go to a show, which we did, on Red's birthday. She's a big fan of Cirque du Soleil and had bought us tickets to Le Rêve, which is technically not CdS, but was created by Franco Dragone, who is the genius behind many of their shows.
Among the highlights of the trip were dining at the Barrymore, a quaint and elegant steakhouse located just off the strip in an old resort, and which hearkens to the old era of Hollywood. Of course, Lionel is one of my favorite actors and it gave me a chance to wax about my appreciation for him over dinner.
Neither of us gamble, so we spent much of the daylight hours poking around the inside of various casinos---including the Bellagio and the Cosmopolitan---admiring the decor and the themes, as well as simply people watching, which is probably my favorite pastime there. I had particularly fun examining the layout and design of the many hotel bars, since that too has become somewhat of a hobby of mine.
We also slummed it by taking the Deuce bus downtown and eating at the famous Heart Attack Grill. I managed to finish my double cheeseburger and thus avoid getting spanked by the nurse-waitresses there, but for the rest of the day, I hardly felt like eating. Nevertheless we later managed to split most of a huge of pina colada at Paris, comically delivered in an enormous plastic Eiffel Tower, and then went up to the top of the tower for a nice view of the Strip, almost exactly facing my hotel room at the Elara from last year. I felt like I'd stepped through the looking glass of my life somehow.
But the event that truly defined this trip was certainly on Sunday, when we gave ourselves a self-guided taxi tour of the local bars featured on our favorite television show, Bar Rescue. Back in Portland, I'd made a map of all the locations of the bars (five of which were still open at the time), and we used spent the entire afternoon and evening going up and down Decatur Avenue, hitting one place after another while catching snippets of the NFL championship games. In the spirit of appreciating the cocktail menus of these places, both of us wound up drinking far more than we had in a long times.
We found Bar 702 on Spring Mountain to be a nice little dive bar a block off the strip. It wasn't fancy, but they seemed as if they were trying to keep up the pace of renovation from the show. We kibbitzed on a staff meeting in which the owner (whom we recognized from the show) was training the bartenders on the proper way to cut lemons---a good sign for management that it cares about such things. Before we left, I made Red take my picture in front of the "Locals Only" mock police line-up sign. "I hope that's the only time I've ever in front of a thing like that," I said.
On the other hand, Hammer and Ales, a taproom on Russell, appeared to be sliding back to its old bad pre-Taffer ways. Many of the beers were unavailable, with plastic cups placed over the tap handles. The bar tender served me a Guinness and then let me sit there for a half hour after it was empty. Worst, it's owned by a pair of chefs, yet they had the simplest of bar food menus and had no cook at all for the first two hours that we were there (on a Sunday afternoon with the big games on the tube). At the least the burgers were decently cooked when we finally got them.
The Bacon Bar on Rancho Road, by comparison, was certainly a triumph of Taffer's effort. It was smartly designed, well run and stuffed with locals watching the game. We greatly enjoyed the bacon-themed Bloody Marys as well as the "Man Candy" appetizer, which consisted of carmelized bacon and a maple syrup dipping sauce.
Our last stop of the evening was The End, a zombie apocalypse bar along Decatur. At first we thought it had closed, and we were greatly disappointed, but it turns out it simply moved next door because the roof of their original place collapsed. We had a great time sampling their apocalypse-themed cocktail menu, including the blue syringe-delivered "Zombie Antidote" ones.
Our visit there was made perfect by the fact that we got to meet the owners, who were dressed exactly on the show. We spent much of our long visit chatting with them---about the show, about Taffer, and about the vagaries of dealing with the Nevada Gaming Commission. It felt surreal to be talking to them.
Alas the fifth bar on our map, the Garnet Lounge, a locals-oriented "cougar bar" on North Decatur, had shuttered permanently after New Year's Eve.
During each leg of our journey, we informed the taxi driver about what we were doing. All of them had heard of the show, and a few of them even asked us about it spontaneously while picking us up. The one who picked us up at the Bacon Bar was even planning his own "Bar Rescue Tour" with a set fee charged to visit all the places in the show.
It was a fantastic way to see the "real Las Vegas," gritty and often less-than-glamorous. There is something about doing that allows one to better appreciate the fantasy version on the Strip. Of course if we were really locals, you never would have found us down there people watching in the casinos.
At the end of last week I drove out from Denver to Salt Lake City---all in one go, a rarity for me---and left the Bimmer in long term parking there, the third different airport where I've done that in the last few months. After a fifty-five minute flight in perfect weather, allowing a great view of the Grand Canyon, we touched down at McCarran. Back in Las Vegas.
At the airport, I wanted to text Red to meet me at the bar in the terminal, so we could pretend we didn't know each other, but my plan was thwarted because we arrived at different terminals. But that was about the only thing during the weekend that didn't go splendidly.
I'd booked our place at the Aria, the nearly-new resort in the middle of the Strip. During my visit here last February, when I stayed at the Elara, I had spent a bit of time staring down from my room at the Aria, thinking how beautiful it looked in all its postmodern metallic glory.
It didn't disappoint. The Aria is one of those all-inclusive resorts where you hardly have to leave, unless you want to go to a show, which we did, on Red's birthday. She's a big fan of Cirque du Soleil and had bought us tickets to Le Rêve, which is technically not CdS, but was created by Franco Dragone, who is the genius behind many of their shows.
Among the highlights of the trip were dining at the Barrymore, a quaint and elegant steakhouse located just off the strip in an old resort, and which hearkens to the old era of Hollywood. Of course, Lionel is one of my favorite actors and it gave me a chance to wax about my appreciation for him over dinner.
Neither of us gamble, so we spent much of the daylight hours poking around the inside of various casinos---including the Bellagio and the Cosmopolitan---admiring the decor and the themes, as well as simply people watching, which is probably my favorite pastime there. I had particularly fun examining the layout and design of the many hotel bars, since that too has become somewhat of a hobby of mine.
We also slummed it by taking the Deuce bus downtown and eating at the famous Heart Attack Grill. I managed to finish my double cheeseburger and thus avoid getting spanked by the nurse-waitresses there, but for the rest of the day, I hardly felt like eating. Nevertheless we later managed to split most of a huge of pina colada at Paris, comically delivered in an enormous plastic Eiffel Tower, and then went up to the top of the tower for a nice view of the Strip, almost exactly facing my hotel room at the Elara from last year. I felt like I'd stepped through the looking glass of my life somehow.
But the event that truly defined this trip was certainly on Sunday, when we gave ourselves a self-guided taxi tour of the local bars featured on our favorite television show, Bar Rescue. Back in Portland, I'd made a map of all the locations of the bars (five of which were still open at the time), and we used spent the entire afternoon and evening going up and down Decatur Avenue, hitting one place after another while catching snippets of the NFL championship games. In the spirit of appreciating the cocktail menus of these places, both of us wound up drinking far more than we had in a long times.
We found Bar 702 on Spring Mountain to be a nice little dive bar a block off the strip. It wasn't fancy, but they seemed as if they were trying to keep up the pace of renovation from the show. We kibbitzed on a staff meeting in which the owner (whom we recognized from the show) was training the bartenders on the proper way to cut lemons---a good sign for management that it cares about such things. Before we left, I made Red take my picture in front of the "Locals Only" mock police line-up sign. "I hope that's the only time I've ever in front of a thing like that," I said.
On the other hand, Hammer and Ales, a taproom on Russell, appeared to be sliding back to its old bad pre-Taffer ways. Many of the beers were unavailable, with plastic cups placed over the tap handles. The bar tender served me a Guinness and then let me sit there for a half hour after it was empty. Worst, it's owned by a pair of chefs, yet they had the simplest of bar food menus and had no cook at all for the first two hours that we were there (on a Sunday afternoon with the big games on the tube). At the least the burgers were decently cooked when we finally got them.
The Bacon Bar on Rancho Road, by comparison, was certainly a triumph of Taffer's effort. It was smartly designed, well run and stuffed with locals watching the game. We greatly enjoyed the bacon-themed Bloody Marys as well as the "Man Candy" appetizer, which consisted of carmelized bacon and a maple syrup dipping sauce.
Our last stop of the evening was The End, a zombie apocalypse bar along Decatur. At first we thought it had closed, and we were greatly disappointed, but it turns out it simply moved next door because the roof of their original place collapsed. We had a great time sampling their apocalypse-themed cocktail menu, including the blue syringe-delivered "Zombie Antidote" ones.
Our visit there was made perfect by the fact that we got to meet the owners, who were dressed exactly on the show. We spent much of our long visit chatting with them---about the show, about Taffer, and about the vagaries of dealing with the Nevada Gaming Commission. It felt surreal to be talking to them.
Alas the fifth bar on our map, the Garnet Lounge, a locals-oriented "cougar bar" on North Decatur, had shuttered permanently after New Year's Eve.
During each leg of our journey, we informed the taxi driver about what we were doing. All of them had heard of the show, and a few of them even asked us about it spontaneously while picking us up. The one who picked us up at the Bacon Bar was even planning his own "Bar Rescue Tour" with a set fee charged to visit all the places in the show.
It was a fantastic way to see the "real Las Vegas," gritty and often less-than-glamorous. There is something about doing that allows one to better appreciate the fantasy version on the Strip. Of course if we were really locals, you never would have found us down there people watching in the casinos.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Fort Collins---old school
"What are you in the mood for?" he asked me, on the sidewalk on College. "Burgers?"
Sounded good, I said, so he said "that way" and we turned around on the sidewalk and began walking south towards Mountain. There we rounded the corner and went down half a block, where we went inside. It was a nice little restaurant. Randy called it a "local independent version of In-and-Out."
"Animal style," I said, referencing one of the well-known menu options for that chain. "Do they have a secret menu too?" He laughed at the California cultural references.
His wife had him on a gluten-free diet. So at the counter we tried to order our cheeseburgers breadless, like the Flying Dutchman at In-and-Out---using lettuce as the bun. We tried to explain that to the bearded dude at the counter , and we thought he understood what we meant, but when the burgers arrived they turned out to have bread on them.
In the meantime we got to talk about various fun things, such as Burning Man, and more of his work. His firm was doing well. He had an upcoming project in Los Alamos, a city I had recently visited but which was brand new to him. He was just about to fly down to New Mexico to visit the site for the first time.
"Los Alamos--it's not a place where you think a city should exist," I said. "You'll see what I mean."
After lunch he took me on a walking tour to visit the site of their current project, as well as their new offices. It seemed their new digs in the Opera Galleria were just temporary.
We walked down Mountain, then cut through Old Town Plaza to Linden, which we followed towards the river.
Across Jefferson you get to the old industrial area which the city has long wanted to develop.
As we came up to the intersection with Willow, I marveled that the old Northern Colorado Feeders Supply was still in business there.
"It's going to become a restaurant," he said, matter-of-factly.
As we came up the intersection Willow, he pointed ahead to the next block along Linden.
"That's where our new office is going to be," he said.
"Right over by the flagpole of the fort," I said, with amusement.
"This was the old parade ground," I said, motioning with my hand around the intersection. "That's where the mess hall was."
"Yup," he said, as we walked together in stride down the street.
Sounded good, I said, so he said "that way" and we turned around on the sidewalk and began walking south towards Mountain. There we rounded the corner and went down half a block, where we went inside. It was a nice little restaurant. Randy called it a "local independent version of In-and-Out."
"Animal style," I said, referencing one of the well-known menu options for that chain. "Do they have a secret menu too?" He laughed at the California cultural references.
His wife had him on a gluten-free diet. So at the counter we tried to order our cheeseburgers breadless, like the Flying Dutchman at In-and-Out---using lettuce as the bun. We tried to explain that to the bearded dude at the counter , and we thought he understood what we meant, but when the burgers arrived they turned out to have bread on them.
In the meantime we got to talk about various fun things, such as Burning Man, and more of his work. His firm was doing well. He had an upcoming project in Los Alamos, a city I had recently visited but which was brand new to him. He was just about to fly down to New Mexico to visit the site for the first time.
"Los Alamos--it's not a place where you think a city should exist," I said. "You'll see what I mean."
After lunch he took me on a walking tour to visit the site of their current project, as well as their new offices. It seemed their new digs in the Opera Galleria were just temporary.
We walked down Mountain, then cut through Old Town Plaza to Linden, which we followed towards the river.
Across Jefferson you get to the old industrial area which the city has long wanted to develop.
As we came up to the intersection with Willow, I marveled that the old Northern Colorado Feeders Supply was still in business there.
"It's going to become a restaurant," he said, matter-of-factly.
As we came up the intersection Willow, he pointed ahead to the next block along Linden.
"That's where our new office is going to be," he said.
"Right over by the flagpole of the fort," I said, with amusement.
"This was the old parade ground," I said, motioning with my hand around the intersection. "That's where the mess hall was."
"Yup," he said, as we walked together in stride down the street.
Downtown Fort Colllins---a view of the future of Bangkok
At lunchtime I parked in the garage next to the Opera Galleria downtown on Mason Street. I went inside and went up to the second floor, a mezzanine level, and began looking at the doors of the offices. A guy coming out of one of the offices saw me and asked who I was looking for.
"--- ---- Workshop," I said. The name stumped him.
"A design firm, architects..." I added.
He thought a second. "Did they just move in?"
"Yeah," I said. "They used to be up on the third floor." I pointed up towards the ceiling of the Galleria.
He thought they were in the corner of the floor, where I was heading anyway. The sign next to the door was for a property management firm, but ignored it and went inside anyway. It was suite of mostly empty office rooms. I could see and hear people in the back corner, so I went there and found four men of varying ages sitting at a very long and mostly bare office table, two on each side. They were all behind large computer monitors. Light was streaming through the window behind them.
When he saw me, the guy with round glasses sitting in the corner of the room stood up as I walked towards him.
We shook hands warmly.
"You really do mean the northeast corner of the building," I said to him, jokingly. My friend Randy is precise that way.
He introduced me to the three other guys there, one of whom, the youngest, reminded me that we had been introduced previously, when I was here last spring. But now they have added employees, a bigger team in their new offices.
Before the two of us left to go for lunch, my friend showed me some of the work on one of his designer's monitors. It was for one of their projects in Bangkok, a large multi-use complex. It was intriguing and elaborate, very pleasing the eye. It would make a nice building.
It reminded me of some of the work that Randy had showed me back in his old office in Los Angeles, but it reflected the evolution of experience in his ideas and vision since then.
My friend had leveled up.
"--- ---- Workshop," I said. The name stumped him.
"A design firm, architects..." I added.
He thought a second. "Did they just move in?"
"Yeah," I said. "They used to be up on the third floor." I pointed up towards the ceiling of the Galleria.
He thought they were in the corner of the floor, where I was heading anyway. The sign next to the door was for a property management firm, but ignored it and went inside anyway. It was suite of mostly empty office rooms. I could see and hear people in the back corner, so I went there and found four men of varying ages sitting at a very long and mostly bare office table, two on each side. They were all behind large computer monitors. Light was streaming through the window behind them.
When he saw me, the guy with round glasses sitting in the corner of the room stood up as I walked towards him.
We shook hands warmly.
"You really do mean the northeast corner of the building," I said to him, jokingly. My friend Randy is precise that way.
He introduced me to the three other guys there, one of whom, the youngest, reminded me that we had been introduced previously, when I was here last spring. But now they have added employees, a bigger team in their new offices.
Before the two of us left to go for lunch, my friend showed me some of the work on one of his designer's monitors. It was for one of their projects in Bangkok, a large multi-use complex. It was intriguing and elaborate, very pleasing the eye. It would make a nice building.
It reminded me of some of the work that Randy had showed me back in his old office in Los Angeles, but it reflected the evolution of experience in his ideas and vision since then.
My friend had leveled up.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Harmony Road---civilization teeters
Once, that's an anomaly.
For the first time in living memory I couldn't use the wi-fi at a Starbucks, the one in Estes Park across from the library, near the big intersection. That's how I wound up walking down the cold street and popping into the bar on the corner, the only warm place along the street. Nice---refurbished after the floods because it was three-feet deep through the front door.
"Everything up to that level had to be totally torn out," said Jake, the bartender.
"Looks nice now," I said, admiring the new wood floors and paneling.
The bar---an 11-shelf design, five cases of three like at Aloft, but two left stark and bare against the wood paneling, and two other shelves removed altogether from the wall.
Same number of whiskeys and speciality spirits, but lighter on the vodka selection. Vodka, that's where you can really pad out the shelves. Looks nice back-lit too.
The next day I'm down in Fort Collins and use the wi-fi fine in my hotel, and also the Starbucks by the movie theater (which was packed---had to wait for a table!). Successful in both cases.
But now I'm at the other Starbucks on Harmony and the attwifi is not connecting at all. I check it with my cell phone. It too is unable to obtain an IP address from the attwifi router.
Twice, both in the same area of the state---a well-to-do, Internet-enabled, highly average-educated, tech commuter, fitness-trendy, super yuppie family refugee area of the state.
This is how things fall apart. Or least how I find a new office.
For the first time in living memory I couldn't use the wi-fi at a Starbucks, the one in Estes Park across from the library, near the big intersection. That's how I wound up walking down the cold street and popping into the bar on the corner, the only warm place along the street. Nice---refurbished after the floods because it was three-feet deep through the front door.
"Everything up to that level had to be totally torn out," said Jake, the bartender.
"Looks nice now," I said, admiring the new wood floors and paneling.
The bar---an 11-shelf design, five cases of three like at Aloft, but two left stark and bare against the wood paneling, and two other shelves removed altogether from the wall.
Same number of whiskeys and speciality spirits, but lighter on the vodka selection. Vodka, that's where you can really pad out the shelves. Looks nice back-lit too.
The next day I'm down in Fort Collins and use the wi-fi fine in my hotel, and also the Starbucks by the movie theater (which was packed---had to wait for a table!). Successful in both cases.
But now I'm at the other Starbucks on Harmony and the attwifi is not connecting at all. I check it with my cell phone. It too is unable to obtain an IP address from the attwifi router.
Twice, both in the same area of the state---a well-to-do, Internet-enabled, highly average-educated, tech commuter, fitness-trendy, super yuppie family refugee area of the state.
This is how things fall apart. Or least how I find a new office.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Cambria Suites---the 5-shelf model
This is a hotel bar at its minimum.
Two cases back-lit, each with three shelves. One shelf left empty, as if to emphasize its minimalism.
A strong shelf of whiskey. Very light on the vodka. Kahlua and a few other essentials.
The bar itself is right in the lobby. The bartender sends a mother up to her room with an extra glass of wine, since "it was two days old, and he can't mix that last glass."
Then he serves a mixed drink to an old woman sitting at a table in the well-lit adjacent snack bar area. Her husband sitting next to her is toting his own oxygen and wearing a mask.
They'll go home and say what a great little bar it is, and how they would stay there again.
Two cases back-lit, each with three shelves. One shelf left empty, as if to emphasize its minimalism.
A strong shelf of whiskey. Very light on the vodka. Kahlua and a few other essentials.
The bar itself is right in the lobby. The bartender sends a mother up to her room with an extra glass of wine, since "it was two days old, and he can't mix that last glass."
Then he serves a mixed drink to an old woman sitting at a table in the well-lit adjacent snack bar area. Her husband sitting next to her is toting his own oxygen and wearing a mask.
They'll go home and say what a great little bar it is, and how they would stay there again.
Estes Park---white out
Last night was the night of the Aurora over Colorado. Denver was clear, but there had been weather along the tops of the Rockies all day. At night the winds were picking up and cluttering the sky with snow blown down from the Continental Divide. In the morning, it was like a translucent cloud reaching down from the valleys around Moraine Park. There would be little point in going into the park that day, even for a quick pop-in.
My hotel was along the lake---the reservoir in the lower valley. The best rooms looked out over the lake and towards Longs Peak. It was low season, and had plenty of availability, but the woman at the front desk did not offer to upgrade me to the better side of the hotel. A classy place would have done that.
The hotel was the fourth one in a row in Colorado with a bar. This one had live music, a local band playing oldies, and a half dozen women and a few men dancing to it.
The bottles behind the bar were cluttered, unorganized. Rum and gin all mixed together. Lots and lots of bottled beer displayed on the self---such a low profit margin on those. A measly selection on tap.
A ordered a rib-eye and a vodka martini straight-up with a twist. The young kid bartender who came out to the little table repeated it back to me with earnestness. I felt like I was quizzing him. His supervisor showed him how to make it, and verifty the aroma. Then he reminded himself at the last minute to put it on a proper serving tray to bring it to me. All the mechanicals are down. Lots of promise there.
My hotel was along the lake---the reservoir in the lower valley. The best rooms looked out over the lake and towards Longs Peak. It was low season, and had plenty of availability, but the woman at the front desk did not offer to upgrade me to the better side of the hotel. A classy place would have done that.
The hotel was the fourth one in a row in Colorado with a bar. This one had live music, a local band playing oldies, and a half dozen women and a few men dancing to it.
The bottles behind the bar were cluttered, unorganized. Rum and gin all mixed together. Lots and lots of bottled beer displayed on the self---such a low profit margin on those. A measly selection on tap.
A ordered a rib-eye and a vodka martini straight-up with a twist. The young kid bartender who came out to the little table repeated it back to me with earnestness. I felt like I was quizzing him. His supervisor showed him how to make it, and verifty the aroma. Then he reminded himself at the last minute to put it on a proper serving tray to bring it to me. All the mechanicals are down. Lots of promise there.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Central City---sexy grandma cocktail waitress
Something at altitude makes everything dry and ghostlike. Preserved yet withered, and eternally cold.
Central City---the City of Central---is to Colorado what Astoria is to Oregon---the point at which civilization entered the area, and the key to understanding its history. It is the Ur-Colorado location.
As a student of America, I am a student of American history.
As a student of American history, I am a student of American financial history.
As a student of American financial history, I am a student of American railroad history.
As a student of American railroad history, I am student of the Gold Rush.
No trains here now. Just a scraped over and sorted over gulch of tailings, still denuded hillsides, and a town that sags like a necklace across from one side to another, a string of Victorian brick structures along Main like a set of new glittering teeth.
Built to survive even catastrophic fire, the buildings still stand after the long slow death of the gold industry, and then the renovation for casinos.
St. James', the first methodist church in Colorado, has Sunday School at 10:00 am. Across the street, the opera house has a resident theater company again, for part of the year. The place where Rose Haydee once danced became a casino then shut down again as the new modern casinos hotels were built down the hill at Black Hawk, along the main highway. One can see their lights down the gulch. One day the casinos that came and went on Main Street will be memorialized in plaques of their own along the sidewalk.
A couple casinos are still open here, and prospering. Looser slots still bring the tour buses up the gulch to the old town with its ancient ruins.
The come here to replant their gold---government checks and savings---like an offering to keep the font of wealth flowing down Clear Creek Canyon, washed like the original placer flakes downstream to reglitter the state capitol dome.
Mr. Jacob's store became the headquarters of the Ancient Order of United Workmen, which added the second story of the building. In the early Twentieth Century, it became the town post office. In 1948 it became the back room of the notorious Glory Hole saloon, itself named for the mine and mill, which by then was just a memory.
Today, next door is the world's first recreational marijuana dispensary---the first license issued. The lights shine bright in the windows on otherwise dark block of at the corner of Main and Nevada.
Central City---the City of Central---is to Colorado what Astoria is to Oregon---the point at which civilization entered the area, and the key to understanding its history. It is the Ur-Colorado location.
As a student of America, I am a student of American history.
As a student of American history, I am a student of American financial history.
As a student of American financial history, I am a student of American railroad history.
As a student of American railroad history, I am student of the Gold Rush.
No trains here now. Just a scraped over and sorted over gulch of tailings, still denuded hillsides, and a town that sags like a necklace across from one side to another, a string of Victorian brick structures along Main like a set of new glittering teeth.
Built to survive even catastrophic fire, the buildings still stand after the long slow death of the gold industry, and then the renovation for casinos.
St. James', the first methodist church in Colorado, has Sunday School at 10:00 am. Across the street, the opera house has a resident theater company again, for part of the year. The place where Rose Haydee once danced became a casino then shut down again as the new modern casinos hotels were built down the hill at Black Hawk, along the main highway. One can see their lights down the gulch. One day the casinos that came and went on Main Street will be memorialized in plaques of their own along the sidewalk.
A couple casinos are still open here, and prospering. Looser slots still bring the tour buses up the gulch to the old town with its ancient ruins.
The come here to replant their gold---government checks and savings---like an offering to keep the font of wealth flowing down Clear Creek Canyon, washed like the original placer flakes downstream to reglitter the state capitol dome.
Mr. Jacob's store became the headquarters of the Ancient Order of United Workmen, which added the second story of the building. In the early Twentieth Century, it became the town post office. In 1948 it became the back room of the notorious Glory Hole saloon, itself named for the mine and mill, which by then was just a memory.
Today, next door is the world's first recreational marijuana dispensary---the first license issued. The lights shine bright in the windows on otherwise dark block of at the corner of Main and Nevada.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Denver---ugly city
City of Commerce, along I-270. The great refinery chugging opaque billows across the tableau of the Rockies. Great parking lots and semi trailers parked with trucks, warehouses, great barns for construction of large vehicles. Many, many railroad tracks. The Stockyards. The ragged decayed pavement of the Interstate splitting into multiple lanes with multiple signs and arrows.
A cookie factory. A bread factory. The diviest of dive bars. Power lines, rising pavement. Frontage roads. Strange hotels. Billboards upon billboards.
In the old days, the Brown Cloud, the soil of the plains tossed into the air mixed with exhaust fumes and water vapor, the respiration of human beings.
Even from Boulder, ugly.
From the South, beautiful, the skyline seen on television and movies. From Parker. From Castle Rock. From the Springs. That way so nice.
But from the North, down along I-25, through the Little Boxes of Thornton and Northglenn, and the old farm communities built on the baselines of grids and county roads.
Denver. Ugly. And Civilization---beautiful civilization.
A cookie factory. A bread factory. The diviest of dive bars. Power lines, rising pavement. Frontage roads. Strange hotels. Billboards upon billboards.
In the old days, the Brown Cloud, the soil of the plains tossed into the air mixed with exhaust fumes and water vapor, the respiration of human beings.
Even from Boulder, ugly.
From the South, beautiful, the skyline seen on television and movies. From Parker. From Castle Rock. From the Springs. That way so nice.
But from the North, down along I-25, through the Little Boxes of Thornton and Northglenn, and the old farm communities built on the baselines of grids and county roads.
Denver. Ugly. And Civilization---beautiful civilization.
Boulder---a cheap hotel room with steamed-up windows
Hotel #3 of 2014 was the Boulder Outlook, a former two-story motor court on the south edge of town, along the frontage road of 28th street as you come off the Boulder turnpike. It has been remodeled with a roof over the central courtyard and heated swimming area to create a "winter oasis" in the style of the larger motels of Montana.
It also has a restaurant and a nightclub with live acts, as thus bills itself as a hip independent "all-inclusive" lodging, but with a Boulder touch. For example, there is a massage therapist and reflexologist with an office right across from the reception desk.
That being said, the remodel into the current version is definitely from earlier era of "hip independent hotels" and it appears a bit dated at this point (lack of neon is the surest sign of this). The bar was convenient, given that I simply had to cross the heated indoor area, but inside it was rather nondescript. Thankfully it served a decent late-evening meal of beef stroganoff.
Then I stumped the waitress by ordering a drink off the cocktail menu that she hadn't heard of, a "Pama-tini," basically a pomegranate martini. I had to show it to her on the menu. I busted her chops for it in a friendly way, but from watching Bar Rescue, this is a classic sign of an underperforming watering hole.
The room was decent, albeit fairly dated in decor as well. I had pre-booked a king room with a "pool view," which is one that opens onto the central indoor area. The heat was enough to keep my room sweltering the entire evening. I had to go outside into the fresh cold a couple times, just for some air.
But really that's a mild complaint at most. On the big plus side, the Outlook has my favorite movie channel, the first place I've seen in this area in a while to carry TCM (today is Elvis's birthday!). So given the moderate price of the rooms, the Outlook will probably become my go-to lodging in Boulder for the time being, when I'm not crashing on Okki's sofa.
But given my history of "closing down" Boulder lodging establishments, that's not so good for the Outlook. Or perhaps someone in the school of Jon Taffer will swoop in and change the whole place top to bottom, along with the bar. It could be the Boulder version of the Hotel Jupiter. But then they would charge more for the rooms, and probably get some kind of streamlined satellite entertainment system that doesn't include TCM.
Alas, I barely got to know you, dear Outlook.
It also has a restaurant and a nightclub with live acts, as thus bills itself as a hip independent "all-inclusive" lodging, but with a Boulder touch. For example, there is a massage therapist and reflexologist with an office right across from the reception desk.
That being said, the remodel into the current version is definitely from earlier era of "hip independent hotels" and it appears a bit dated at this point (lack of neon is the surest sign of this). The bar was convenient, given that I simply had to cross the heated indoor area, but inside it was rather nondescript. Thankfully it served a decent late-evening meal of beef stroganoff.
Then I stumped the waitress by ordering a drink off the cocktail menu that she hadn't heard of, a "Pama-tini," basically a pomegranate martini. I had to show it to her on the menu. I busted her chops for it in a friendly way, but from watching Bar Rescue, this is a classic sign of an underperforming watering hole.
The room was decent, albeit fairly dated in decor as well. I had pre-booked a king room with a "pool view," which is one that opens onto the central indoor area. The heat was enough to keep my room sweltering the entire evening. I had to go outside into the fresh cold a couple times, just for some air.
But really that's a mild complaint at most. On the big plus side, the Outlook has my favorite movie channel, the first place I've seen in this area in a while to carry TCM (today is Elvis's birthday!). So given the moderate price of the rooms, the Outlook will probably become my go-to lodging in Boulder for the time being, when I'm not crashing on Okki's sofa.
But given my history of "closing down" Boulder lodging establishments, that's not so good for the Outlook. Or perhaps someone in the school of Jon Taffer will swoop in and change the whole place top to bottom, along with the bar. It could be the Boulder version of the Hotel Jupiter. But then they would charge more for the rooms, and probably get some kind of streamlined satellite entertainment system that doesn't include TCM.
Alas, I barely got to know you, dear Outlook.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Peña Boulevard at I-70---the sinkhole of the Colorado paradise
Peña Boulevard enters the great stream of I-70 on the northeast edge of Denver. To the east is the Great Plains. The intersection thus serves as a collection point of humanity, both from DIA nearby, as well as the Interstate highway system.
The Aloft is located in the clump of mid-prized hotels on the west side of Peña. On the east side are business that cater more towards the ground-based migrant population. It has all the elements of life----Walmart, Home Depot, Best buy, Office Depot, Starbucks, Wells Fargo, O'Reilly Auto Parts, Brakes Plus, Discount Tire, and a couple fast food places, including a Del Taco and a Dairy Queen Grill.
The parking lot of the Wal-Mart had more than a few cars that looked possibly abandoned---the ground was untouched from the last snow storm. A large truck with a stenciled sign "Aliens on Board" was being used to jumpstart a smaller truck.
Trying to buy oranges in the Wal-Mart proved comical and lengthy, due to the absurdities of the self-checkout system. It was clear the staff there is hovering just in the functional area.
This is part of Colorado that feels the most like Fresno---broken down, disconnected, somewhat desperate below the surface, the folks who are on the edge of the economic system yet can still partake of it.
Colorado is lucky because this is as bad as it gets. It's a paradise compared to the worst of other places, even in the rest of America.
It feels beautiful, the collection of businesses at the interchange---a perfect little bit of civilization, reflecting the needs of the average person of today. I managed to get a little work done at the Starbucks, as well as some errands.
Then I got in my car in the mid afternoon and drove to Boulder, where I checked into a motel.
Just another migrant.
The Aloft is located in the clump of mid-prized hotels on the west side of Peña. On the east side are business that cater more towards the ground-based migrant population. It has all the elements of life----Walmart, Home Depot, Best buy, Office Depot, Starbucks, Wells Fargo, O'Reilly Auto Parts, Brakes Plus, Discount Tire, and a couple fast food places, including a Del Taco and a Dairy Queen Grill.
The parking lot of the Wal-Mart had more than a few cars that looked possibly abandoned---the ground was untouched from the last snow storm. A large truck with a stenciled sign "Aliens on Board" was being used to jumpstart a smaller truck.
Trying to buy oranges in the Wal-Mart proved comical and lengthy, due to the absurdities of the self-checkout system. It was clear the staff there is hovering just in the functional area.
This is part of Colorado that feels the most like Fresno---broken down, disconnected, somewhat desperate below the surface, the folks who are on the edge of the economic system yet can still partake of it.
Colorado is lucky because this is as bad as it gets. It's a paradise compared to the worst of other places, even in the rest of America.
It feels beautiful, the collection of businesses at the interchange---a perfect little bit of civilization, reflecting the needs of the average person of today. I managed to get a little work done at the Starbucks, as well as some errands.
Then I got in my car in the mid afternoon and drove to Boulder, where I checked into a motel.
Just another migrant.
Monday, January 6, 2014
W XYZ----a post-championship review
Aloft is the budget boutique hotel entry of W Hotels subgroup of Starwood. It feels like a utopian version of a European hostel in a major capital that has nightclubs nearby.
The locations are listed on the inside of the elevator.----Austin. Bogota. Chinese cities beginning with "Zh". The elevators have funky floors with fluid that changes under the pressure of one's feet.
All the Aloft installations have similar bars in the lobby, called W XYZ, with the name in neon above the bar. Some of them are mirror images of the layout at the one in Aurora.
This is according to the bartender there.
Behind the bar are five sets of shelves, backlit in a gradient of color from orange to sky blue. Each set has three shelves. On the fifteen shelves, I observed:
Bottled beers: 2 shelves (the top shelves of the two sets on the right)
Wines: 2 shelves (the top shelves of the two sets on the left)
Vodkas: 3 shelves (the middle set of shelves)
Whiskys: 2 and one half shelves
Aperitifs: 1 half of a shelf
Liquers: 1 shelf
Rums: 1 shelf
Tequilas: 1 shelf
Misc other: 1 shelf
When I mentioned this to the bartender I learned that this was not the standard layout. He himself had arranged them such, under his autonomy as the senior bartender.
We agreed it was genius to allow guests to charge drinks to their room.
"A lot of money," I said.
He nodded his ahead.
"Quite a game," I said to him, after a pause in the conversation, while glancing up at the television above the bar. It was still tuned to the sports channel showing the recent game highlights. The sound was turned down.
He hadn't seen much of the game. Wasn't a college football fan, I could tell.
He comped me a second White Russian. He was astonished at my resemblance to a well-known Scottish comedian (I don't see it). But I blew his mind when I slipped into a Scottish accent..
I told him he looked like Leo DiCaprio (which he does, with a skinnier neck).
Made his night.
The locations are listed on the inside of the elevator.----Austin. Bogota. Chinese cities beginning with "Zh". The elevators have funky floors with fluid that changes under the pressure of one's feet.
All the Aloft installations have similar bars in the lobby, called W XYZ, with the name in neon above the bar. Some of them are mirror images of the layout at the one in Aurora.
This is according to the bartender there.
Behind the bar are five sets of shelves, backlit in a gradient of color from orange to sky blue. Each set has three shelves. On the fifteen shelves, I observed:
Bottled beers: 2 shelves (the top shelves of the two sets on the right)
Wines: 2 shelves (the top shelves of the two sets on the left)
Vodkas: 3 shelves (the middle set of shelves)
Whiskys: 2 and one half shelves
Aperitifs: 1 half of a shelf
Liquers: 1 shelf
Rums: 1 shelf
Tequilas: 1 shelf
Misc other: 1 shelf
When I mentioned this to the bartender I learned that this was not the standard layout. He himself had arranged them such, under his autonomy as the senior bartender.
We agreed it was genius to allow guests to charge drinks to their room.
"A lot of money," I said.
He nodded his ahead.
"Quite a game," I said to him, after a pause in the conversation, while glancing up at the television above the bar. It was still tuned to the sports channel showing the recent game highlights. The sound was turned down.
He hadn't seen much of the game. Wasn't a college football fan, I could tell.
He comped me a second White Russian. He was astonished at my resemblance to a well-known Scottish comedian (I don't see it). But I blew his mind when I slipped into a Scottish accent..
I told him he looked like Leo DiCaprio (which he does, with a skinnier neck).
Made his night.
Aurora---streams of light like a spaceway
Aloft Hotel Denver Airport. 2nd hotel of the year.
Fourth Floor room with a king bed. Two big windows on the far wall look out over I-70 at night.
Pairs of lights, a yellow and red one a car length apart, make a fast stream in unidirectional motion. across both the windows, the cars on the elevated highway just below the elevation of the room.
In the dark, just above the car stream, a bigger static ribbon of lights along the horizon---the city, like the thin flat disk of the Milky Way seen from edge.
Between the windows, on the big flat screen television, the American spectacle of football championship at the stadium of flowers in southern California.
Cold night outside. Heater gushes warm air. Later I'll go down to the bar in the lobby and get some chow.
Fourth Floor room with a king bed. Two big windows on the far wall look out over I-70 at night.
Pairs of lights, a yellow and red one a car length apart, make a fast stream in unidirectional motion. across both the windows, the cars on the elevated highway just below the elevation of the room.
In the dark, just above the car stream, a bigger static ribbon of lights along the horizon---the city, like the thin flat disk of the Milky Way seen from edge.
Between the windows, on the big flat screen television, the American spectacle of football championship at the stadium of flowers in southern California.
Cold night outside. Heater gushes warm air. Later I'll go down to the bar in the lobby and get some chow.
Colorado---Heaven
Flew back to Denver today.
Walked back into downtown Phoenix then caught the Valley Rail out to 44th Street, then the Sky Train to Terminal D. Worked at the coffeeshop of the D Concourse.
Took an aisle seat on the plane and craned to look out windows. Forty minutes into the flight saw we were over the San Juans. Just jagged snow out both directions.
An hour before sunset. To the east the San Luis Valley and the incomparable ridge of the Sangre de Cristos in winter. Hippies down there at Crestone. Big ranches.
Walked back into downtown Phoenix then caught the Valley Rail out to 44th Street, then the Sky Train to Terminal D. Worked at the coffeeshop of the D Concourse.
Took an aisle seat on the plane and craned to look out windows. Forty minutes into the flight saw we were over the San Juans. Just jagged snow out both directions.
An hour before sunset. To the east the San Luis Valley and the incomparable ridge of the Sangre de Cristos in winter. Hippies down there at Crestone. Big ranches.
Phoenix---Former Terra Incognita
As it happened, this year's slate of my hotel stays would begin in Phoenix, at the Super 8 on Van Buren just east of downtown.
Phoenix is not a city that I know well. During my month-long sojourn in Arizona last spring, I went all over the state, but I had driven through Phoenix without even stopping. This visit was an opportunity to acquaint myself with the feeling of a city that I had skipped entirely in the past.
My hosts---Heather and her fiance had dropped me off there yesterday, just before leaving Red at the airport for her flight back to Portland.
My extra day in Phoenix was the product of a mix-up between yours truly and Red concerning the date of her return flight. My hosts offered to let me stay an extra night in Scottsdale, but as the reservation was non-refundable, I chose to follow my original plan. Also, as I pointed out to Red, it give me a chance to get a jump on the week's work without inconveniencing my hosts.
The Super 8 on Van Buren had good reviews on Booking.com, and it seemed the obvious choice, given that five of the nine hotels where I stayed last spring in Arizona were Super 8 franchises. Also it was near the airport.
Heather, as it turns out, shares my appreciation for the Super 8 chain. She couldn't think of any reason she'd want to pay for a more expensive room.
"But it's not as cheap since Wyndham took over," she lamented.
I attempted to make a pitch for the benefits of Motel 6 among my hosts, but found only a little success.
This particular Super 8 lived up to its comments on line. It was clean and tidy, and indeed it was close to downtown Phoenix. This fact must be qualified by the observation that downtown Phoenix is not only rather devoid of activity in the evening, but it also drops off quickly into a desolation of parking lots and lower income residences. My hotel seemed on the very frontier of where the recent condo developments had reached along Van Buren.
Last night I used this opportunity to stroll into downtown along the quiet dark street, past the satellite campuses of both U of A and ASU, and then to give myself a tour of the helical palm tree Christmas lights in the Arizona Center shops, an outdoor mall on the northeast edge of the clump of downtown skyscrapers.
That was darn near the only thing going on in downtown that evening, outside of the open air skating rink, where I killed ten minutes watching folks clumsily circle on the ice to the same late Seventies song that were the staple of skating rinks three decades ago.
As anyone knows who reads my blog, Arizona for me is all about winter sports.
Phoenix is not a city that I know well. During my month-long sojourn in Arizona last spring, I went all over the state, but I had driven through Phoenix without even stopping. This visit was an opportunity to acquaint myself with the feeling of a city that I had skipped entirely in the past.
My hosts---Heather and her fiance had dropped me off there yesterday, just before leaving Red at the airport for her flight back to Portland.
My extra day in Phoenix was the product of a mix-up between yours truly and Red concerning the date of her return flight. My hosts offered to let me stay an extra night in Scottsdale, but as the reservation was non-refundable, I chose to follow my original plan. Also, as I pointed out to Red, it give me a chance to get a jump on the week's work without inconveniencing my hosts.
The Super 8 on Van Buren had good reviews on Booking.com, and it seemed the obvious choice, given that five of the nine hotels where I stayed last spring in Arizona were Super 8 franchises. Also it was near the airport.
Heather, as it turns out, shares my appreciation for the Super 8 chain. She couldn't think of any reason she'd want to pay for a more expensive room.
"But it's not as cheap since Wyndham took over," she lamented.
I attempted to make a pitch for the benefits of Motel 6 among my hosts, but found only a little success.
This particular Super 8 lived up to its comments on line. It was clean and tidy, and indeed it was close to downtown Phoenix. This fact must be qualified by the observation that downtown Phoenix is not only rather devoid of activity in the evening, but it also drops off quickly into a desolation of parking lots and lower income residences. My hotel seemed on the very frontier of where the recent condo developments had reached along Van Buren.
Last night I used this opportunity to stroll into downtown along the quiet dark street, past the satellite campuses of both U of A and ASU, and then to give myself a tour of the helical palm tree Christmas lights in the Arizona Center shops, an outdoor mall on the northeast edge of the clump of downtown skyscrapers.
That was darn near the only thing going on in downtown that evening, outside of the open air skating rink, where I killed ten minutes watching folks clumsily circle on the ice to the same late Seventies song that were the staple of skating rinks three decades ago.
As anyone knows who reads my blog, Arizona for me is all about winter sports.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Spending Imaginary Money in Scottsdale
Had a really nice weekend in Scottsdale. Most of it was spent hanging out at Heather's place, with her and her fiance, as well as Red of course. It was splendidly lazy.
The visit was punctuated by a pair of visits that we made into Old Town Scottsdale, which is a quite a drive from Heather's place up in the northern section of town. We went in last night after dinner to walk around amid the Christmas lights that spiral in a helix up the trunks of the palms trees. I marveled at how much effort it must be to put up the lights.
Until this visit, I was not aware that Scottsdale is regarded as wealthy community in the Phoenix area. This was evident from the opulent art galleries in old town, and the nearby businesses along Scottsdale Boulevard. It reminded me of Palm Springs.
"My kind of place," I said to Red, as we passed by the windows of the galleries on Main Street. "I like wealthy places."
It's true, actually. I'm a student of prosperity, and I'm always interested in what makes a place interesting to those with money. My previous tendency towards envy has long-since faded away. I feel free in my minimalist lifestyle, and find little need to "want" the things that large amounts of money can buy, at least the material things.
Still it was fun to pretend I was furnishing a new house and was looking for objects of art from the galleries. With that in mind, I instantly became more discerning, and found myself rejecting most of the painting and sculptors in the windows.
"How about this one?" said Red, pointing to a large painting of a rabbit wearing a miltary outfit and standing in a drawing room of a large house. It has a postmodern surrealist air. The artist's name was Russian.
"Maybe for my cannabis den," I replied.
Never had I felt so decadent.
The visit was punctuated by a pair of visits that we made into Old Town Scottsdale, which is a quite a drive from Heather's place up in the northern section of town. We went in last night after dinner to walk around amid the Christmas lights that spiral in a helix up the trunks of the palms trees. I marveled at how much effort it must be to put up the lights.
Until this visit, I was not aware that Scottsdale is regarded as wealthy community in the Phoenix area. This was evident from the opulent art galleries in old town, and the nearby businesses along Scottsdale Boulevard. It reminded me of Palm Springs.
"My kind of place," I said to Red, as we passed by the windows of the galleries on Main Street. "I like wealthy places."
It's true, actually. I'm a student of prosperity, and I'm always interested in what makes a place interesting to those with money. My previous tendency towards envy has long-since faded away. I feel free in my minimalist lifestyle, and find little need to "want" the things that large amounts of money can buy, at least the material things.
Still it was fun to pretend I was furnishing a new house and was looking for objects of art from the galleries. With that in mind, I instantly became more discerning, and found myself rejecting most of the painting and sculptors in the windows.
"How about this one?" said Red, pointing to a large painting of a rabbit wearing a miltary outfit and standing in a drawing room of a large house. It has a postmodern surrealist air. The artist's name was Russian.
"Maybe for my cannabis den," I replied.
Never had I felt so decadent.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Paradise Includes Grapefruits
Saturday afternoon. I sit with my laptop in a wicker lounge chair next to the swimming pool, the surface of which undulates in tiny microvibrations to create a turquoise virtual image of the Cat's Paw that sits atop the cinder block fence in back of it.
I'd run down the batteries on the laptop during the flight down from Denver yesterday evening, so I need juice. We'd left DIA just about sundown and chased the twilight all the way to Phoenix.
On the way, sitting in a window seat, I used the Southwest flight tracker to keep track of our progress. We passed directly over the route of some of my perambulations in the Bimmer last March---U.S. Highway 550 across northwestern New Mexico, and several towns in eastern Arizona where I had stayed in motels.
It's a perfect metaphor for the kind of upward progress I have striving to maintain---to soar over roads that once took days and weeks to traverse.
Out on the patio, Heather, my hostess here in Scottsdale, finds an outlet hidden in the landscaping for the laptop so that I can web surf in the warm sun.
Red is off in the corner of the yard, "perfecting her migrant worker skills" by picking grapefruits from the tree.
Grapefruits have always been my favorite fruit, since I was a kid. A place where they grow on trees another perfect metaphor, the kind I like to cultivate.
I'd run down the batteries on the laptop during the flight down from Denver yesterday evening, so I need juice. We'd left DIA just about sundown and chased the twilight all the way to Phoenix.
On the way, sitting in a window seat, I used the Southwest flight tracker to keep track of our progress. We passed directly over the route of some of my perambulations in the Bimmer last March---U.S. Highway 550 across northwestern New Mexico, and several towns in eastern Arizona where I had stayed in motels.
It's a perfect metaphor for the kind of upward progress I have striving to maintain---to soar over roads that once took days and weeks to traverse.
Out on the patio, Heather, my hostess here in Scottsdale, finds an outlet hidden in the landscaping for the laptop so that I can web surf in the warm sun.
Red is off in the corner of the yard, "perfecting her migrant worker skills" by picking grapefruits from the tree.
Grapefruits have always been my favorite fruit, since I was a kid. A place where they grow on trees another perfect metaphor, the kind I like to cultivate.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Good-bye Lucky Thirteen
Before plunging fully into the new year, it's worth taking a brief look back at the old one. Frankly, two thousand thirteen was a heck of year for yours truly, one of my favorites so far. I'm hoping that the momentum just keeps going in the same direction for 2014
For me, 2013 was a year of hotel/motel residencies---87 different stays in 85 different lodgings (with two return visits). The visits ranged from single-night stays in many locations, to the three-and-a-half week stretch at the Ramada Inn in Fresno, my longest single stay at any one place over the last year.
Geographically, the Portland metro area as this year's hotel champion, accounting for 17 of the 85 locations. That beats out last year's winner, Fresno, where I stayed in 12 different hotels.
Breakdown of locations by state/province: Oregon (20), Colorado (12), California (11), Arizona (9), Washington (7), Montana (6), Hawaii (5), New Mexico (5), Nevada (5), Utah (2), British Columbia (1), Idaho (1), Wyoming (1).
Given the right circumstances, I would stay in almost all of them again. That even goes for the Forest Grove Inn, providing that it was late at night and everything else in the area was booked.
The exceptions might be the Randle Motel, which is very rustic, out in Bigfoot/D.B. Cooper Country but it still had TCM!). The Super 8 on Las Vegas Boulevard was a bit shabby, even for a solo traveler for a couple days in Vegas. Likewise the La Quinta Northglenn, which had crumbling doors and didn't even have proper hot water.
The Super 8 in Pine Top, Arizona, where the owner was sort of an @-hole when I complained about the noise that the water heater was making directly below my room, is probably not a place I would return to in the near future.
Also the Siesta Inn in Nogales, the Motel 6 in Los Alamos, the Lamplighter Inn in Santa Fe, and the Best Western Skyway Inn in Manitou Springs are definite no-gos because of utterly unusable wifi. Sorry, that's simply a must.
Moreover the Hotel North Beach was fun as a rediscovery of the San Francisco lodging experience of the early Twentieth Century, and it was certainly clean and well run, but I would be satisfied with a traditional room the next time I'm there.
Some of the places were real gems, one that I would make a point of booking if I were in the same area again. Ones that come to mind are the Days Inn in Chula Vista, a very well-run place. Also the Meridian Motel 6 will be my go-to for overnights in Boise.
The Inn at Jack London Square in Oakland was a particularly valuable discovery, since it completely solves my problem of finding lodging when I visit my peeps in the East Bay.
Likewise I could easily designate the Best Western Reno Airport as my official Burning Man decompression headquarters. Stefan and I both enjoyed our stays there.
And it's difficult to see why I'd want to stay anywhere but the Saddle West in Pahrump, if I'm back there for another Front Sight course, especially since students get a discount.
And in Bishop, CA you'll never find me staying anywhere by the Mountain View Motel---a cheap hidden gem of a place.
In terms of luxury, the Elara in Las Vegas, the Heathman in Portland, the Bayshore Westin in Vancouver, and the Hilton Waikoloa Village come to mind.
On that score, I've sort of been spoiled by stays at the Hilton in Fort Collins and the Westin in Westminster, two places I visit frequently. I wonder if I can ever go back to inferior digs when I'm there.
Also honorable mentions: Salt Lake Plaza Hotel, Hilo Seaside Motel, Jupiter Hotel, Waikiki Grand, and the C'mon Inn Billings.
Over the course of the year there was a trend from the budget Wyndham properties (Super 8, Days Inn) towards the Best Western Plus hotels. The ones in Wilsonville, Forest Grove, Washougal, Newport, Astoria, and Reno were all pleasant stays.
One establishment in the list below has already been shuttered, at least temporarily---the Best Western Golden Buff Lodge in Boulder, where I holed for a couple weeks during the April snowstorms (that presaged the rain to come). I guess someone was reading my blog and saw my suggestion that the place needed renovation, because that's exactly what has happened, as of October.
Ironically the last place I stayed in Boulder for any length of time before that, the Boulder International Youth Hostel in 2011, also has closed (permanently after many years). Given that the company I worked for in Boulder back then is also caput, it would seem I have the "Boulder touch." Okki's lucky that his trailer is intact.
One more fun fact---all of the stays listed below except one were booked online prior to arrival, using either a proprietary corporate web site, or one of the several travel booking sites. Booking.com is definitely my favorite for that.
The two exceptions to online booking included the Saddle West (by phone, as per Front Sight instructions) and the Wetherill Inn on the Navajo Reservation in Kayenta, Arizona, where I simply walked in and asked for a room, old school. It can still be done, but I much prefer the gracefulness of having a booking number for a king bed in my email before arrival.
So here is the whole, from first to last. It's hard to see how 2014 will beat this number, but one never knows. The (*) indicates a return visit to a location where I had stayed in 2012.
For me, 2013 was a year of hotel/motel residencies---87 different stays in 85 different lodgings (with two return visits). The visits ranged from single-night stays in many locations, to the three-and-a-half week stretch at the Ramada Inn in Fresno, my longest single stay at any one place over the last year.
Geographically, the Portland metro area as this year's hotel champion, accounting for 17 of the 85 locations. That beats out last year's winner, Fresno, where I stayed in 12 different hotels.
Breakdown of locations by state/province: Oregon (20), Colorado (12), California (11), Arizona (9), Washington (7), Montana (6), Hawaii (5), New Mexico (5), Nevada (5), Utah (2), British Columbia (1), Idaho (1), Wyoming (1).
Given the right circumstances, I would stay in almost all of them again. That even goes for the Forest Grove Inn, providing that it was late at night and everything else in the area was booked.
The exceptions might be the Randle Motel, which is very rustic, out in Bigfoot/D.B. Cooper Country but it still had TCM!). The Super 8 on Las Vegas Boulevard was a bit shabby, even for a solo traveler for a couple days in Vegas. Likewise the La Quinta Northglenn, which had crumbling doors and didn't even have proper hot water.
The Super 8 in Pine Top, Arizona, where the owner was sort of an @-hole when I complained about the noise that the water heater was making directly below my room, is probably not a place I would return to in the near future.
Also the Siesta Inn in Nogales, the Motel 6 in Los Alamos, the Lamplighter Inn in Santa Fe, and the Best Western Skyway Inn in Manitou Springs are definite no-gos because of utterly unusable wifi. Sorry, that's simply a must.
Moreover the Hotel North Beach was fun as a rediscovery of the San Francisco lodging experience of the early Twentieth Century, and it was certainly clean and well run, but I would be satisfied with a traditional room the next time I'm there.
Some of the places were real gems, one that I would make a point of booking if I were in the same area again. Ones that come to mind are the Days Inn in Chula Vista, a very well-run place. Also the Meridian Motel 6 will be my go-to for overnights in Boise.
The Inn at Jack London Square in Oakland was a particularly valuable discovery, since it completely solves my problem of finding lodging when I visit my peeps in the East Bay.
Likewise I could easily designate the Best Western Reno Airport as my official Burning Man decompression headquarters. Stefan and I both enjoyed our stays there.
And it's difficult to see why I'd want to stay anywhere but the Saddle West in Pahrump, if I'm back there for another Front Sight course, especially since students get a discount.
And in Bishop, CA you'll never find me staying anywhere by the Mountain View Motel---a cheap hidden gem of a place.
In terms of luxury, the Elara in Las Vegas, the Heathman in Portland, the Bayshore Westin in Vancouver, and the Hilton Waikoloa Village come to mind.
On that score, I've sort of been spoiled by stays at the Hilton in Fort Collins and the Westin in Westminster, two places I visit frequently. I wonder if I can ever go back to inferior digs when I'm there.
Also honorable mentions: Salt Lake Plaza Hotel, Hilo Seaside Motel, Jupiter Hotel, Waikiki Grand, and the C'mon Inn Billings.
Over the course of the year there was a trend from the budget Wyndham properties (Super 8, Days Inn) towards the Best Western Plus hotels. The ones in Wilsonville, Forest Grove, Washougal, Newport, Astoria, and Reno were all pleasant stays.
One establishment in the list below has already been shuttered, at least temporarily---the Best Western Golden Buff Lodge in Boulder, where I holed for a couple weeks during the April snowstorms (that presaged the rain to come). I guess someone was reading my blog and saw my suggestion that the place needed renovation, because that's exactly what has happened, as of October.
Ironically the last place I stayed in Boulder for any length of time before that, the Boulder International Youth Hostel in 2011, also has closed (permanently after many years). Given that the company I worked for in Boulder back then is also caput, it would seem I have the "Boulder touch." Okki's lucky that his trailer is intact.
One more fun fact---all of the stays listed below except one were booked online prior to arrival, using either a proprietary corporate web site, or one of the several travel booking sites. Booking.com is definitely my favorite for that.
The two exceptions to online booking included the Saddle West (by phone, as per Front Sight instructions) and the Wetherill Inn on the Navajo Reservation in Kayenta, Arizona, where I simply walked in and asked for a room, old school. It can still be done, but I much prefer the gracefulness of having a booking number for a king bed in my email before arrival.
So here is the whole, from first to last. It's hard to see how 2014 will beat this number, but one never knows. The (*) indicates a return visit to a location where I had stayed in 2012.
- Motel 6 San Diego Downtown --- San Diego, CA
- Days Inn San Diego/South Bay --- Chula Vista, CA
- Vacation Inn El Centro --- El Centro, CA
- Days Inn Palm Springs --- Palm Spring, CA
- Motel 6 Twentynine Palms --- Twentynine Palms, CA
- Mountain View Motel -- -Bishop, CA (*)
- Jim Butler Inn and Suites -- Tonopah, NV
- Saddle West Hotel --- Pahrump, NV
- Elara --- Las Vegas, NV
- Super 8 Las Vegas -- Las Nevas, NV
- Super 8 Williams East --- Williams, AZ
- Days Inn Flagstaff --- Flagstaff, AZ
- Super 8 Sedona --- Sedona, AZ
- Super 8 Tuscon/Grant Road --- Tucson, AZ
- Siesta Motel --- Nogales, AZ
- Days Inn Wilcox --- Wilcox, AZ
- America's Best Value Inn Springerville --- Springerville, AZ
- Super 8 Pinetop --- Pine Top, AZ
- Wetherill Inn --- Kayenta, AZ
- Quality Inn Farmington, Farmington, NM
- Candlewood Suites Albuquerque, Albuquerque, NM
- Lamplighter Inn, Santa Fe, NM
- Motel 6 Los Alamos, Los Alamos, NM
- Super 8 Taos, Taos, NM
- Super 8 Alamosa, Alamosa, CO
- Best Western Skyway Inn & Suites, Manitou Springs, CO
- La Quinta Inn Denver Westminster, Westminster, CO
- Best Western Golden Buff Lodge, Boulder, CO
- La Quinta Inn Denver Northglenn, Westminster, CO
- Super 8 Longmont/Del Camino, Longmont, CO
- Hampton Inn Loveland, Loveland, CO
- Super 8 Casper/West, Casper, WY
- C'mon Inn Billings, Billings, MT
- Town House Inn, Great Falls, MT
- Super 8 Glacier Park/Columbia Falls, Columbia Falls, MT
- Kalispell Grand Hotel, Kalispell, MT
- Red Lion Hotel Kalispell, Kalispell, MT
- Downtowner Inn --- Whitefish, MT
- Hotel Ruby, Spokane, WA
- Shiloh Inn Suites Hotel, Richland, WA
- Best Western Plus Parkersville Inn and Suites, Washougal, WA
- Heathman Hotel, Portland, OR
- Forest Grove Inn, Forest Grove, OR
- Best Western University Inn & Suites, Forest Grove, OR
- Camas Hotel, Camas, WA
- Best Western Plus Parkersville Inn and Suites, Washougal, WA (2)
- Jupiter Hotel, Portland, OR (6/17-6-20)
- Super 8 Salem, Salem, OR (6/20)
- Days Inn Airport, Portland, OR (6/22-6/23)
- Phoenix Inn Suites, Lake Oswego, OR (6/23--6/26)
- Clackamas Inn and Suites, Clackamas, OR (6/26-28)
- Best Western Plus Agate Beach Inn, Newport, OR 7/01
- Motel 6 Clackamas, Clackamas, OR 7/03
- Paramount Hotel, Portland, OR 7/07
- Chestnut Tree Inn, Portland, OR 7/11
- Motel 6 Portland Mall 205, Portland, OR
- Randle Motel, Randle, WA
- Best Western Wilsonville Inn & Suites, Wilsonville, OR 7/18-7/22
- Super 8 Gresham/Portland Area, Gresham, OR (7/23-7/25)
- Comfort Suites Denver International Airport --- Denver, CO (8/1-8/2)
- Hilton Fort Collins, Fort Collins, CO
- Fort Collins Marriot -- Fort Collins, CO 8/8
- Red Lion Hotel Olympia -- Olympia, WA 8/20
- Best Western Plus Lincoln Inn --- Astoria, OR 8/21
- Best Western Plus Airport Plaza Hotel, Reno, NV to 9/11
- Travelodge Portland City Center, Portland, OR 9/22
- Shiloh Inn Suites Salem, Salem, OR 9/24
- Motel 6 Portland Mall 205, Portland, OR (9/26-9/30) (2)
- Silver Cloud Inn - Lake Union, Seattle, WA (10/5-10/7)
- Best Western Plus Village Inn, Fresno, CA
- Ramada Inn North, Fresno, CA (*)
- Hotel North Beach, San Francisco, CA
- Redwood Motor Inn --- San Francisco, CA 11/08
- Inn at Jack London Square --- Oakland, CA
- Waikiki Grand Hotel --- Honolulu, HI
- King Kamehmeha's Kona Beach Hotel --- Kailua-Kona, HI
- Fifth Street Ohana --- Volcano Village, HI
- Hilo Seaside Hotel --- Hilo, HI
- Hilton Waikoloa Village --- Waikoloa Village, HI
- Westin Bayshore Vancouver --- Vancouver, BC
- Downtown Value Inn --- Portland, OR
- Econo Lodge --- Prineville, OR
- Motel 6 Meridian --- Meridian, ID
- Salt Lake Plaza Hotel --- Salt Lake City, UT
- Best Western Plus Landmark Inn --- Park City, UT
- Rabbit Ears Motel --- Steamboat Springs, CO
- Westin Westmister ---- Westminster, CO
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Okki Goes to Cartagena
After our cab finally dropped us off at Okki's trailer, we both went inside crashed out of exhaustion. I took the sofa bed, since Okki's spare room was being occupied by his friend Pauley, who'd come down from Aspen to play in a poker tournament that evening in Black Hawk.
All four of us in the New Year's party crew slept well, by our mutual reports, since we'd done most of our drinking at Okki's place before we ever got in the taxi. At the club, mostly we drank water. If you're going to dance late into the night, this is the only viable strategy, whether you're at Burning Man or just at a regular club.
The next day we got off to a slow start. We took the first coffee of the new year on the back deck of the trailer, overlooking South Boulder Creek.
Okki brought up the September floods, which had threatened to sweep away the trailer park.
"They said a huge wall of water was coming down the canyon," he said.
But the trailer park was saved because the five-hundred-year flood plain on the other side let the creek to expand out along Valmont Road.
He pointed out the spot on the bank, about eight feet down from the deck, where the water had reached. At night, it sounded like a freight train was passing by in the dark, even though you couldn't see the water.
As for breakfast, Okki declared himself in the mood for breakfast burritos, a suggestion I endorsed, so we went in search of them in his car.
We first stopped at the Barnes and Noble at 30th and Pearl so that he could buy a guidebook. He wanted to read up about his destination while on the plane. His flight to South America was to leave from DIA late that evening.
As we suspected, the store was open on New Year's, but he pickings for Colombia were slim. He settled on the Lonely Planet Guide for the nation as a whole, since there was nothing more specific within the country. It was more to his style than Fodors.
After we went through the line, he remembered he also needed a Spanish phrasebook. We went back inside and checked the language section. But that genre of book completed confused the sales associate working there, as if she had never heard of such a thing. We went back to the travel section and found a couple of them there.
The staff person there also seemed to find our request to be challenging. He fretted for a long time that there wasn't a phrasebook specific to the nation of Colombia. I held my tongue until he was gone, and then both of us agreed that one of two choices for Latin American Spanish would do just fine.
"There's nothing really different about the grammar," I told him. "Argentina has an extra pronoun, like voce in Brazilian, with its own verb conjugation, but that's about all there is on that level."
As for me, I purchased the other Latin American Spanish phrasebook that he didn't want, the one from the Eyewitness Travel Guides series put out by Dorling Kindersley (DK). It had a very splashy color cover with a sturdy binding, and it was about as thick/thin as you would want it to be.
I explained to Okki that I like to keep track of the trends in this niche of publishing---phrase books---and to keep my collection up-to-date.
For our first meal of the new year, we finally settled on Illegal Pete's, a local institution down on the east end of Pearl Street Mall that does roll-on-the-spot buritos---Front Range style---as well as a local microbrews. Illegal Pete's had the virtue of being open, and parking was free because of the holiday. There was gratefully no line. We both got steak burritos, mine with extra sour cream. For my drink, I ordered an Upslope Brown Ale, the darkest thing they had on draft. He got something else from the same microbrewery.
Back in the trailer, while Okki began the long slow-motion process of packing for his trip, I helped him practice new Spanish sentences from the phrasebook he had purchased that day.
I also mocked the Dorling Kindersley one I'd bought as being inferior.
"Useless page...useless page...useless page..." I said derisively, while flipping through the lengthy front material of the book until I finally got to the first page of basic Spanish words. Even here the layout was atrocious.
"Most of the phrasebooks they put out now are unusable," I said. "The old ones were much better in both content and design."
But at least the one Okki purchased was humorous in its style, and might be more helpful for his way of communicating. You never really know until you are in a situation in which you need to depend on it in order to talk to someone.
Despite being multilingual, Okki didn't know much Spanish beyond the most basic words and phrases. Instruction and practice of some the pleasantries and useful sentences was called for. He picked them up easily and even composed a superhero-like flair of arrival to go with his "buenos dias."
Then I read sections from his guidebook on the history and sites of Cartagena, which we both decided was a great "portal" to South America. He used his printer to print out his hotel reservations there, as well as the four-page Swedish-language guide to the city's fun activities that Stefan has composed for him, based on his trips there over the years.
The day was punctuated with drop-by visits by Ash---who would be tending to Okki's hermit crabs in his absence---as well as Keith. Before saying good-bye that evening, I helped Okki mentally rehearse the order of his flights, through Miami and Bogota before finally arriving in Cartagena at five o'clock the next afternoon local time. I find it's very helpful to do this, to let the scope of the day's journey enter into your consciousness ahead of time.
Then I left him in the capable hands of Keith, about two hours before his shuttle bus was due.
He and Stefan are going to have a fun trip, almost certainly. They travel well together, the two countrymen. Among their goals there are attending a techno music festival in Cartagena, sitting on the beach in Santa Marta, and hiking three days back and forth through the jungle to the Ciudad Perdida.
All four of us in the New Year's party crew slept well, by our mutual reports, since we'd done most of our drinking at Okki's place before we ever got in the taxi. At the club, mostly we drank water. If you're going to dance late into the night, this is the only viable strategy, whether you're at Burning Man or just at a regular club.
The next day we got off to a slow start. We took the first coffee of the new year on the back deck of the trailer, overlooking South Boulder Creek.
Okki brought up the September floods, which had threatened to sweep away the trailer park.
"They said a huge wall of water was coming down the canyon," he said.
But the trailer park was saved because the five-hundred-year flood plain on the other side let the creek to expand out along Valmont Road.
He pointed out the spot on the bank, about eight feet down from the deck, where the water had reached. At night, it sounded like a freight train was passing by in the dark, even though you couldn't see the water.
As for breakfast, Okki declared himself in the mood for breakfast burritos, a suggestion I endorsed, so we went in search of them in his car.
We first stopped at the Barnes and Noble at 30th and Pearl so that he could buy a guidebook. He wanted to read up about his destination while on the plane. His flight to South America was to leave from DIA late that evening.
As we suspected, the store was open on New Year's, but he pickings for Colombia were slim. He settled on the Lonely Planet Guide for the nation as a whole, since there was nothing more specific within the country. It was more to his style than Fodors.
After we went through the line, he remembered he also needed a Spanish phrasebook. We went back inside and checked the language section. But that genre of book completed confused the sales associate working there, as if she had never heard of such a thing. We went back to the travel section and found a couple of them there.
The staff person there also seemed to find our request to be challenging. He fretted for a long time that there wasn't a phrasebook specific to the nation of Colombia. I held my tongue until he was gone, and then both of us agreed that one of two choices for Latin American Spanish would do just fine.
"There's nothing really different about the grammar," I told him. "Argentina has an extra pronoun, like voce in Brazilian, with its own verb conjugation, but that's about all there is on that level."
As for me, I purchased the other Latin American Spanish phrasebook that he didn't want, the one from the Eyewitness Travel Guides series put out by Dorling Kindersley (DK). It had a very splashy color cover with a sturdy binding, and it was about as thick/thin as you would want it to be.
I explained to Okki that I like to keep track of the trends in this niche of publishing---phrase books---and to keep my collection up-to-date.
For our first meal of the new year, we finally settled on Illegal Pete's, a local institution down on the east end of Pearl Street Mall that does roll-on-the-spot buritos---Front Range style---as well as a local microbrews. Illegal Pete's had the virtue of being open, and parking was free because of the holiday. There was gratefully no line. We both got steak burritos, mine with extra sour cream. For my drink, I ordered an Upslope Brown Ale, the darkest thing they had on draft. He got something else from the same microbrewery.
Back in the trailer, while Okki began the long slow-motion process of packing for his trip, I helped him practice new Spanish sentences from the phrasebook he had purchased that day.
I also mocked the Dorling Kindersley one I'd bought as being inferior.
"Useless page...useless page...useless page..." I said derisively, while flipping through the lengthy front material of the book until I finally got to the first page of basic Spanish words. Even here the layout was atrocious.
"Most of the phrasebooks they put out now are unusable," I said. "The old ones were much better in both content and design."
But at least the one Okki purchased was humorous in its style, and might be more helpful for his way of communicating. You never really know until you are in a situation in which you need to depend on it in order to talk to someone.
Despite being multilingual, Okki didn't know much Spanish beyond the most basic words and phrases. Instruction and practice of some the pleasantries and useful sentences was called for. He picked them up easily and even composed a superhero-like flair of arrival to go with his "buenos dias."
Then I read sections from his guidebook on the history and sites of Cartagena, which we both decided was a great "portal" to South America. He used his printer to print out his hotel reservations there, as well as the four-page Swedish-language guide to the city's fun activities that Stefan has composed for him, based on his trips there over the years.
The day was punctuated with drop-by visits by Ash---who would be tending to Okki's hermit crabs in his absence---as well as Keith. Before saying good-bye that evening, I helped Okki mentally rehearse the order of his flights, through Miami and Bogota before finally arriving in Cartagena at five o'clock the next afternoon local time. I find it's very helpful to do this, to let the scope of the day's journey enter into your consciousness ahead of time.
Then I left him in the capable hands of Keith, about two hours before his shuttle bus was due.
He and Stefan are going to have a fun trip, almost certainly. They travel well together, the two countrymen. Among their goals there are attending a techno music festival in Cartagena, sitting on the beach in Santa Marta, and hiking three days back and forth through the jungle to the Ciudad Perdida.
2014: New Year's Eve With Inga
In Boulder for New Year's Eve. Third time in the last four years. Each one brings a progression in my life journey, it seems.
This time finds me downtown, three o'clock in the morning, on the west end of the Pearl Street Mall.
The evening had been great fun, but we are eager to call it a night. The temperature had been moderate, but now it is getting downright chilly in the wee small hours.
Hungry, we wait only ten minutes to buy gyros. But the taxi line, stretched along Ninth Street, is much longer and barely moves. The cabs come painfully slowly, and at times they take away only a single rider, to the overt catcalls of many waiting behind us.
Keith, who just went in plain style with overcoat and scarf, but looked the full English gentleman rogue, went straight home to his condo, because he was in walking distance.
Ash, who had spent the evening in his fur jacket over his LED shirt for the OM symbol (and who did not wander off, at least not far and for every long), wound up hopping on the HOP shuttle bus that took him straight to his home off Table Mesa.
That left Okki and me to tough in out in the cold. Fortunately both of us had fur coats on as well, imitations of course, mine borrowed from Ash and Okki's from his huge plastic container of Burning Man gear.
According to Okki, who had worn his big chinchilla-ish translucent white coat covering red LED wires, the club where we had spent the evening had previously hosted Burning Man theme New Year's Eve parties.
It was crowded, to be sure, in both the front and back sections of the club, but as far as frivolity in dress, it was just the four of us, and about a half a dozen young women with something resembling costumes and lights in their hair. This year it seemed the place was mostly full of young "possible future participants," as I called them.
Standing in line for our taxi (which we finally got around four a.m.), yours truly would still have been cold, even with the loan of the fur coat (which I took off most of the time inside the club and just wore the gold disco shirt).
What really saved me was the hat that Okki let me borrow. Most people would recognize it as bright blue and yellow stocking cap, with gold Viking horns, as well as a Swedish flag and long blond pigtails hanging from the sides. Okki calls it the "Inga hat," as in "Hello, I'm Inga-from-Sweden."
This time finds me downtown, three o'clock in the morning, on the west end of the Pearl Street Mall.
The evening had been great fun, but we are eager to call it a night. The temperature had been moderate, but now it is getting downright chilly in the wee small hours.
Hungry, we wait only ten minutes to buy gyros. But the taxi line, stretched along Ninth Street, is much longer and barely moves. The cabs come painfully slowly, and at times they take away only a single rider, to the overt catcalls of many waiting behind us.
Keith, who just went in plain style with overcoat and scarf, but looked the full English gentleman rogue, went straight home to his condo, because he was in walking distance.
Ash, who had spent the evening in his fur jacket over his LED shirt for the OM symbol (and who did not wander off, at least not far and for every long), wound up hopping on the HOP shuttle bus that took him straight to his home off Table Mesa.
That left Okki and me to tough in out in the cold. Fortunately both of us had fur coats on as well, imitations of course, mine borrowed from Ash and Okki's from his huge plastic container of Burning Man gear.
According to Okki, who had worn his big chinchilla-ish translucent white coat covering red LED wires, the club where we had spent the evening had previously hosted Burning Man theme New Year's Eve parties.
It was crowded, to be sure, in both the front and back sections of the club, but as far as frivolity in dress, it was just the four of us, and about a half a dozen young women with something resembling costumes and lights in their hair. This year it seemed the place was mostly full of young "possible future participants," as I called them.
Standing in line for our taxi (which we finally got around four a.m.), yours truly would still have been cold, even with the loan of the fur coat (which I took off most of the time inside the club and just wore the gold disco shirt).
What really saved me was the hat that Okki let me borrow. Most people would recognize it as bright blue and yellow stocking cap, with gold Viking horns, as well as a Swedish flag and long blond pigtails hanging from the sides. Okki calls it the "Inga hat," as in "Hello, I'm Inga-from-Sweden."
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Of Men and Epics Yet To Come
7:15 AM Sunday. I heard the distinctive sound on my smartphone indicating the arrival of new a text message at almost exactly the same instant that I saw Okki's Subaru pull up in front of my sister's house in Westminster.
After waving to him through the front window, I went outside into the frigid morning air and walked over to the Bimmer, where I popped open the trunk and took out a pair of black snowshoes---MSR Lightning Ascents, exactly like my own pair, except that I had rented them the night before at the REI in Boulder. My own pair were still up in the storage unit in Fort Collins.
It was awesome to see Okki again. The last time we had seen each other was out on the playa at Burning Man, just before he and Ash drove away to join the great exodus of tail lights back towards civilization.
We had plenty of time to catch up on the drove through Golden and up into the mountains. He was still at the same job as before, as a customer service rep at the Amazing Innovative Tech Firm in Broomfield. He liked his job there very much and was thinking of training to be a sales rep.
He'd been working there almost two years now, ever since we both quit the sinking dysfunctional ship of Vampire Software in east Boulder in August 2011. The vampires there had blamed yours truly for the uprising, and had appointed the biggest and fattest server admin to escort me from the office to the parking lot. The enterprise had then fulfilled my prediction by collapsing in ignominy only three months later when the investors pulled the plug.
Okki piloted the car up I-70, then took the exit onto US 40. From there the switchbacks lead up to the summit of Berthoud Pass. Here our conversation turned towards Burning Man and our compariots from our camp there. It had been almost four months since the end of thet event, and we both agreed that the "sleep phase" of Burning Man was over, and that it was time to start planning for the next one.
"I feel like I've entered a new phase in life," I said. "So far I've been successful at getting where I am, and taking care of my own needs, but I want to go up a level. I've been lucky at how other people have helped me along the way, and I've certainly taken advantage of that. Now what appeals to me is giving back somehow."
I said it in a way that implied I was talking about not only Burning Man, but about life in general. He knew exactly what I was talking about.
He was delighted to hear about my plan to commission the building of an art car for our camp. I told him how back in Reno, right after Burning Man, I had contacted my friend, a metal sculptor in Maryland, and a former Burner, and that we had formulated a plan for the project with an initial cost estimate.
"I'm going to have to raise money for it," I said. "I some kind of motivation to go up a level."
He also liked my report that several of my friends had expressed interest in possibly camping with us. The more the merrier is Okki's motto.
Okki himself planned to extend his success with his hexayurt by perfecting the swamp cooler that he had attempted the year before, but which hadn't worked as he hoped. He also was extremely enthusiastic about exploring the new simple motherboards which allowed one to create intricate programmable LEDs in shapes (things like this), and even washable ones for making LED clothing. It was much more sophisticated than simple LED wire, he said. There was a store in Boulder that specialized in that equipment.
I had great fun hearing about some of our camp mates, including Kevin and Sean, who had recently participated in the Epic Race, in which the contestants ski 26 different resorts in four different countries around the world, culminating in the French Alps. Our friends hadn't won the race, but they had enjoyed the experience very much.
A half hour later we were coming down the other side of Berthoud Pass on US 40 in moderate Sunday traffic. Being the expert skier that he is, Okki usually heads straight to Mary Jane, which is more of the raw ski experience without the tourist frills.
But this time he parked at the main Winter Park resort lot, because yours truly had to get a snowshoe trail map at the lodge there.
We took the free gondola down to the village, then Okki took his new parabolic skis and went off to the express lift heading towards the top of the mountain for a couple hours. Neither of us wanted a strenuous day, since it our first day back on the slopes.
Inside the main lodge, when I got to the front of the line, the woman there told me they had no more snowshoe trail maps, but she could show me the trails on the regular ski run map.
"That'll do just fine," I said, spreading the map out on the counter.
After pointing out a few places to go, both inside and outside the ski area boundary, she finally said, almost as after though, "actually the whole mountain is open to you, since this is a National Forest. Just stay out of the way of the skiers, you know."
I stopped her nearly in mid sentence. "That's all I need to hear," I said with a big grin. I knew the rules of the road from that one sentence.
A few minutes later I had strapped on the bindings of the rented MSRs and was marching up through virgin powder at the edge one of the green circle trails. As I went uphill, against the direction of everyone else on the trail, parents with their kids whizzed by me in the other direction. The kids all seemed to notice me and gave me curious looks.
Winter Park is like Skiing 101. It's the most accessible full resort from Denver (it used to be owned and operated by the city of Denver). As such, it feels like it's mainly used by families with young children just learning to ski, out on an easy day trip, as well as foreigners who are making their first visit to Colorado. It gives me a warm feeling.
It was first time on the snow since last March in New Mexico. With each step I could feel the rush of blood in my torso, as if my whole midsection was waking up from a slumber.
At the top of the first trail, where the lift took skiers further up the mountain, I detoured sideways and spent the next couple hours cutting laterally across the open runs then threading through thigh-high powder in the clumps of trees. It was gloriously fun.
At the bottom of one intermediate slope, a woman with a very young child came to a halt right next to me. I could see that the kid was not having a good time.
"I think we bit off a little more than we could chew," she said. "Do you know the flattest way down to the village?"
I motioned down the slope. "Look for the Gemini Express lift," I said. "It's just beyond the trees. You can't miss it."
"Will they let us ride down?"
"Just tell them," I said, with my most comforting voice. "I'm sure they will."
Or at least they used to, I almost added.
"In any case, it's almost flat from there down to the village."
A little past noon, I got a text from Okki saying he was already down at the lodge and had ordered us a couple beers at the bar out on the deck. I texted him back that I was on the way down.
At the moment I was smack at the top of a huge wide black diamond expert run. I could see down to the resort lodge and the west terminus to the Moffat Tunnel.
There were no skiers visible up the slope, so I decided to descend in several long switchbacks across the run. But almost immediately I slipped on powder and started to glissade rapidly down the slope in my snow pants.
II slid for a couple hundred yards that way without stopping, keeping my feet up so that I didn't catch the snowshoes in powder and twist my knee.
With a beer and a good friend waiting at the bottom, I figured there was no reason to slow myself down.
It was awesome to see Okki again. The last time we had seen each other was out on the playa at Burning Man, just before he and Ash drove away to join the great exodus of tail lights back towards civilization.
We had plenty of time to catch up on the drove through Golden and up into the mountains. He was still at the same job as before, as a customer service rep at the Amazing Innovative Tech Firm in Broomfield. He liked his job there very much and was thinking of training to be a sales rep.
He'd been working there almost two years now, ever since we both quit the sinking dysfunctional ship of Vampire Software in east Boulder in August 2011. The vampires there had blamed yours truly for the uprising, and had appointed the biggest and fattest server admin to escort me from the office to the parking lot. The enterprise had then fulfilled my prediction by collapsing in ignominy only three months later when the investors pulled the plug.
Okki piloted the car up I-70, then took the exit onto US 40. From there the switchbacks lead up to the summit of Berthoud Pass. Here our conversation turned towards Burning Man and our compariots from our camp there. It had been almost four months since the end of thet event, and we both agreed that the "sleep phase" of Burning Man was over, and that it was time to start planning for the next one.
"I feel like I've entered a new phase in life," I said. "So far I've been successful at getting where I am, and taking care of my own needs, but I want to go up a level. I've been lucky at how other people have helped me along the way, and I've certainly taken advantage of that. Now what appeals to me is giving back somehow."
I said it in a way that implied I was talking about not only Burning Man, but about life in general. He knew exactly what I was talking about.
He was delighted to hear about my plan to commission the building of an art car for our camp. I told him how back in Reno, right after Burning Man, I had contacted my friend, a metal sculptor in Maryland, and a former Burner, and that we had formulated a plan for the project with an initial cost estimate.
"I'm going to have to raise money for it," I said. "I some kind of motivation to go up a level."
He also liked my report that several of my friends had expressed interest in possibly camping with us. The more the merrier is Okki's motto.
Okki himself planned to extend his success with his hexayurt by perfecting the swamp cooler that he had attempted the year before, but which hadn't worked as he hoped. He also was extremely enthusiastic about exploring the new simple motherboards which allowed one to create intricate programmable LEDs in shapes (things like this), and even washable ones for making LED clothing. It was much more sophisticated than simple LED wire, he said. There was a store in Boulder that specialized in that equipment.
I had great fun hearing about some of our camp mates, including Kevin and Sean, who had recently participated in the Epic Race, in which the contestants ski 26 different resorts in four different countries around the world, culminating in the French Alps. Our friends hadn't won the race, but they had enjoyed the experience very much.
 |
But this time he parked at the main Winter Park resort lot, because yours truly had to get a snowshoe trail map at the lodge there.
We took the free gondola down to the village, then Okki took his new parabolic skis and went off to the express lift heading towards the top of the mountain for a couple hours. Neither of us wanted a strenuous day, since it our first day back on the slopes.
Inside the main lodge, when I got to the front of the line, the woman there told me they had no more snowshoe trail maps, but she could show me the trails on the regular ski run map.
"That'll do just fine," I said, spreading the map out on the counter.
After pointing out a few places to go, both inside and outside the ski area boundary, she finally said, almost as after though, "actually the whole mountain is open to you, since this is a National Forest. Just stay out of the way of the skiers, you know."
I stopped her nearly in mid sentence. "That's all I need to hear," I said with a big grin. I knew the rules of the road from that one sentence.
A few minutes later I had strapped on the bindings of the rented MSRs and was marching up through virgin powder at the edge one of the green circle trails. As I went uphill, against the direction of everyone else on the trail, parents with their kids whizzed by me in the other direction. The kids all seemed to notice me and gave me curious looks.
Winter Park is like Skiing 101. It's the most accessible full resort from Denver (it used to be owned and operated by the city of Denver). As such, it feels like it's mainly used by families with young children just learning to ski, out on an easy day trip, as well as foreigners who are making their first visit to Colorado. It gives me a warm feeling.
It was first time on the snow since last March in New Mexico. With each step I could feel the rush of blood in my torso, as if my whole midsection was waking up from a slumber.
At the top of the first trail, where the lift took skiers further up the mountain, I detoured sideways and spent the next couple hours cutting laterally across the open runs then threading through thigh-high powder in the clumps of trees. It was gloriously fun.
At the bottom of one intermediate slope, a woman with a very young child came to a halt right next to me. I could see that the kid was not having a good time.
"I think we bit off a little more than we could chew," she said. "Do you know the flattest way down to the village?"
I motioned down the slope. "Look for the Gemini Express lift," I said. "It's just beyond the trees. You can't miss it."
"Will they let us ride down?"
"Just tell them," I said, with my most comforting voice. "I'm sure they will."
Or at least they used to, I almost added.
"In any case, it's almost flat from there down to the village."
A little past noon, I got a text from Okki saying he was already down at the lodge and had ordered us a couple beers at the bar out on the deck. I texted him back that I was on the way down.
At the moment I was smack at the top of a huge wide black diamond expert run. I could see down to the resort lodge and the west terminus to the Moffat Tunnel.
There were no skiers visible up the slope, so I decided to descend in several long switchbacks across the run. But almost immediately I slipped on powder and started to glissade rapidly down the slope in my snow pants.
II slid for a couple hundred yards that way without stopping, keeping my feet up so that I didn't catch the snowshoes in powder and twist my knee.
With a beer and a good friend waiting at the bottom, I figured there was no reason to slow myself down.
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