The
snowflakes in Denver last night were not the fluffy, light, quick-dissolving
type but rather heavy, clumpy ones. They accumulated quickly, coating my car, balcony, and eyelashes. Covered in snow, I darted inside a bowling alley. My neighbors and I laughed at the springtime blizzard while tossing 12-pound
balls down our lane. I lost by a significant margin. Somehow, it still felt
like a victory.
In terms of weather, Denver is
the antithesis of everything I’ve ever wanted.
July 4th has always been my favorite holiday, mainly because it conjures memories of sparklers, backyard barbecues and fireworks culminating a brilliant sun-soaked day. I'm a summer baby; my happiness is directly linked to the climate. Heat is my love language.
Unsurprisingly, I spent twelve years of my life chasing the sun. From Florida to Trinidad to Phoenix, I sought one thing: warmth. I deliberately chose the path of radiance and balmy wonder. Every street was lined with palm trees. Sandals covered my feet…when I wore shoes, that is. Half the time I ran around barefoot, like a wide-eyed child determined to enjoy those fleeting months of searing summer temps.
Denver is the coldest climate I’ve
lived in since high school.
I came here by accident. My
California dream morphed into a California nightmare; after wading through hopelessness
for several months, I decided to make a change. Denver fit oddly into my
schedule. I started exploring the base and the city. In spite of the chilly
climate, it appealed to me.
So I trusted my gut, loaded up my Mazda with all my earthly belongings, and quietly drove toward the wintry unknown.
It’s been nothing short of amazing.
In two months, Denver has provided me with countless opportunities to write, listen, sing, paint and basically pursue any artistic talent I want. Friendships have been forged. Fried pickles have been devoured, then re-ordered, then comped because the bartender apparently adores my airline. Songs have been composed. City streets have been trekked at odd hours of the night and odder daytime hours.
Snow-capped mountains (and cars) are now a very real part of my life. Weirdly enough, I’m ok with that.
Love,
Lisa
