Lunch at Chipotle #1. The last dregs of the lunch crowd were finishing up. The snow storm now falling was still on its way so the lighting in the room wasn’t as relentlessly gray as it is right now.
When I look out the window now, I can only take the existence of the Flatirons on faith.
So here I am again in the wonderful People’s Republic of Boulder (do they still call it that?) (Nobody tells me anything.) It is, as you might imagine, freezing. The temperatures these past days when we have been here are in what I like to term the basement of the world. When I last asked Siri, it was 5°. I do not want to talk to Siri any more for a while.
That’s the basement — figuratively. We have no actual basement here. We have a storage cage in the parking area which we lend to our neighbors because we haven’t accumulated enough stuff to need it, though I do try my best.
There has been some accumulation of frozen precipitation, but not enough to call it snow by Boulder’s standards, and definitely not enough for the people in the ski resorts to the west to call it snow. Time now for me to be pleased at not having added skiing to my sports, inasmuch as I have sports. Is Pilates a sport? Here it is.
Snow chairs. Yes, the snow here in Boulder really is this deep.
- Boulder snow (white-pebble.net)
It’s snowing in Boulder — nothing better from my point of view. At home in Cincinnati, we get endless gray skies punctuated with a bit of rain. Here, mounds of lovely fluffy snow with the promise of the return of the sunshine within a couple of days.
I shall spend my day doing Pilates (they have a whole Institute here for the stuff!) and writing. And inevitably, I shall end up writing about sunshine and summer in Cincinnati. I can’t stand the irony!
You know you’re in Boulder when…
- You watch a would-be panhandler make a sign that says “TOO UGLY TO WORK.”
- The hot-dog cart on the sidewalk has bratwursts made of elk meat.
Boulder Creek, about an hour ago. If this isn’t flood stage, it’s pretty close.
In Santa Barbara last week, I nearly froze from the morning fogs that can’t be kept out, can’t be avoided. I purchased an expensive sweater and wandered through Sid’s workshop in that and some thick ugly socks.
This evening, it’s 90°F here in the People’s Republic of Boulder Colorado and I am on the porch huddling in the shadows, writing. On the porch, I have a spacious view of the porches of the condo building on the other side of the alley from us. They watch us and we watch them.
The cat lady’s cat is out for its evening air and the couple directly across are having an involved conversation, but about what is impossible to tell because they’ve turned their couch so they’re facing away.
This is much better than being inside watching television (she tells herself as she stares into the laptop screen).
You know you’re in Boulder when … The city pays for tiny little bulldozers to clear the snow from the bike trails, and the bike trails are cleared before the regular roads are.