Some friends took me to a concert last night in Denver (Ghost, which is probably described as death metal or death pop) and by the time I got back up to my home in the mountains, it was well after midnight.
This morning I decided to go to the Sundance Cafe for breakfast. I rarely go out for breakfast, but when I do, it makes the day special.
Even though I didn’t know anyone, when I looked around the restaurant I saw mostly locals. I’m not sure how I can tell. Maybe it’s the practical clothing and the lack of style. I think it’s the winters that make us that way, where all the trappings of the city are put aside for survival. In January, when the winds are howling, I just stop caring about style and wear whatever will keep me warm and dry. I remember one night my first winter up here, I was startled when getting out of my car to go into the house. The wind was carving the snow into a moonscape and it was bitter cold. The cold was now serious business.
And the couple sitting at the next table somehow knew I was a local, too, because they struck up a conversation with me of local topic. All of the other conversations I overheard were about local topics as well. Perhaps it’s just because the locals know if you’re going to eat out on a weekend, breakfast is the only option before the hordes of tourists drive up from Denver. By lunch time, the cafe will be packed and with a waiting list.
Even though I’m not very active in the local community, I am still part of it.
Fall foliage on the ground, Yankee Doodle Lake.
