Mother of Pearl

I finally got the sleep I craved. I got up yesterday morning and had some nephew* snuggle time. After they left for school I had a delicious 2 hour nap. Finally, I was ready to go do some vacationing/exploring.

Figuring that I may as well put the rented Ford FIasco to use, I drove to Boulder – to Pearl street. It’s about 20 – 25 minutes from the house. I got there in an hour. I like to try to find where I am going instead of getting directions (sometimes that means calling Andrew after being hopelessly lost and having him guide me – some people have a Tom-Tom, I have a Berk-Berk). It makes me feel like I am learning the area. Getting to Boulder was fairly straight forward. Finding Pearl street was what took most of my time.

I parked right off of east Pearl and headed to the first coffee shop I found. It was immediate. I found out soon enough that every block on Pearl street has at least one coffee shop.

The best way I could describe Pearl street is that it is like a commercialized, sanitized version of Portland. It’s like if Portland’s Pearl District and Hawthorne had a baby and Pearl District got custody and then went on Toddlers and Tiaras. They even stole our statue-art disposition.

(the above is a statue of a moose that looks a lot like the elk statue in downtown Portland – I realize now that the moose is not well lit)

I bought a coffee and a platter of delicious assorted meats for lunch. I am not exaggerating when I say I could have bought a small island in the South Pacific for the cost of lunch.

I trotted up the street and was enjoying sight and sound. I came upon a man playing (and standing on) his stand-up bass. He was singing inane lyrics to a very trite blues riff. He finished performing and pulled out the guitar. He perched on the bass still and let me take a couple of photos of him.

I hung out for one more song before I realized it was the same as the first song. Fearing I was putting a cramp in his two song repertoire I moseyed on.

A gentleman asked me for spare change. He was so well presented and clean and polite it took me a while to realize he was a beggar.** Even the street-people community on Pearl Street was sanitized. It was odd.

I found a cute boutique and wandered in. Some of the clothes were marked “one size.” It took little time for me to realize that meant “these clothes are meant for one-size, not yours.” I even tried on a medium sized skirt (it was actually marked M-L) and I had to squeeze into it. I am not saying that I am super thin, but if I am “Large” the Raymond Felton is “A Good Point Guard.”

While I was in this boutique a customer asked me if I could help her. Then she noticed my backpack and said, “Oh, I am sorry you looked so official.” I saluted and went on my way.

As I walked I had blips of reminders of my friends at home.

(Starr, I think you should sue for TM infringement)

(Gypsy – how apt on our 25th Anniversary)

Finally I headed back to the car with some burnt shoulders (only lightly and pleasantly). On my way back I noticed this:

Their bacon-maple hairdo was delicious!

*for story telling ease Andrew’s family members will be referred to in the in-law vernacular (Andrew call’s them my out-laws).

** vagrant? bum? what is the politically correct term for someone begging for money they never worked for? Got it – “Politician”

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