A Lucky Man

Originally Posted Monday, June 17, 2013

I don't have time to sit and work on the images I made yesterday at Mesa Verde, so I'll simply post the first I took just before entering the park.  This is the view everyone is greeted by.  If you have been there, you'll remember.  This will do.  It is good enough. 

I forgot two things yesterday: one, that it was Father's Day (sorry, Q and CC and what's your name), and two, that pot was legal in Colorado.  When I got up in the morning, I was slow and enjoying the security of my primo room at the hotel.  The narrow gauge train running to Silverton is just outside my door, so I hear the hiss of the steam and the clanging of the bell and the "whew-whew" of the horn.  I drank coffee and wrote some emails until it was time to make a decision about checking out.  I decided to keep the room another night.  It is fun enough to live in a hotel that is cowboy chic.  As a result, though, I didn't get on the road to Mesa Verde until almost eleven.  The way was made longer by Google Maps which decided to take me on a scenic route that was waaayyy roundabout, but I told myself there were things to see and that it was O.K. 

Mesa Verde is a strange National Park, I think, in that it doesn't really invite you to go exploring.  To see many of the sites, you must pay to join a tour.  I did in order to see the Cliff Palace.  It was horrible shuffling along with the yahoos listening to a park ranger who was terribly ill-informed but incredibly in love with her own persona.  For over an hour, I listened in agony to her play game show host with the idiots.  It was worse than eating at a Cracker Barrel.  After that, though, I got out on my own.  I had done no exercise since getting to Santa Fe since I was in a workshop all day.  I had barely walked.  I could feel it as I went up and down the gentle rises and falls of the park, felt it in my legs and lungs.  "So this is what it is like to get old," I thought to myself as I quickly began mentally pencilling in my exercise routine when I got home.  I would get into better shape than ever, I told myself. 

Sure.

Part of the reason for my weakness, though, is that I had forgotten to eat.  I had coffee in the morning then got in a hurry to go and forgot all about food.  I realized this around two and began thinking about what I would eat for dinner when I got back to town.  I was fixated on the thick Traditional Sherpa Stew at the Himalayan restaurant.  That is all I wanted.  That and a beer. 

So I flew back to town and drove straight to the restaurant without stopping at the hotel to clean up.  To my surprise, the town was hopping on a Sunday late afternoon, but I found a place to park.  I was eating by seven.  The draft beer and the stew were perfect.  I was renewed. 

When I walked out of the restaurant, I planned on going back to my room to shower, but I heard some good jazz coming from somewhere.  I turned around to find it.  It was coming from a long narrow alley.  I followed it and came onto an outdoor patio where a stage full of musicians was playing cooly--horns, keyboards, guitar, bass, drums, and various other things throughout the night.  I ordered a Glenn Fiddich with a splash of soda, neat.  I was shocked when the waiter brought it.  Big glass.  Seven bucks. 

Here is the first full song I heard the play (link) or (link) or (link), "Song for My Father."  Oh, yea.  It was Father's Day. 

It was on my second scotch that I smelled the marijuana.  "Jesus," I thought, "is thatmarijuana?" It smelled good.  The fellow in front of me had just lit up.  In a bit, some fellows were passing around a pipe.  Apparently, I wasn't part of the in crowd.  Quell damage. 

Eventually, as the sun went down and the crowd began to shift, I wandered back onto the street to find my car, my hotel, my own bottle of scotch.  A hot shower felt good.  I was, I felt, a lucky man.