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 Holly Winter Living The Life Of Holly July 10, 2003 “I’m going to show you a part of Denver that no x-boyfriend-doctor would ever take you to.” He warned. I laughed. “I’m ready.” “Yup. Dive bars. That’s what you need. A couple of dusty, dirty, Denver dive bars.” We walked up the Sixteenth Street Mall and ducked down a narrow side street. He took me into a tiny, rundown bar with miniature tables and a small waitress who greeted Margarita-man by name, introduced herself, and brought us two large margaritas. “This is not a date.” He assured me. “We are just two friends who don’t know each other, who’ve never gone out before and have decided that it’s about time we spent some time catching up.” I laughed. “Yes. It’s all very clear now. Thanks.” We sipped our drinks. “So. When did you break up with your boyfriend?” “This morning.” I said, taking another sip. “Well. You’ve traded up.” He charmed. “In case you’re wondering. In case anyone asks. You’re uptown now.” He swept his arm around to show the bar, and included himself in the sweep. I laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.” “Did you like him?” “Yes.” “Are you going to date him again?” “No. I’m done.” “Did he break your heart?” I laughed. “No.” We finished our drinks and drove to a part of Denver I’d somehow missed on all my trips to the grocery store. “Where are we? Are we still in Denver?” He laughed. “Yes. We’re still in the wide world of Denver. This is my favorite part of the city.” We were in a quaint nook where there weren’t any chain restaurants or golden arches. There were independently owned shops and restaurants lining both sides of the street. People were walking around outside. Children were playing on the sidewalks. It was more like a little town than part of a city. We walked down an unmarked alley which was secretly the entrance to a trendy restaurant with obscure artwork on the walls. “Wow.” I said, breathing in the novelty of the place. “I want to eat here.” “Are you hungry?” “No.” I said. “But. What a cool place.” “Are you asking me out?” He asked. “Cause I’m open to that.” I laughed. We passed another restaurant with graduated steps leading up to the kitchen. “I want to eat here too.” I said, drinking in the ambiance. “I mean. How many restaurants do you see where you WANT to eat?” “Are you trying to fill up my whole social calendar?” He asked. “Because you’re not the only girl in town.” “Where are we? What are the cross streets?” I asked, spinning around looking for street signs. “Sorry.” He laughed, steadying me. “But. If you want to come back here, you have to come with me. This is my part of town.” We walked into a tea house. “Guess what, Margarita-man?” The girl behind the counter beamed. “What?” “I’m going to France. I got accepted into college there!” “That’s bad for us, good for you. Congratulations! When do you leave?” “September.” “Ok. There’ll be time to get all the details.” He said. “But. Give us a few now.” “They’re going to help me find an apartment, my first apartment.” “Oh. Good.” I said. “I’m glad they’re helping. You might think that it’s tough turning on electricity in English. Wait till you see how impossible it is to beg for lights in French.” She laughed. “I speak some French. But. It’s a good thing my classes will mostly be in English. I’d never survive otherwise.” He turned to me. “She’s worked here since she was sixteen. This place won’t be the same without her.” We ordered our tall iced teas and sat in the big comfy chairs next to the picture window. “You used to live in Amsterdam?” He asked. “I did.” “I traveled there a lot for work. Have you ever stayed in the Amstel Hotel? It’s my favorite place there.” “Yes. It’s my favorite too. Right on the canal. Right in town. My good friend, Susan, was married there.” “I never made it to the Rijks Museum.” “Well. Rembrandt’s famous painting, Night Watch, was being restored when I was there. So I missed the best part even though I went.” “How about the Von Gough Museum?” He challenged. “Many, many times.” He nodded. “Me too.” We walked into the wine shop and he started chatting with the owners. Yeah. I listened like the good foreigner I was. He asked me something about wine. “Sorry. I don’t speak wine.” I said. “You can learn.” He laughed. “One glass at a time.” ------------ About the author: Holly Winter is a teacher and a writer and a flight attendant living in Denver, Colorado, USA. She can be reached at her website or email: Holly@livingthelifeofholly.com Comment on this column in the forum. Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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