Though I desperately wanted to stop driving on the third night, beyond exhausted and with bags under my eyes the size of wiffleballs, I knew it would be wise to wake up in the morning in Denver. So waking up, we were excited to have practically a whole day ahead of us.
We drove through Denver and looked for anything that struck our fancy. It's incredible how easy it can be to travel sometimes, at least in the states. Just drive in a main city and sniff out something cool. Passing under giant letters proclaiming DENVER on an overpass, I kept scanning and got a glimpse of blooming establishments on a cobbled road. I glanced at Nick, who instantly said "Let's go there."
1. The first bar was a sports bar. Broncos were playing the Rams inside. We had met Rams fans the day before, and now heard Broncos fans clamoring at the screen. I don't really have a team, but I wanted the Broncos to win in order retain the current vibe, which was working for me. We sat outside and watched people. Flies buzzed toward our food. They really are the statutory rapists of the animal realm. No matter how many times you shoo them away or slap at them, they keep coming back. No means no.
Anyways, I order something called a Cactus Juice, which was vodka, gin, tequila, and some green syrup that was served in a guppy bowl, basically a small fishbowl. It was big for a cocktail, but I love when restaurants challenge me, drink-wise. You should try Texas style margaritas at Austin Grill.
We saw a guy with a huge Afro wearing a chrome spacesuit and speaking to passerbys.
2. We then went to a bar populated by male customers and waitresses wearing tiny tartan skirts, unbuttoned white collared shirts, high socks and heels. Maybe they were heels, I don't know, I don't think most guys ever look below a woman's ankle. It's a brilliant system based on a strange folly of man: that we'll give higher tips to a hot waitress. All they have to do is stay in shape, bring out the drinks, flash a smile, casually strike a pose, and rake in the dough.
Our waitress was nice and seemed a little bored. She said she had ample time and we probably could've invited her to drink with us, at least to see what's she's like outside the bend-over-and-here's-your-beer-boys facade. We never got around to it though. I asked for a rum drink since I inherited my father's affinity for it, and the waitress recommended a tall bullet of a beverage which had Sailor Jerry and another kind of rum with coke. That translates to "you will regret this in approximately 10 hours."
3. Seeing how sometimes drinks to me are like Lays chips, we went to a third bar where I chowed on buffalo wings and savored a greenish, almost eerie, frothy cocktail. It also had a set of pink maraschino cherries, skewered on the straw like testicles. Sometimes I wonder what is the biggest catalyst for the hangover: the alcohol, or the sugar pounded into the drink the hide the alcohol. So sugar hides alcohol's bitterness and alcohol hides our eyes' bitterness towards uglier girls. Who is in control of this whole process?
I walked back with a small swagger and we drove, with some reluctance, out of Denver. My only regret thus far was not buying a shirt that said FUBP and had BP's logo leaking oil. I thought at first it was leaking blood, which also would have been tragically appropriate. Then again, I'm a sucker for shirt stores, like moms for infomercials. I should save some money.
Driving took longer than I thought and soon we were back under cruise control with blackness ahead of us. I called and got a reservation at a hostel The Abominable Snowmansion which was close to the Earthship community. So we plugged the address into the GPS, which we had been barely using, and followed it faithfully to our destination.
Then it got darker. Then the road turned into dirt. Then the dirt became slender, a one way passage. Then it got rocky, and my car began buckling over the divots and mounds of hardened earth. Then we didn't see anything for a while. And then we arrived exactly where GPS told us to and faced a wall of dirt. With difficulty, my car still bounding like it was being pushed side to side by frat boys, Nick still swearing like an Irish construction worker, I managed a U-turn. We went up a different road and passed barbed wire fences with PRIVATE PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING signs so I turned around again.
Dogs ran up to the edge of the fence and barked viciously at us. We passed a house with it porch light on, and a couple of men sat in chairs, watching our car. I pictured shotguns laid across their thighs. "Keep driving," said Nick nervously.
We eventually found the Abominable Snowmansion on the way back, its name painted on the wall at an angle only people who had already passed it could see. We rung the doorbell to wake up the clerk, since the door was locked, and we checked it. The place was cozy and covered in quilts. There was a doormat being used as a towel in the bathroom, or maybe it was just drying. I curled up in my bed, thinking along the lines of "fuck GPS," "hooray!" and "my universe for a kingdom for a bed, thank god I'm not full of bullets, dog bites, or in Buffalo Bill's basement right now." Orientation was in about 7 hours and we were close by. Success.
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