I was tagged by my friend Amber to post the fourth photo in the fourth folder of my collection.  This is not actually in the fourth folder, but the sixth, because the other fourths were photos I had already posted on the blog, and redundancy is such a drag, you know?  You know?  Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.

Anyway, this is me outside the Centre Pompidou in Paris about a year and a half ago.  Something about the lighting makes my head look like a giant melon, don’t you think?  That’s not the only funny bit to this photo, well not to the photo, but to the general story of the day.

This is our first day in Paris, having arrived only a few hours earlier.  We were doing our best to stay awake.  At this point we’d been up for about twenty-eight hours, and as we are neither in college, nor rock stars, this does not come easily.  However, I felt like, this time, I was going to be able to make the whole day without napping.  This time, I shall beat jet lag!

Then we entered the museum, and with the hush of the people and all of the marvelous works of art, the cadence changed.  Rather than experiencing the energetic buzz of the city, people moving, cars honking, scooters swerving, we felt the profound quiet of great art and architecture.  We became part of the ebb and flow of the museum, yet found ourselves set wholly apart from it.  The onset of fatigue was so potent that it set off a crazy chain of events.  First, we swayed like drunkards, no matter how carefully we tried to walk – left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.  Colleen laughs as quietly as she can, Gregory laughs quietly at Colleen laughing, museum-goers give sideways glances at the crazy Americans who should have respect for work that is neither silly or funny.  More laughter from Colleen, then Gregory…and well, you know the rest.

Finally, after we had seen everything we had wanted to see, interspersed with lots of breaks on benches to compose ourselves, we waved our white flags in utter defeat.  Jet lag won again.  We slowly walked back to our apartment, climbed the stairs, and collapsed on the bed, sleeping for four hours.

Though, I don’t care to live there again – snow, traffic, sprawl, and housing prices, returning to Denver is always a treat for me.  I love roaming around, looking for the new, and finding myself happy to see places that have not changed.  Look, there’s the Wonder Bread factory!  I can see the School of Mines “M!”  Oh my goodness, there’s the castle!  All of it brings back a flood of welcome memories and new ideas about the place that was once home.  

This is Paris on the Platte, my absolute favorite coffee shop in Denver.  I first went with friends on my sixteenth birthday – what a joyous discovery.  I spent many a late night – chatting, laughing, playing cards.  There are some changes, but it’s heart remains the same – the checkerboard ceiling, the useless smokeeter, bread boards piled with savory goodness.   I am sipping a regular-old iced coffee here, but back in those early days, it was a Cafe Jacques with cinnamon and a slice of orange on top (no longer on the menu), with an occasional clove cigarette on the side.  I will say, no matter the drink, the company’s always been divine.

Back when the Wynkoop was one of the few “civilized” outposts in lower downtown (LoDo), I loved wandering the abandoned streets, particularly when I came upon Union Station and beautifully tiled buildings like these.  They don’t make ’em like this anymore!

In college, The Market was my favorite hangout.  I could cross Auraria Parkway, and mosey down Larimer to grab a slice of quiche, a sweet, and an occasional coffee.  It really looks exactly the same.  The striped awning, the faded sign, the old-fashioned cases filled with cakes and deli selections, right down to the bright young faces behind the counters.  I’ll bet some of them are just as surly, too!

Sunset over the Flatirons.  In our restless teenage years, my friend Dionne and I used to drive this road in her Dodge Colt, at this very time of day.  We’d listen to KBCO on the AM dial, the signal fading with the light.  When it went silent, the sound of our voices and the soft rumble of the engine filled the air in the most pleasant fashion. 

Memories – all of them good.