A Wide Place in the Road

In the States: Bristol, Colorado. The flatlands, not the Rockies. “A wide place in the road,” Mrs G calls it. Her mom and pop live here. Most of the time, anyway. There’s a Post Office that’s open on Wednesday afternoons. That’s it. I don’t know when I last bought anything “duty free” on a ‘plane but I panicked at the thought of being booze-less in Bristol and bought a litre of Grey Goose. Good call. It’s in the freezer - what’s left of it, anyway. It’s 18 miles to the nearest boozer and that can’t be right, can it? I don’t drive. It’s my three-dozenth trip to the US, I reckon. I counted them up. Go figure.

Another thing I don’t know when I last did was to fly here on a US airline. And in what I’ve heard called “soap-dodger” class, to boot. Bad call, but no choice. Not to Denver, not under a grand anyway. Even in “mouth-breather,” BA and Virgin are a couple of notches better. “Premium” economy on either does me fine. With a bit of airmile husbandry, it’s easy enough to do.

It’s the little details, of course. Lots of little details. Like a crappy plastic fork so flimsy that it couldn’t penetrate a piece of stringy chicken without bending disconcertingly. Like it might just twang the whole lot into your lap. Or the crappy TV. Or the crappy six-bucks-a-drink. Or the haggard, crappily employed waitresses.

Back to Denver soon - the Mile High City. With the best beer in the world. Brew-pub beers with a crystal clarity of purpose like no others. Some make a dozen or more, from pale ales that crackle with hops to dark things with dollops of treacle and coffee. I’m going to have all of ‘em, one after another.