It wasn’t quite the typical Simone weekend in the city, but it did have some of the essential elements. We’d started the morning with cartoons and eggs over-easy, and then had driven the 10 minutes to her school for their fall carnival. We spent a good two hours playing games of skill and avoiding the face-painting booth (I’m not a bad father, really; we had big plans for the afternoon, and, anyway, Simone’s sensitive skin breaks out if you look at her cross-eyed). Then we made the quick drive home to change into a skirt, sweater, and tights (her) and slacks and a nice shirt (me) for our date: a matinee performance of the Broadway musical, “The Lion King.”
This is how wonderful it is to live where we do. We walked out of our apartment, across the bridge that spans the Platte River, through a gorgeous park, over another bridge, and to the free 16th Street Mall ride, a shuttle that cuts through downtown Denver, stopping every block to pick up and drop off shoppers taking advantage of the outdoor mall. Simone’s learning the stops, so she told us when to hop off the bus, and as we walked toward the theater complex, she noticed the street art — sidewalk grates that emitted sounds when you walk over them — everything from aural jungle scenes to the rush of a subway train.
We found our seats just a few minutes before the show began, and sat spellbound through the entire spectacle.
It was early evening by the time we’d drifted through the crowds back toward the mall area, jumping on those same grates along the way, and Simone chose The Old Spaghetti Factory for our post-show dinner. I blew her kisses as she hopped her way through the dormant stone fountains that dotted our walk to the restaurant.
The place was packed, and I found myself holding the door for a large family (in number and in girth), so I told Simone to head to the front desk and put our names on the list. By the time I caught up with her, the hostess was confirming a “table for two,” and taking her name. We were told it’d be a 45-minute wait. I surprised Simone with a quick jaunt to Pacific Mercantile down the block, in the midst of Denver’s tiny Japantown-esque Sakura Square, where we ogled porcelain kitties, and picked up some rice candy and dipping cookies for later. By the time we got back to the restaurant, we had maybe 11 minutes left to wait, so we shared an overstuffed comfy chair in the bar area. When Simone told me she was thirsty, I instructed her in the method of asking the bartender for a glass of water. Ever the urban six-year-old, she carried it off with charm to spare.
An early fall chill had taken over the night by the time we were walking home, but we were prepared, and enjoyed the gentle bite of the evening air. As we sang, and talked, and laughed, I couldn’t help but exclaim how wonderful it was to live together downtown. We were crossing our last bridge just as Simone was agreeing with me, and she noticed the lights of the local amusement park just down the river, the illuminated Ferris wheel reflected in the slowly moving water. She was thrilled.
Our lives have changed dramatically since our momentous departure from the suburbs. Simone can competently call the sushi place down the street and make reservations with Joey, the Maitre D’. Instead of hording dollar bills for parking, I save them to use for tips on “Flip Night” at the Front Porch, a bar where, on Wednesday nights, if you call the coin toss, you get your round for free (still need to tip, though!). One sunny Saturday, when Simone and I were walking home from brunch, we noticed the wind had picked up, and ran back to the apartment to break out her new kite. We flew it for hours in the park across the river. With my commute to Boulder, and all the time we spend in transit during the week, we try to leave our car parked all weekend. I’m more available to see my friends, because a 9 p.m. phone call on a Saturday night no longer means a 30-minute drive, $10 parking if I can find it, and the choice between declining that last drink or sleeping it off in my car. Now, all it takes is me grabbing my keys and roving over the bridge into the bar district. Stumbling home, back through the park and across the bridge, is sublime.
And dating is better, too. There’s so much to do in the city, and it’s no longer a slog to head into town for a social gathering, or a last-minute dessert with someone smart and pretty. It’s like I’ve thrown the door wide open to the world again.
Of course there are things I miss about living in the ‘burbs. I miss it being easy to hang with my married buddy, who read my “Urban I” and declared our long friendship over (I’m going to work on that; I was a jerk). Sometimes, I miss having a yard. But I don’t miss clearing leaves and mowing the lawn. I liked the space the big, blue house afforded me, but I don’t miss vacuuming miles and miles of carpet.
The tradeoffs are miniscule, compared to the joy I feel when Simone and I wake up on a weekend morning, and see only opportunity in the sunlight reflecting off our balcony.
Recent Comments