I experienced a twenty-four hour sensory extravaganza in downtown Denver this weekend where the sport of people-watching rivals that found in Times Square. I was on a mission: to determine whether or not I could live in a metro loft above crowds of people bustling about day and night and endure the dissonance of car horns, sirens, multi-genre music, and seasonal roar of Coors Field spectators. I would also test the waters of the twice daily bumper-to-bumper rush hour commute on I-70.
After checking into the Sheraton Hotel for a complimentary stay (see Categories/Travel/Feb 07, 2011/Beware! Vampire Bugs) and studying the map the concierge gave me, I started out on-foot for the LoDo District. Five blocks later, sweat trickling down the back of my neck and knees, I boarded the 16th Street Mall Shuttle en route to Union Station.
Within minutes, three teenage boys jumped on, cursing and maligning someone who was, by now, out of sight. Obnoxious and vulgar, armed with attitudes meant to intimidate, they were intent upon dominating the shuttle’s small space as they blocked the rear door, ignoring the physical shifting of apprehensive tourists and apathetic locals. I observed the trio of angry adolescent males and noticing that each had a slight physical disfigurement marring their appearance, I speculated that they had been fighting for their rank in life since they were young school boys.
Walking back to the hotel, I came upon two young black men, around ages 18 or 19, talking to two very young white girls - one with spikey dark purple hair and the other with pink and black streaks mixed in with her long blonde locks. I could easily overhear their conversation.
“See ya, later. Nice meeting ya.” The taller of the two grabbed his friend’s arm, pulling him away from the girls.
“What the fuck was that?” his friend protested. “They were hot. They wanted us, man. What the...”
“Yeah, right. That’s what you call trouble. If I called my mama at work and said, ‘Hey, Mama, I just picked up two fourteen-year-old white girls and I’m bringin’ ‘em home’, she would say, ‘The hell you are! Are you crazy boy?’ An, she right. That’s trouble, man. That’s what that is.”
“So, don’t tell her they white!” his friend argued.
“It’s not the color man, it’s the age, the age. Forget about them. They trouble. C’mon, the night is waitin’ on us.” His overall manner was in sharp contrast to the three on the shuttle; he had an air of confidence and sincerity, characteristics that his mama had undoubtedly instilled in him by taking the time to teach her boy the importance of values and the existence of right and wrong.
I had several appointments to view lofts and when I finished with that, I sauntered down the city blocks - watching street performers, chatting with a roadie setting up an outdoor stage for a rock-n-roll band that would be performing for a charity benefit, and finally selecting the outside patio at Willie G’s Steak and Seafood to rest and eat dinner. After all the walking and eavesdropping, I was famished. Willie’s signature seafood trio salad called out to me – shrimp remoulade, smoked salmon, and cold jumbo shrimp served on top of beefsteak tomatoes. I downed a bottle of Pellegrino water and savored a glass of Moet & Chandon champagne while continuing to watch the pedestrian parade. Couples strolled by hand-in-hand, their eyes locked and chemistry sizzling, while others walked with a foot of space between them, unaware that their body language indicated to others that their passion for one another was waning. I watched as the homeless trudged by with downcast eyes, burdened with heavy backpacks and sorrow. Teenage girls shared secrets that made them giggle at the awkward, boisterous boys who vied for their attention. All would be my neighbors if I chose to become a downtown dweller.
The lofts I viewed were amazing with exposed brick walls, granite counters, wood floors, and private courtyards or rooftop swimming pools, but after one day I was ready to head northwest, back to my son’s apartment with its unobstructed view of the Rockies and uncongested streets. Saying a prayer of thanks as I turned onto Highway 36 West, I retreated to the mountains. My housing search continues, but the lofty fantasy of downtown living is over.
