Last week I went to Boulder in Colorado. My flight departed from Logan at 9:30am, which meant I had to be at the airport at about 8am - no easy task for a sluggard like me. I did manage to make it there on time, albeit sacrificing breakfast, and checked in at the check-in robot ("Please enter your flight number. Sorry. Please enter your flight number..." If it carries on like this it won't be the machines that fire the first shot, let me tell you). These days airport security is such that it's not really worth your while getting dressed the morning of a flight. Coat off, boots off, belt off, watch off, laptop out of bag, wallet and iPod into box, beep beep beep, damn I forgot my loose change... And then it always seems to take me six times longer than everybody else to get dressed again on the other side. Once I was decent and safely in the departure lounge, it crossed my mind that this was a perfect opportunity to purchase some breakfast. But suddenly, the White Rose Fairy piped up "Wouldn't it be better", it said, "to wait until you get on the plane, and then the food is free!" Good idea, I thought foolishly. It was only when we were half way to Denver that I realised that because I was in cattle class they weren't actually going to come around with food at all. So it was with a grumbling stomach that I finally stepped off the plane in Denver a mile higher than I boarded. Here I have to mention that the signposting at Denver International is absolutely appalling. If I hadn't have had a friendly local whom I was sat next to to guide me to the baggage reclaim I swear I could have wandered for hours in vain. The bags finally arrived, and I bought a ticket for the shuttle bus to Boulder, which I was informed was leaving in 15 minutes. I toyed with the idea of buying some, by now, lunch but given that I was provided with only vague directions to the bus stop I thought I'd better go and look for the latter. Of course there was no sign and nobody to ask so I had to content myself with waiting around until the bus arrived and then running after it until it stopped. I was mildly surprised when somebody walked past and exclaimed "Leicester Tigers, cor blimey it's a small world!" (I was indeed wearing my Tigers rugby top). It turned out he was from Melton. Nobody in Boston had ever recognised it so this made my day in a way that I wouldn't have appreciated until leaving England. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I eventually arrived at Colorado University in Boulder, located my hosts and demanded that they took me to the nearest food vendor. Once I had satisfied my grumpy tummy, they asked if I wanted to go for a hike up the mountains. Boulder lies right on the edge between the Plains and the Rocky Mountains, which are indeed rocky - well done to the lads who named them. I did also see a bona fide boulder in Boulder. I also saw a flying fly and I ate an orange orange. I was disappointed by the creek though - it only gurgled. Anyway, we drove up to the top of a col, parked up and went for a stroll up to the peak of Mt Flagstaff. Or it would have been a stroll if we hadn't been over 8000ft up on a day I had started at about 6ft above sea level. I was suddenly seriously unfit, and puffed and panted my way over the sporadic snow to the peak. We arrived as the sun was beginning to disappear over the mountains to the west, but even so the view was spectacular. On the one side you can see flatness for hundreds of miles and on the other the mountains rise up into the distance. The distinct boundary between two such different geological regimes is really striking. I did take some pictures but the light wasn't great so they didn't come out too well. Here's the best of a bad bunch...
And this is in Boulder the following day:
I was looked after very well by my hosts - they took me out to a different pub each night - and one evening a vindaloo was cooked in my honour. I have to say it was very tasty, and I had a very enjoyable time at the dinner party. The conversation was dominated by the war in Iraq (bad), Scotch, (good), President Bush (bad), and Picasso (good). Actually, I did make a faux pas regarding Picasso, but one which I think is forgivable. After dinner, and deep into the Scotch sampling session, a Picasso print on the wall was alluded to during the conversation, with the caveat "although I'm afraid this isn't a real one". I laughed and exclaimed "Yeah cos we expected it to be a real Picasso, ha ha ha!" It was truly one of those horrendous moments when the whole room suddenly went quiet and everybody stared at me. "Tell me you didn't ask that question here. Just ask that question again." I tried to bury myself into the sofa, and looked around nervously "Er, what? Er, you have a real Picasso?" It turned out that once they did indeed have a real Picasso, but they had had to let it go, and this was still a sore point. But how was I supposed to know this? Of all the houses in the world, I had to be in the one where this seemingly innocuous statement would touch a nerve! Never mind, I think they forgave me...
Another notable event that occurred during my stay in Boulder is Halloween. In the UK Halloween is becoming more and more an event, where some people (mainly kids and academics) get dressed up as witches and ghouls, and carve the odd pumpkin here and there. Not so in the good ol' U.S. and A. We have a long way to go to catch these guys up in the mental stakes regarding Halloween. The orange and green garden lights went up at the start of October. The pumpkins soon followed and even now, almost two weeks into November, gardens are still strewn with giant cobwebs and the like. It's truly bizarre. On Halloween itself the nation underwent a collective meltdown. In the pub in the evening my host and I were the only people not dressed up - and not just dressed up in Halloweeny-type dress. Anything goes here: pirates, gangsters, hippies, ladies of the night (at least I assume they were in fancy dress...), TV and film characters, the lot. My personal favourite was a sushi chef dressed up as a "mammogram machine" - a silver box on his head with "Insert breast here" written on it.
The other good thing about Boulder was that I got to watch episodes of Walker, Texas Ranger in my hotel room every morning and see Chuck Norris roundhousing baddies in the face.
My first act upon arriving back in Boston was to go to the pub at 10 in the morning. My excuse, as if I need one, was that I wanted to watch England versus the All Blacks. However, finding a pub that was showing it turned out to be a non-trivial task indeed. I'd found on t'internet a list of Irish pubs that were apparently showing the game, but this turned out to be a great big fib as they were all showing the premiership footy. Who cares about domestic football when there's an international rugby game to watch? Anyway, it turned out one barman (with an absolutely outrageous Irish accent - they're stronger here than they are in Ireland for crying out loud) was very helpful and directed me to a pub in Somerville that was showing the game. So, with kick-off approaching I had to run to the T and get myself to the other side of town. I eventually found the pub in question and ran inside just in time for the start, whereupon I found I had to pay 20 bucks for the pleasure of watching us get pummelled by the Kiwis. It was strange to be in a pub with most people supporting the Opposition, but I didn't care as it was good just to see a rugby game.
Finally, on a culinary note I have finally found a dish that is worthy of a Leicestrian palate - not a curry, I'm afraid, but an offering at my Thursday night venue Redbones. One of the grad students had mentioned their Beef Jerk, which they had said was so hot it was inedible. Well, of course as soon as they said this I knew my destiny. It would be me or the Beef Jerk. So on Thursday, I arrived at Redbones and ordered the dish. The waitress looked at me and said "I have to warn you that this dish is very hot - it has made people cry in the past". I assured her that I still wanted it, although I have to admit I wondered at this stage if I would just end up looking like a macho hungry fool. The Jerk arrived, and sat there in front of me like a big pile of spicy shredded beef with a side of coleslaw. I grasped a fork and dug in. I'm pleased to say it was hot - I'd put it at Nila Palace vindaloo strength (Sarah might even call it "tepid") - and I gobbled it up with relish. I can see why it would frighten people who aren't used to spicy food, but it shouldn't trouble those with sufficient training. So any Leicester Drunks who come to Boston - rest assured you will find some food you can eat.
