It was ’round 10 p.m. Saturday night – prime hours for night slumming – yet the streets here were lifeless. Occasionally a car would clatter across the train tracks, but most of the action came from a hyperactive tumbleweed that looked as if it too had traveled all the way down from the summit of Cottonwood Pass in search of a good time in a small town.
A few cars sat on Main Street, and it wasn’t obvious that anything was going on in this small town (pronounced by locals as Byoona Vista) until a vaquero hopscotched his way into the Green Parrot Bar, which had music, neon, smoke and laughter pouring out onto the black, wet sidewalk.
The Green Parrot (304 E. Main St. in Buena Vista, 719-395-9046) is your typical small-town dive – run-of-the-mill in appearance but absolutely unique to the region in aesthetics.
It is dim with lots of neon, and the clientele ranges from the gaggle of good-looking 20-somethings playing darts to the table of 70-somethings sipping their Buds – both generations eyeing any curious activity coming through the door with a careful, almost calculated stare. It’s more rustic than the nearby Lariat, which sits a block down with more space and exposed-brick and less people and a worse jukebox.
The Green Parrot is the kind of bar where my mom, who is 40 years my senior, got hit on twice as much as I did. First it was Steve, who moved to this Banana Belt ‘burb from Florida 10 years ago in his pursuit of a woman – and has been trying to make it back to the Sunshine State ever since. Next it was the aforementioned vaquero, who slowly and unsuccessfully tried to talk Spanish with my mom as I pumped the jukebox full of Beck, the Stones and Guns ‘N Roses.
The drinks were cheap, and the conversation entertaining. The Green Parrot is Buena Vista, and no trip there would be complete without stopping by to say hello.
Staff writer Ricardo Baca can be reached at 303-820-1394 or rbaca@denverpost.com.