When you move to a new city, you can’t help but compare it to your old one. I arrived here four years ago from Boston, a city I loved.
I figured I’d find replacements of my favorite haunts. It took a few months to realize it wouldn’t happen. There would be nothing resembling bike rides along the sand dunes of Martha’s Vineyard. There would be no Noam Chomsky talks. I wouldn’t have an international circle of friends that included immigrants from Nepal, Ireland, Haiti and Brazil.
I had to shed the old and embrace the new, and look for the best of what this city has to offer.
It wasn’t hard to do.
Here, I found happiness at funky jazz clubs like Dazzle. At La Rumba, a salsa club in the Golden Triangle. By experiencing New Mexican cuisine – something I’d never tasted before – at places like Jack-N-Grill on Federal Boulevard. At the Starz Filmcenter, one of the best indie/foreign movie theaters I’ve been to. Heading out to the First Friday art walks. Catching a concert at the magnificent Red Rocks. Taking a ride on the seemingly endless bike paths in the city, the sun always warming my back. The climate is amazing here. I know – shh! – I’ll try to keep it a secret.
I’ll miss all of these things, probably more than I realize, once I’m gone.
By the time this newspaper hits your doorstep I’ll be miles away in my new city, Detroit. I explained my reasons for leaving in my Tuesday column, which you can find online if you missed it.
I’ve learned a lesson from bouncing around. (This is my fourth city in 17 years.) You can’t replace the things about a city that made you happy. So you have to revel in memories.
I’ll always remember that crazy weekend I drove with a group of female friends to the hot springs in Strawberry Park. We soaked for hours, talking and laughing. A little before midnight, we decided to head back to our cottage. As we hurried in the darkness to take off our wet bathing suits and put on warm clothes, a light flashed. My friend Monica yelled, “Who’s taking a picture of my (expletive)?” Turns out it was lightning.
Within seconds we got pummeled with marble-sized balls of ice in one of the worst hailstorms I’d ever experienced. Though the iceballs stung, we giggled all the way to the car.
I’ll remember the time I was taking a road trip with my buddy Louis in the San Luis Valley. Being from the city, watching endless miles of hay and cornfields, and no one else on the road I thought it must be like Montana. “Go 100 miles an hour. No one is around!” I dared him. He did. And within five minutes, a cop pulled us over.
I’ll remember the times I hung out with my friend Letty in her art studio on Santa Fe Drive, blasting vallenato music and trying to create works of art, only to realize that I had no intrinsic talent. No matter how bad my monochromatic pieces turned out, she’d encourage me: “That’s really beautiful!” As a friend, she is beautiful, but the Mark Rothko-wannabe paintings, not so much.
I’ll remember the tireless community activists of this city who understand that a Democracy doesn’t run on autopilot, you have to prod government to do right by its people. They make life better for all of us, even though many of us don’t realize it.
I’ll remember how clean this city is. The beautiful parks. How friendly the people in my building are. The talented (and oh-so-cool) people I’ve had the pleasure to work with. There are a lot of kids who have touched my life here. Kids I’ve mentored. Kids I met at schools where I’ve spoken.
I probably won’t get as many speaking requests in my new job – reporters don’t get the kind of attention columnists do – but I’ll find ways to give back in Detroit.
I feel bad that I’ll be leaving Gloria, a talented, spirited girl I’ve been mentoring. Maybe another mentor will take my place?
So, lesson learned: I won’t try to find replacements for the things I loved about Denver in my new city. I know I can’t. This place is unique. So are the people who live here.
This is Cindy Rodríguez’s last column for The Denver Post. You can e-mail her at cindyrodriguezindetroit@gmail.com.
