Weekend.

Spent some time in Boulder, Colorado.  I’ve always loved the place, but not everyone in the household here has been convinced of its gentle and attractive nature.  This time, we stayed at Chautauqua in a nice little cottage, and I had the opportunity to walk. Everywhere.  Every single day I was there, every spare moment.  And everywhere in downtown Boulder is significantly downhill from Chautauqua (which requires the commensurate uphill return trip).  I never thought of Santa Fe here as ‘flat’, but damn, my calves are torched.  It was so nice not having to hop in a blasted vehicle, though.  The neighborhoods were beautiful.  There was this wonderful aged cemetery on 9th where I would march uphill, featuring a prominent tombstone by the sidewalk informing me that exactly 60 years before I was born, a poor individual croaked on my natal day. The synchronicity was a little unnerving, but I told myself noone’s ever died of calf cramps.  Pump those knees, m’lad, and get up to Baseline, or end up sharing time with that poor soul.

I’ve missed living in a university town.  There’s youthful energy other cities can’t compete with.  Optimism, hope for the future unquenchable that can’t be doused by daily news or steadily-greying Boomers.  I’ve never been a competitive type, but even I caught the whiff of “hey, your fitness isn’t up to snuff, dude.” Boy, do I know it.  I thought we had a fit population in SF, but in Boulder, it almost seems as if you’re judged by your VO2 max and the widgets you use to practice your particular sport(s).  SF’s filling up with retirees so fast, you seem judged by your portable oxygen tank.

Real estate is even more pricey than Santa Fe.  The neighborhoods are not quite as ‘doily’ as something you’d see back in New England or my birthplace of Princeton, but the Victorians are gorgeous, the historical neighborhoods so quaint you can hear a pinched-apple-faced granny-voice in your head oohing and aahing.  Yet every driveway seems to have a squirt boat and a couple of dual-shock MTBs latched onto their car rooftops.  (I pictured Dolley Madison in spandex.)

I can recommend the smoked chicken enchiladas at the Walnut Street Brewery.  One of the most flavorful meals I had there.  They do a very nice microbrew bitter, too.  I don’t drink much, but when I do, it’s gotta be good.  This was.  The Dushanbe Tea House was spectacular inside, and for a person who’s not been fond of chai, I really liked theirs (strong; peppery and cinnamony ... it will make your hair grow back).  I spent a couple of mornings at Bookends on Pearl, writing some personal prose, sans technology (though they do have wifi).  The large front dark-wood-frame windows allow an angular southern light in, which, when reflected from reading materials, creates a soft “Old Master” lighting on those reading or studying by them.  I itched to not just write, but to photograph those countenances.  The light allowed simple facial wrinkles to tell volumes of story, but also gave a soft gentle glow of innocence to inexperienced youth.  Just great.  Each face had me writing a different tale to match my perceptions of their characters.  Trident was also recommended by a good friend who lives in Boulder, but I never got the chance to try it.  Breakfast at Burnt Toast (no surly waitstaff, as the tour books warn; just very generous and kind service) is not to be missed either.  I tried the “venison and eggs”, to the dismay of the dear chickies (shoot me now).

Why do I rave so over Boulder?  Because I live in Santa Fe.  Tourist town comparisons.

The car is a second-class citizen! In the downtown area, pedestrians have right of way, and it is obviously strictly enforced.  Santa Fe needs to learn this lesson.  Our streets here are even narrower than Boulder’s, the popular Hummer SUVs turning Santa Fe into something of a psychotic multi-colored Baghdad offensive every summer. No room for them to park, yet they wedge in, leaving no room to walk.  At one point, I was walking in the Pearl Street pedestrial mall area in Boulder, when a child got away from his grandparents, and shot his tricycle into the street ... I went diving after, to get between the kid and approaching cars ... but lo and behold, traffic stopped before I got there. The grandparents weren’t at all shocked, except at my behavior.  (Get the grandchild away from the weirdo.) In Santa Fe, that kid would have been carnitas in a flash.  Put your foot in a crosswalk in Boulder, cars practically bow.  Oh, I liked that. (Too much so ... I was reminded today it doesn’t work in SF crosswalks).

The Boulder walking mall on Pearl clearly proves that you don’t need auto access to be profitable.  I think the SF City Council needs to stop wussing out.  Close the plaza to traffic, get some sidewalk cafes going, have a budget for flowers and shrubbery.  If some businesses can’t handle it, others will.  It’ll never happen, don’t know why I waste the space here.  But every Western town we drive through in summer seems to have a huge budget for greenery and flowers.  Santa Fe argues over a sometimes-yearly sodding of the Plaza.  Right now, we’ve got ugly yellow rope around the grassy areas saying “Keep Off”, which will likely stay there until Indian Market in August.  Great tourist draw, eh?  Tourism is down? Blame gas prices.

Back to Boulder.  Those wonderful hike-bike paths.  Gawd, they’re just the best.  I spent most of my time walking along them, using them to navigate all over the town.  Walked to the Saturday Farm Market, walked to the Library.  Walked to the Tea House.  Walked to Pearl.  Walked to the campus.  Walked along the creek, talked to kayakers, bicyclists, mothers with strollers ... watched dippers. Dippers!  In town!  For those in Boulder, it won’t sound interesting, but to those of us in SF who find it genuinely difficult to get from Canyon Road to De Vargas in one piece, much less see any interesting wildlife, it will sound great. 

Civilization is necessary for women’s freedom.  Santa Fe is dangerous for women alone, day or night ... moreso at night.  Virtually all lone women walk with dogs (dogs have been a reliable preventative to attack/rape).  Boulder, you see calm, confident women everywhere.  Alone, no dogs.  Noone seems freaked out or suspicious of men walking alone along the hike-bike path, no women gripping pepper spray in their pockets or purses, watching you with that hundred-mile stare (survivalist fear and bravado).  Or the ‘no eye contact, fast determined walk’ Manhattan technique.  That sense of impending doom, the unspoken threat that hangs over Santa Fe, is completely absent from Boulder.  It just doesn’t exist.  I saw one young woman jogging with a Rottweiler muscled like an oversized walnut, and that was it for attack dogs.  I saw one (1!) police car my entire time in Boulder.  They may not be seen, but I understand from locals their presence is substantial and no-nonsense.  Generous law enforcement as a preventative works for women’s rights, plain and simple.

So, needless to say, I can’t wait to go back. I needed the break, and had a great time.  Next time at Chautauqua, I’m bringing my Frisbee.  That grass screams for use.  We don’t get that kind of cactus-free, prairie-dog-holeless green sward down thisaway.  I will add a few more pix from the trip to my Flickr stream as I have time over the next couple of days.

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