Home
News
ASPEN — Out with the old, in with the new? Not quite.
I woke early yesterday morning, as I’m sure did many, to a powder-sugar dusting of snow on the peaks. First, there is the exasperated, “Really!” Then comes a disappointed, “Really?” This is soon supplanted by a sleepy, smirking, “Really...”
The excitement derived from the true meaning of this is slow to register with me.
It’s early. I’m on my deck in boxer shorts, drinking the water I should have consumed somewhere after drinking the bottle of pinot noir and prior to sleeping, and wishing I had remembered to buy coffee. So instead I went for a walk down Cemetery Lane and over to the Rio Grand trail. A lovely peaceful walk. Meditative to an extent.
It’s cold. There’s snow in the distance, and in the not-too-distant future. It’s not quite the thrill of the first snowfall on your doorstep, but close — enough so, that I find myself anticipating that and all which it implies.
The first day riding Aspen or Snowmass. The first time you step out of the office into dumping sheets of white fluff. The first time you wake up on a day off and decide to stay in bed, warm with that special someone, watching the snow falling and knowing that the cold world beyond your paradisiacal bed is a desolate place best left to those lacking windows and a warm body to cuddle.
The first night you walk down the street and see tinkling fairy lights, watch the steamy tendrils of your own breath reaching into cold nothingness above, and wonder if it’s always so quiet in winter. (The first time since the last time I forgot to remember to investigate just how much noise snow banks actually absorb. I’m sure I still will be wondering next year.)
Yet none of it’s for the first time. Not really. Perhaps a year is the prerequisite length of time needed for us to forget enough of that which made it so special last time, or the first time. Or perhaps it’s just me. In any case, I’m rather glad for it. There’s nothing like reliving once-in-a-lifetime experiences.
So too, has it been a year since the first friends started to roll in. And they are coming. Right on time. Heralded be the trumpeting fanfare of e-mails and phonecalls to check on conditions. All the same cheeky buggers who came last year, most of whom used to live here at some point, and likely will use my couch as a base from which to search for an apartment, job and members of the opposite sex — embarking upon yet another Aspen stint.
Come for the week, stay for the winter. Stay for the winter and likely you’ll stay for the summer. Stay for the summer and you just might find yourself writing something in the local rag about how you’ve been doing the same thing for the last six years — about how those things seem somehow stuffed with eternal freshness, year after year, and about how you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
cmanie@aspentimes.com
I woke early yesterday morning, as I’m sure did many, to a powder-sugar dusting of snow on the peaks. First, there is the exasperated, “Really!” Then comes a disappointed, “Really?” This is soon supplanted by a sleepy, smirking, “Really...”
The excitement derived from the true meaning of this is slow to register with me.
It’s early. I’m on my deck in boxer shorts, drinking the water I should have consumed somewhere after drinking the bottle of pinot noir and prior to sleeping, and wishing I had remembered to buy coffee. So instead I went for a walk down Cemetery Lane and over to the Rio Grand trail. A lovely peaceful walk. Meditative to an extent.
It’s cold. There’s snow in the distance, and in the not-too-distant future. It’s not quite the thrill of the first snowfall on your doorstep, but close — enough so, that I find myself anticipating that and all which it implies.
The first day riding Aspen or Snowmass. The first time you step out of the office into dumping sheets of white fluff. The first time you wake up on a day off and decide to stay in bed, warm with that special someone, watching the snow falling and knowing that the cold world beyond your paradisiacal bed is a desolate place best left to those lacking windows and a warm body to cuddle.
The first night you walk down the street and see tinkling fairy lights, watch the steamy tendrils of your own breath reaching into cold nothingness above, and wonder if it’s always so quiet in winter. (The first time since the last time I forgot to remember to investigate just how much noise snow banks actually absorb. I’m sure I still will be wondering next year.)
Yet none of it’s for the first time. Not really. Perhaps a year is the prerequisite length of time needed for us to forget enough of that which made it so special last time, or the first time. Or perhaps it’s just me. In any case, I’m rather glad for it. There’s nothing like reliving once-in-a-lifetime experiences.
So too, has it been a year since the first friends started to roll in. And they are coming. Right on time. Heralded be the trumpeting fanfare of e-mails and phonecalls to check on conditions. All the same cheeky buggers who came last year, most of whom used to live here at some point, and likely will use my couch as a base from which to search for an apartment, job and members of the opposite sex — embarking upon yet another Aspen stint.
Come for the week, stay for the winter. Stay for the winter and likely you’ll stay for the summer. Stay for the summer and you just might find yourself writing something in the local rag about how you’ve been doing the same thing for the last six years — about how those things seem somehow stuffed with eternal freshness, year after year, and about how you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
cmanie@aspentimes.com
