Why do so many people love Paris?
The traffic, the noise, the commotion, the pickpockets. Gets worse every trip, till they come, year after year.
They arrive Charles de Gaulle airport. Their pulses quicken. Paris! We are here!
They go back home with stories of Hemingway liberating the bar at the Ritz, of Picasso painting Guernica, of Haussmann and Napoleon III spending 20 years pulling down the medieval Paris — then rebuilding it from the ground up.
Back home, they can’t stop thinking about Paris. Paris has made them richer now, rich with experiences.
Aspen’s a different kind of Paris. Our own rogue, Hunter Thompson, almost sheriff. Our Thomas Friedman, from Beirut to Jerusalem. Our Wheeler Opera House, its ceiling of stars. Our Institute, long the home of Walter Isaacson and his brilliant histories of Einstein, Da Vinci and Mozart in the Music Tent.
A Festival of Ideas set in the mountains. Sidewalk cafes, every block.
It’s heart-thumping getting here. A small plane. A narrow road over an icy pass. So expensive here, to sleep, to dine, to stand on top of the world and ski down.
But the white of snow, the flash of world champion skiers, the green of summer, the strains of jazz, a violin. Aspen! We are here!
Help make Aspen even better. Vote “yes” for the Lift One corridor.
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