I’ve been living in Denver for almost a month, and I didn’t know how big of a difference it was going to be no longer living in a college town.
While out to lunch at a pub of sorts one lazy Saturday afternoon, my friend and I ran into a crowd of [presumably] college students. It took me an espresso martini and half of my dessert (I eat what I want) to realize that they were progressively raiding the bar where we were seated for a themed event — the kind that you have to dress up for and drink enough not to feel embarrassed about it. Given that it was late afternoon, at best, I think we managed to avoid the actual swell of attendees. It still hadn’t fully sunk in, however, that I was no longer in a Boston crowd.
Fast-forward a week, and I once again found myself at a bar, albeit of a different variety — small and divey, the type of place I could see myself drinking at again. At this point, everything finally clicked upon seeing the St. Patrick’s Day decorations hearing people bemoan the arrival of students. This was the kind of city that braced for college kids — not one that assumes 70% of the local crowd consists of them on any given day of the year.
But this is just one stark contrast to where I was living before. As a likely result of that difference, for instance, there is a drastic disparity in the traffic and transit congestion here. While one could chalk this up to the city’s sprawling layout, I don’t think that’s the only reason.
People in East Coast cities are tired. They grew weary of highway gridlock decades ago. The narrow roads and general density were present long before today’s residents were even born — they’ve never known any different.
Ironically enough, I haven’t encountered such a group of people who are so proud to be in a region, despite its flaws.
There is nothing wrong with being proud of where you’re from. At the end of the day, I am still a New Englander, and I will readily admit to being a Coastal Elite. The problem with such pride comes when it takes on a life of its own. Xenophobia doesn’t just pertain to entire countries— it’s in your own backyard. Think about your old high school’s rival football team. Consider the city folk who wouldn’t be caught dead spending a weekend evening in suburbia.
I don’t know if this is the city I will stay in for the rest of my life—or the rest of this year, even. I’ve always been nomadic at heart, but I’m just now realizing that maybe it’s for these very reasons. I didn’t need someone to tip me off to what lies beyond Boston, or even Florida, where I grew up; part of me has known that, even from a young age. What I needed, though, was a reason to see what everything looks like — all of the college kids, night skies, bookshops, restaurants — when you jumble up the pieces and then put the puzzle back together.
So far, it looks beautiful.
