After arriving in the humid blistering midday heat of a Colorado summer, at the homely decorated lobby (and I use that term very loosely) of the Econo-Lodge in Brush, the porky proprietress of this shabby joint asks us, upon looking at our new slacks and Italian shoes, what brings a couple guys like you to a place like this.
I asked myself that same question a couple of minutes earlier when, less then a mile from the motel, we saw a red sign on the side of the road that advises people not to stop for hitchhikers, since there is a state penitentiary across the street. I promise myself then to sleep with one eye open, while I envision being stabbed to death.
My boyfriend grew up in Colorado and after showing him the joys of the Netherlands, where I is was born, it was time for him to return the favor and guide me through the great Centennial State. We would first visit the area where he was raised around Brush and Fort Morgan on the eastern plains, followed by a road-trip to Vail in the Rocky Mountains. We would end our journey in Colorado’s capital, Denver. It would certainly become an adventure with some things good, some bad and some truly awful.
We walk up the metal steps of the Econo-Lodge and upon opening the hotel room, my first impression is cautiously optimistic. There is a wooden desk with a TV, a fridge, a red fluffy chair and a big bed with a blue flowery comforter. After closer inspection though, I see several bloodstains on the covers and shriveled brown insects on the floor while strong insect-spray scents are infiltrating my nostrils. The small window is open but there is no breeze and also no air-conditioning in sight.
I decide to freshen up my sloshing pits and change my drenched green shirt. When I open the bathroom door, I shriek like a girl. Throngs of huge brown moths – called millers by the locals – find there way out of the air filter and are violently waving their wings while circling me. Needless to say, I slam the door, yell to my boyfriend that I’m not going to stay here for another second and march out of the room to our car, fuming like a teakettle. He calmly follows me, calls some family and secures our night-rest within minutes.
Brush is a city with around 5,000 people, highlighted by a trailer park. Four of the ten stores in the city center are ‘antique’ shops. Parrish Galleries is the largest, and my friend had a classmate back in junior high who is the son of the owners. Every weekend as a kid, the guy had to go to markets all over Colorado with his parents to find new material for their store and upon entering it today we both can’t help but feel overtly sorry for him. The place smells like an old sock, the owners act grumpy and look ratty with ripped clothes, and all there is to see are rusty pots, broken plates and stained postcards. We leave the store as quickly as we came in.
Our next stop is Fort Morgan, known to me as the “Smelly City”. The nickname is due to the fumes of its 3 factories; a sugar-beet factory, a meat-processing plant, and a sewage treatment center. Even though some of the houses are modernly designed and have well-groomed gardens, it is hard for me to fathom that my partner grew up here.
All I can see in this area is dry and rocky surface with thorny stickers everywhere, no rivers, no buildings of any significance. Everything seems so monotonous and it’s truly depressing to me.
It’s time to leave this part of Colorado behind and drive to the famous ski resort of Vail. The closer we get to the rocky Rockies, the more diverse the landscape becomes, with lush green hills, snow-capped mountaintops, clear lakes and rugged creeks.
We make a stop in Central City, a town that in the late 1800’s, during the Gold Rush, was one of the richest towns in the U.S. The Gold veins were soon exhausted though and most people lost their money quickly. That is exactly what we are doing behind the slot machines and black jack-tables that now are the backbone of the local economy. Our temporary companions were primarily fidgeting old brittle ladies, covered in cheap jewelry, with their eyes fixated on those machines. With every pull at the slot machine their gaunt faces grimace and their wrinkly claws get even veinier. The city tries to establish itself as the Vegas in Colorado but the only similarity is the gambling. Central City is still very low key, and because of old multi-colored brick buildings, narrow streets and the surrounding tree-filled mountains it looks more like a western town then a gambling Valhalla. The town’s main sight is the marble, balconied old opera house. It was build in 1870’s and during summer it functions as a theater.
The 8.4-mile steep and winding road we take to get back and forth from the highway to this old mining town was finished in 2004 to cater to the casino crowd. With the current financial state of most casinos due to the economic crisis, I suspect the city has some regrets over this extremely expensive development.
Vail makes this European feel right at home. The town is modeled in Austrian style, with wooden houses and stores, several cuckoo’s clocks and little knick-knack stores. There is something for all shoppers: original knives, clothing and souvenirs. And all that while being surrounded by scenic mountain beauty. We stop at a yellow colored brick restaurant where the waiting staff is dressed in lederhosen and Austrian costumes. The menu mainly consists of beer and hearty grub. All the outdoor air makes us feel hungry and we devour the tasty but fatty schnitzels in minutes. I immediately start to feel the altitude of this ski-resort though. It’s over 8000 feet and for someone originating from one of the flattest countries in the world this is a new experience. I have to catch my breath a lot more then normal.
Our hotel is the Ritz Carlton, a little out of the center in Bachelor Gulch. This luxury mountain resort is made of wood and stone and costs a small monthly wage a night in the winter, but since we are out of season the prices are a lot more reasonable. It has multiple stunningly decorated public areas with pristine antique vases, comfy leather sofas and huge chandeliers. Our suite, the size of a moderate New York apartment, has a separate country-chic living area, 2 private cozy fireplaces, a marble counter topped chef’s kitchen and a bathroom with the best smelling toiletries I have ever encountered in a hotel. The very friendly and helpful staff makes us feel even more privileged.
While driving back from Vail to Denver we make a stop in a tourist trap called Georgetown to satisfy our empty stomachs. Like Central City this town reached its peak during the Gold Rush; now it’s known for an ancient scenic railroad, a neighboring great clear lake and buildings that are a bright pink, lime green and sunny yellow. Here I encounter two of Colorado’s trademarks. I see a bedazzling creature in a home decorating store that is a mix between a jackrabbit and an antelope. I look at it closely for a little while and my friend says it’s a jackalope. He tells me he used to go hunting for them when he was a kid. Luckily for me a store manager is nice enough to confirm my doubts about the authenticity of this creature and tells me enthusiastically it’s an ancient legend caused by sighting of rabbits with a virus that caused antler like tumors in various places.
We enter a typical Wild West saloon called the Red Ram where the décor is very traditional with simple wooden tables and chairs, a player piano and a spittoon. With Willy Nelson singing in the background, I order a moist perfectly seared Buffalo burger and my friend orders the oysters. I question his sanity to order raw seafood in a place so far removed from the ocean, but as the plate arrives, I understand this is something different. I see fried bull testicles on his white plate. I hesitate a couple minutes before trying a mouthful of this delicacy. The rich juicy organ meat flavor is not for everyone, but it’s not as bad as I feared either. This might not be the first testicle I’ve had in my mouth, but it certainly is the first one I swallowed.
From the city of Denver I only remember small details, because the night went by in a haze. While out for an otherwise delicious dinner of roasted rosemary chicken and crispy fingerling potatoes, I can’t even have a simple conversation without trying to catch my breath.
I tell my friend we have to skip dessert because I’m feeling worse by the second. While walking out of the restaurant I feel clammy and dizzy, my heart races literally 140 beats a minute and I think I’m loosing consciousness. I’m having a heart attack, I keep thinking; I’m going to die. We manage to get to the hotel where I quickly take 3 tranquillizers to calm me down a bit. I’m crying and moaning softly on the bed while laying in a fetal position. Meanwhile my boyfriend tries to comfort me and tells me I’m going to be ok. One hour goes by followed by another one, and finally after 3 hours I feel a little more calmed down and realize I’m not going leave Denver in a casket. My friend does a little research on the Internet and we come to the conclusion that this is altitude sickness followed by a major panic attack.
The next day I walk through Denver International airport like Anna Nicole Smith during her reality show days. I feel numb, drowsy, talk slurry and still have difficulty breathing.
Sure it was really interesting to see where my boyfriend grew up. The hotel in Vail was like a dream come true, the old mining towns where we walked and gawked were memorable and I even learned a thing or two. Yet as I board the plane back to New York, I promise myself whole- heartedly never to set foot in Colorado again.
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