A Twitter-friend wrote a post today about his 10 years in Boulder, and it occurred to me that this month marks my 15th year in Colorado.
In September of 1995, I packed up my belongings into a Ryder truck shared with two other wanderers (whom I “met” online, call me an early adopter) and headed west for what I thought would be a 2–3 year adventure before I either returned to NYC or continued on to San Francisco. But I never left. I called Boulder home until 2003, when I tired of renting and bought my own place in a suburb nestled just north of Denver.
In Ef’s post, he outlines some highlights and lowlights of his decade in the self-contained universe that is Boulder. My own memories are difficult to package so neatly. I’ve had five different mailing addresses. Every member of my immediate family has moved at least twice. I’ve flown in jet planes, turbo-props, and most memorably a Cessna. I’ve lost family and friends to age, disease, and tragedy. I’ve gained family and friends by birth, marriage, and sheer luck. I’ve had delicious meals, and regrettable ones. I’ve survived with only a scar what, by witness accounts, should have been a devastating car accident. I’ve been in love, and I’ve been heartbroken. I’ve visited other countries and other states. I nearly continued my original emigration to NorCal, albeit a decade late, but it wasn’t meant to be. Colorado will continue to be my home for the foreseeable future.
And I still can’t find my way around.