miss adventures

At Last! When in Rioja

I just finished unpacking my suitcase from my trip two weeks ago. Is there any explanation for my procrastination? One is that Dozer had been using my suitcase as a bed and I was loath to dissemble so lofty a sanctuary.

It was my first time to Denver and probably the perfect way to cap off a series of excellent weekends. I thought guiltily this most recent weekend that it was obvious kismet that all the luxuriating would come to some abrupt halt. But we are reminiscing about good times, so enough of my boohooing!

Paige and I met up within ten minutes of our planes landing at the Denver airport, giddily greeting each other, but mostly patting ourselves on the back for our excellent planning. It was a happy reunion, especially when others around us smiled in amusement at our girliness. And then we saw Matt and Jaden's familiar faces. Our little boy was so well-grown and for a moment, I thought longingly of the time when he had chubby little legs and teetered a bit when he walked. Instead he moved briskly and chatted animatedly, and Paige and I were glad that he hadn't forgotten us.

The Denver landscape caught me by surprise, having always expected to see water in some direction. But I kept saying, "wide open spaces," aloud and in my head. I had that rare thrill, that I look forward to most on trips, of seeing new terrains, and remembering every detail to log as some frame of reference in a subsequent travel conversation. The freshness of the air reminded me of Portland, a pleasure to draw in deeply. Funny how LA smog will make the simplest things seem precious.

At the Cherry Creek Grill, food tasted fresher, lighter, more satisfying. Mel told me that the greater appetite may have had something to do with the altitude, and I imagined landing back in LA with a horrible paunch. And then we had some ridiculous Oreo cookie dessert of which the marriage of chocolate cookie, vanilla ice cream, and chocolate espresso sauce was dizzying perfection. Matt was right.

We were easily set up in the poshest place in town. Mel knew all the ins and outs of the Luna Hotel, and Paige and I were coddled like Britney Spears in London. I've always believed that the secret to happiness is merely a fast internet connection, a flat-screen television, and a down comforter. Plus, there was a French coffee press in there which I put to immediate use.

The first Denver dinner was sushi-grade ahi lightly seared, Israeli cous cous and asparagus tips, prepared by our very own Johnson & Wales expert. (Earlier in the afternoon, Matt had driven us past the campus and I peered curiously at the red-brick campus, imagining a glorious colony of industrial-strength steel ranges within.) Fancy vittles, but it was all so cozy in the little house on Jersey Street. A delicate dinner still brought about indelicate conversation, and over wine we rehashed a year's worth of savory gossip.

The Oreo cookie, the dinner, the wine... I was about to conk out, but Paige galvanized me to get the heels on so we could trounce through downtown a bit. Denver is peppered with one-name hotspots: Tryst, Mynt, Hush, etc. Indoor smoking was still alive and well, prompting me to cautiously enter each club like Paris Hilton at a Big Lots!. We found ourselves at Mynt -- and though it was early in the evening, its patrons were already foundering to sloppy-drunk. I remember casting many panicked looks at Paige. Maybe Grey Goose L'Orange Cosmos could save the night, and they nearly did. Until we had to witness the dance-off.

The dance-off. They occupied a good ten square feet of the already cramped dance floor. The first self-appointed contestant was a tautly muscled Euro whose stonewashed jeans sported the largest buckle I have seen outside of Nashville, whose tie-dyed shirt was likely painted on, and whose greasy and loose locks conjured up distressing images of Fabio. The second was a white boy hoping to be from the wrong side of the tracks, but whose crisp, blue-striped JCPenney shirt betrayed his gritty facade. The music blared and they were juiced, and pretty soon we all had to take a cautionary step back lest we be injured by their enthusiasm. Paige and I reluctantly took turns identifying moves we had last seen during Hammertime. It was then that I realized all that I had learned from VH1: Behind the Music, because I was able to pinpoint a time when Bel Biv Devoe, NKOTB, and Brian Austin Green had made an obvious impact on our society.

Out of traumatization, we made a hasty exit. But we chatted happily about future trips we would love to take to Colorado, and the heady anticipation of spending the morning at day spa. The next morning, we found ourselves at a Victorian house just outside of downtown that now served as The Woodhouse Day Spa.

Sometime into the thirty-seventh minute of my massage, I relaxed. I let it all go away. I made really corny peace with things I could not change. I made cornier peace with the things that I would never change, always remembering Sheryl Crow's wisdom. "It's not getting what you want, it's wanting what you've got."

And then afterward, I answered everything with, "I don't know, I'm so damn relaxed." I think Mel and Paige were amused with how comfortable I became in the changing room, and how I began to full-on style my hair with a blow-dryer and every which product offered. Hey, su casa really es mi casa.

It was just one of those perfect, perfect days. There was the day spa afterglow, Thai food, Starbucks mochas, and lounging around on Mel's microfiber faux suede couch, chit-chatting about this that and the other. I thought, a year is a long time, but not between your girlfriends.

But a promising evening lay ahead. And we were welcomed at Denver's bistro du jour, Rioja, having been told we were "so lucky" to be able to score a table. It was a no-brainer what kind of wine we would choose. "When in Rioja," I quipped. "That's the name of your blog!" Mel said. My mind immediately began writing it.

I didn't know that clams and chorizo went so well together. We weren't sure, either, if quail was meant to be served rare. There was fresh pasta on the menu so I had to have it. Right before the semifreddo came, the gentleman in the booth behind us asked a question he had been keeping in for at an hour at least. "What's your story?" he asked, trying to convey a jaunty air.

"Uh, my story... huh?" (Jigga what?) I bit my lip. "Sorry, were we chatting too loudly?"

"Well, I saw you earlier at the bar, and wanted to ask you, what's your story?"

I thought about my story. It could have been a good one, but the truth was, we were all just baffled. I thought "what's your story" was only uttered in combination with a gold chain and polyester suit. Then we looked just past this gentleman's head and saw the approving smile of his mother across the way. Oh, it's a pretty state of affairs when your wingman is your mother.

Next up: Martini Ranch, Denver chapter. Matt was working and had arranged for us to get a little VIP love. The downstairs and the upstairs crowds were equally kind to us, and by now the wine and I were easy bedfellows. There were a few choice partners on the dance floor, and I let the music carry me away. Mel's friend Francesca joined us, and with the courage of Syrah I blathered on and on in the language of poets and gangsters.



Sometime later in the night, the three of us collapsed on Luna Hotel's plush linens, watching infomercials and footage of Tom Cruise smothering Katie Holmes. And then there were two.

Between ex-Moot Courters, a hard night of partying is generally followed by a crisp morning of responsible clean-up and quick mobilizing. It was all so seamless and in no time at all, we were downstairs wheeling away our carry-ons and waving goodbye to our Luna Hotel friends. A breakfast burrito and an espresso brought much needed clarity for travel back to the coast. And then, Paige power-steered the car to the little house on Jersey Street, as we relived our weekend sights on the ride back.

The only thing missing was little Jaden. But we said goodbye to our hero Matt, who apparently had not been driven crazy by entertaining two California guests who were overly skilled in reaping every luxury. And then it was off, off and away... I took last looks at the mountainscape, breathed the air again in gulps. I remembered how it felt to play soccer with Jaden in the backyard. I thought about how hard you actually have to work to have simple, lovely things, but also how with the right ingredients, it doesn't feel like work at all.

It was all enormously gratifying. Right down to sitting languidly with Paige at her terminal and laughing heartily over bullshit. Our planes departed ten minutes within each other, so we congratulated ourselves yet again. She had on great espadrilles and a flowing, colorful skirt, and was every bit the perfect picture of the seasoned California traveler as she retreated towards her plane.

At my terminal, I listened to Sheryl Crow. I'll make the rules up, as I go.

posted by Lucy Sloan @ 9:53 PM