Asher on Aspen: Stevie goes to Denver

I’ve driven the same car since I was sixteen years old. It was the car I learned to drive with, and truly, the only car I’ve ever known. We’ve been through it all: scrappy trips up Aspen Mountain that tested her limits, numerous camping trips to Ruedi, and far too many white-knuckle skids on icy I-70. She carried me to Snowmass for powder days and Moab for desert escapes. But more than that, she was a haven for late-night sing-alongs with friends, the music bouncing off her worn interior like a second heartbeat.

Friends and I would park her in quiet corners of town, windows fogged, music loud, voices louder. She wasn’t just a car; she was family. A trusty, 2009 black Ford Focus I affectionately named Black Betty. She endured it all, from icy highways to scorching summer heat, with grit that made me love her more than I probably should’ve.

But even the most dependable companions have their limits. One mechanic looked me square in the eye and called her a “rust bucket.” Another outright refused to work on her, claiming it was a miracle she still moved. I, of course, ignored them both, stubbornly driving her into the ground. She felt immortal to me — a car that would never die.

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And yet, a few weeks ago, I made the decision I’d been avoiding for years: I bought a new car. It felt like a betrayal at first, abandoning Betty for something sleek and shiny. I considered sticking with Ford, honoring her legacy and my parents’ unwavering commitment to American-made vehicles. But in the end, I decided to venture into uncharted territory.

So, on Election Day, November 5 — a date I’ll remember not for politics, but for this milestone: Stevie Nicks was born. A brand-new 2024 Volkswagen Tiguan. She’s sleek, sturdy, and surprisingly zippy for her size. To break her in, I planned our first road trip to Denver. Just me and Stevie, cruising down I-70 with Fleetwood Mac setting the mood. There’s something so calming about solo drives: alone with your thoughts, music, and pace.

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Stevie and I made it to Denver without a hitch, her sleek frame gliding through the city streets as we approached our destination. Our weekend getaway began at the storied Brown Palace Hotel, a grand escape nestled in the heart of downtown Denver. Stevie glided into the valet like she’d been there before, though this was a first for both of us. I stepped out, handed over the keys, and took my first look up at the building. It’s a masterpiece of Italian Renaissance architecture.

The lobby radiated holiday warmth, with wreaths on every doorway, twinkling lights draped from grand balcony railings, and a towering Christmas tree stealing the show. A live pianist in the corner played a soft, jazzy rendition of “The Christmas Song.” The music curled through the air like a cozy hug, and for the first time in weeks, I exhaled.

The Brown Palace isn’t just a hotel; it’s a Denver institution. Since 1892, it has hosted presidents, royalty, and rock stars, and stepping into the lobby felt like stepping back in time. The hexagonal atrium soared eight stories above me, each level lined with intricate wrought-iron railings. Marble floors gleamed under my boots, and everywhere I turned, I noticed details: the ornate columns, the gold leaf accents, the antique mail chute that ran from top to bottom like an elegant relic of a bygone era.

Opening the door to my suite, I was instantly struck by its elegance. A cozy sitting area, a sprawling king-sized bed, and a marble-clad bathroom exuded luxury at every turn. The windows framed a dazzling view of downtown Denver, the city lights twinkling against the night sky. For the first time in a while, I felt grateful to have stepped away from the mountains, even if just for a moment.

That evening, I met up with my dear friend Shannon for dinner at the iconic Palace Arms, the hotel’s crown jewel of fine dining. Shannon lives in Denver, and we’ve always made a point to catch up whenever I’m in town. Walking into Palace Arms felt like stepping into another era. The room was dark and intimate, with antique military memorabilia lining the walls, velvet banquettes, and sparkling chandeliers that cast a warm, golden glow.

We started with drinks — mine a rich Cabernet, hers a delightful mocktail — and raised our glasses to the joy of being together in such an iconic setting. The meal that followed was a true feast for the senses. We shared a few standout starters: playful cacio e pepe bites and an unforgettable pork belly—a perfectly balanced blend of smoky, sweet, and tangy flavors.

For the main course, I chose the shepherd’s pie, a luxurious take on a comfort food classic. Made with bison and wagyu, farm-fresh vegetables, and a silky leek purée, it was hearty and refined in equal measure. The Cabernet complemented it perfectly, inviting slow sipping and thoughtful conversation. Dessert was a showstopper: peach cobbler bourbon cheesecake — a sweet finale to an unforgettable evening. Later, back in my suite, I sank into the plush bed, content and full, with the soft hum of Denver’s nightlife lulling me to sleep.

As for Betty, she hasn’t left my life entirely. Jett, who knows her quirks better than anyone, bought her from me. She’s staying here in Aspen, still cruising through town, collecting new stories, new passengers, and — fingers crossed — fewer parking tickets.