A Real Diamond for a Night or Three

Saturday night, best time to go out as a solo traveler- because everyone’s out, and they will talk to you. Especially if they think you’re cute. I had settled at my little lodge habitation, switched from my cowgirl hat to my Red Sox cap, and set out for the pub. I had driven around Durango for about a half hour debating lodgings- I had resolved to pick The Siesta Motel, if only for it's sign: on one side "Best Kept Secret in Durango," and on the other "Free Rooms! Just Kidding!" Which I just laughed out loud at! But the office was already closed. Then I was still determined to pick something without looking at my books, settled at the cheap lodge, and ended up having a nice chat with Michael the Manager, a real sweetie who liked to check up on me.

A sidenote: I must confess the downside to my road trip. You know the plentitude of my travel companion (books’) literature, but you must also know that I do have a certain time frame to explore within, and that means that I just do not have the luxury of time to freely explore options of cuisine. If I could spend a few days at every destination I would certainly trust my local recommenders and try the Landry’s Seafood Company or The Red Barn, but I just refuse to risk a bad meal. Thus, I ate where my manager and my book recommended.

Hey Boston, how do you spell gargantuan? Oh yeah? How about prejudice?!

I daresay I come off as likely to have a strange growth or friendliness deficit, due to my quiet enjoyment of comestibles and beverages in my personal bubble, and my book. However tonight mr. coroner took a chance. Because this was a new experience, I’d like to share it with you. The setting: Steamworks Brewing Co, a brewpub in charming Durango, CO on a Saturday night.

My mood: ready to converse with strangers! But without the necessary conversation-initiating introductions at my disposal, which means I was contentedly discussing the house beers with the bartender.

The play: I sit and order the Rock Hopped Pale Ale, a bumpy road to hops perfection, and thus a simple pleasure. Enjoying my beer I order food and take a look around. The manager at my lodge recommended the place and said it was a local student haunt, so I strike up that free convo with my bartender: “are all these people students?” the attempt at mingling died fast, so I returned happily to my book. That’s when I hear “the yankees are going to have a good year” and look up to mr. biceps speaking to no one in particular. I know enough, thank all that is witty, to respond “I heard that” in a possibly flirtatious manner. He accused me of being trendy, I one-up him with my honest home state. He continues to try and corner me, I take the smart-ass routine. It is, I must say, just about my favorite, because it allows wit (and more importantly) the maintenance of distance, within the bar banter that most men attempt. The thing is, I get bored because they’re all the same: man gives out barb, woman reacts with polite retaliatory remark. Man accuses woman of being a) smartass b) bitchy c) on her period. Depending on the man, A and/or B can be a compliment. Sometimes, C can be testing the waters for later, but I would reserve that chance only for the most desperate of folk. Mr. biceps chose b, but in that complimentary way. We discussed my plans, some of the area and his job (coroner, investigator) which I decided not to believe, and we left each other alone for a beer.

Then I heard "Hey Boston, do you know how to spell gargantuan?" I answer. "Really? Well how about prejudice? Nobody knew how to spell that one last night!" Who could they have asked, I wonder?  And then that conversation died .

His friend, who he had offered many disclaimers for (drunkenness being the dominant concern) then pulled a stool to my left and graciously began the discussion test.

This can be very fun, as two strangers try to not talk about the one person they know in common who’s within hearing, and string through possible topics while trying not to sound like a list of topics are being cycled through. We settled on politics, and he announced that he knew much of ‘politics and all things political,’ which also offered my arm two volleys of spittle. After a quick discussion on the primaries we had discovered an important fact: he was drunk. He spilled his pint all over the bar and disappeared.

Mr. biceps, who I will eventually refer to as mr. coroner, stepped in and continued the conversation, until mr. drunk firefighter (works for the park service as a professional firefighter and igniter, referred to his title as “hot shot,” which my feminine sensibility told me to not believe) supposedly returned jealous that I had been passed off. This part of the dynamic has always been a welcome amusement, for as I may or may not enjoy the diversion of his company, I will be passed around like a hippie talking stick, claimed at one moment and lost the next, if the male cannot maintain eye-contact or follow another natural rule of domination. I was just happy not to be spit on anymore.

While I contemplated the possibility that these gentlemen were playing me the fool in attempts to impress, the conversation continued amiably for the rest of the night. I got a number out of it (because he wanted me to see his business card- Investigator, Coroner), and had the best Portabella Mushroom Sandwich of my life.

So I can recommend the town because it is one I would like to return to, and explore. The downtown is picturesque with a classic layout, people are of assorted walks of life, and most importantly, very friendly. I had a really nice time there.