And, not once during our outing did Ethan Frome's "smash up" slip slide away into the recesses of my psyche... but, luckily, our day involved no desires under an elm, shattered pickle dishes or zeena-phobia. [I hated that book when I read it at 16, but no amount of topical Wharton remover, applied liberally to my prefrontal cortex twice daily ever since, has proven effective in eliminating its imagery.] Overall, however, it was a very (very) cool experience!
During our time spent in Boulder with Bob and his wife, Chaya, we also went to the Dushanbe Teahouse, where the fine service, like the fine tea, apparently cannot be rushed. Once you enter the doors, time stops and all is at rest. We arrived just when we should have - not even close to tea time - and the place was nearly empty with tables plentiful, yet our seating preparation and the ceremonious setting of utensils took at least ten very consciousness-inducing minutes while we stood waiting at the cusp of enlightenment (which is located just inside the entryway, wedged between the hostess stand and mere millimeters from the swinging door - which I can only assume to be intentional and symbolic of our precarious position in the universe). The unanticipated respite provided us abundant time to examine and accept the futility of our rushed lives and overly eager expectations, as well as gave Bob ample opportunity to select and purchase a tasteful souvenir. When Chaya asked if she could have milk in her tea, the waiter deliberated and answered philosophically 'Why, yes, he thought she might' which he emphasized by agreeably nodding his redhead. It took quite a bit more prompting to move him out of the realm of possibility and into the actual delivery of the milk, but the result, of course, was our deeper appreciation of each and every aspect of our tea time, as well as a savoring of the teahouse staff's superior understanding of the subtleties of service. Truly, at the famed Dushanbe teahouse, my cup runneth over.
And, now, a final metrospective: Boulder is, due to a tremendous amount of concerted effort on the part of its citizenry, just a bit quirky. Everybody drives either a Prius or a VW van converted to run on veggie oil, conscientiously rehydrates with only organic beer after Bolder Boulder training runs, climbs rock walls in 100% hemp laced birkenstocks or spins around on their tandem bicycles (outfitted with a modified second seat to accommodate their dog who pedals like mad in an effort to reduce its carbon pawprint). There is also a plethora of "Keep Boulder Weird" bumper stickers & paraphernalia, yet I am required by Texas allegiance (& the desire to avoid another scuffle with state patrol border guards on the way back in), to take umbrage and point out that their beloved mantra was plagiarized, lifted verbatim from Austin, TX. True, it is hard to blame Boulderites since that wording is so profound and evocative. May I humbly suggest they try something more local, a pithy summation that is indicative of their own region instead? I got it, how's about BOULDER: WE'RE FULL OF CROCS!
I don't know, it might need some tweaking... Perhaps Austin just had beginner's luck coming up with our so emulated slogan & no city should expect to coin something that achieves transcendent, world famous status. Oh, shoot, I just remembered the Alamo... Guess it's time for us to return to the only state that can rightfully claim to have the highest density of original weirdos in the nation!
Great (Dave) Scott! I didn't mean to resort to Lance strong Arm tactics there...
P.S. For the record, during our visit to Boulder, we did not once catch sight of Mork nor Mindy. But, I did see several characters who I suspect might be aging backwards... either that, or they're new aging. I admit I can't tell the difference.