Thursday, January 03, 2008


A very good friend of mine once told me, "Denver's the smallest big city in the country." At that point I was still fairly new to living in the city, having clawed my way out of the suburbs' stultifying grasp less than a year prior, and I didn't understand what she meant--everything seemed so new, there were so many places to explore, so many people to meet. But she seemed to know everyone. When I trace a finger backward through my friendship lineage, in fact, I find that she's responsible--both directly and indirectly, in different cases--for introducing me to a number of people with whom I maintain friendships.

Now it's been a few years, and she's gone, and as I walk and ride my bike around I feel exactly like she must have. I know what she meant. Denver is a small town masquerading as a major U.S. city. I see people I know everywhere.

Last night I was riding my bike home--actually, to Laura Fusaro's apartment--from work, and as I was riding past a group of three girls--three shadowy, bundled-up girls--one of them said, "Hi Patrick!" in a cute, sort of playful voice. I turned around and looked back as I kept riding and they laughed and I said, loudly, "Hi?", and kept riding. I don't know who it was.

This sort of thing happens to me all the time.

To whomever greeted me on the shadowy street: hello.

This was maybe going to be a blog post about how I need to get out of Denver, but it's also a blog post about how I love Denver. I guess the jury's still out.