Last weekend I ran into my friend Russell, who was in town visiting during spring break from his first year in law school.
Like any first-year law student, he looked a little pastier and maybe a little heavier than when he left, a little worn for the wear. He sat on the patio at the Sky Hotel with a beer in his hand and the sun in his face during après ski and said, “You have no idea how much I miss this.”
We talked about all kinds of random topics, from the situation in the Middle East to the judicial system, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t had such an intellectually stimulating conversation in a very long time.
“So what have you been up to?” he asked.
“Well, let’s see. I just turned 37 last week even though I’ve basically been carrying on like a teenager lately – snowboarding, partying – you know the routine around here. Time goes by and nothing ever really changes.”
“That does seem to be the case for a lot of people in Aspen,” he said. “You do kind of get stuck in a rut.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up as soon as the words spilled out of his mouth, only because I know there’s some truth in them. Living in a ski town does require some sacrifices, and there are certainly times – like when I see someone like Russell fulfilling his potential at law school – that I question if it’s really worth it.
I have all these wild fantasies about packing up the car and hitting the road with no destination in mind. I have images of randomly ending up somewhere like Iowa, where I’d stumble upon this beautiful farmhouse with a wrap-around porch surrounded by cornfields where I could go and write and eat fresh string beans and hang out with farmers and gas station attendants (they’d still have those). The simplicity of life in Iowa would inspire me in ways I had never expected. I would live in a sweat shirt and jeans with my hair in two braids and never blow dry or straight iron it again. Maybe write poetry, even.
Or maybe I would rent my place out and go to New York City and become a real writer. I would bang on the door of every editor at Conde Nast and go to fancy parties where I would network with publishers and book editors who I would be constantly communicating with on a Blackberry. I would have an excuse to wear those leopard-print Manolos I bought over the summer. I would go to art openings and cafes and have a wild affair with an eccentric painter who lives in one of those big lofts in a converted warehouse and doesn’t have any furniture but an old mattress in the corner.
Or I could go West. I’d drive through places like Moab and Sedona and camp and ride my mountain bike and get all inspired by the desert landscape. I’d camp out and let my hair grow curly and wild and wear Ray-Ban sunglasses and a straw cowboy hat and oversized turquoise jewelry. I’d be like Thelma and Louise, except I wouldn’t die at the end.
From there, I’d head to California and get back to my freewheeling days as a little blond surfer girl. I’d catch the offshore Santa Ana winds (bad for wildfires, but great for the surf) and warm water and perfect surfing conditions. I’d head to my old breaks that are as familiar to me as an old pair of sneakers. I’d wear flip-flops into November and live on wheat grass and smoothies and run on the beach every single day. Then I’d rent a motorcycle and cruise on up the 101 and be so focused on trying not to crash and die that I’d forget all the problems I’d left behind.
Or maybe I need to go to Jerusalem, or to one of those Buddhist monasteries in Tibet or to a big, old vineyard in Italy. Somewhere spiritual like that.
But these are just daydreams. Seeing the huge smile on Russell’s face after a hard day of skiing, I knew he was probably questioning his choices, too.
“It’s a trade-off,” I told him, gesturing toward the blue skies over Aspen Mountain. “I mean, look at this place. Who can complain?”
As I left Russell and walked back to my little white Jeep with my board under my arm, I realized that no matter where I go or what path I choose, all roads will eventually lead me back to Colorado.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
