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Our Bed & Breakfast

 “You have to get lost before you can be found.”― Jeff Rasley

We drove and drove and I impatiently awaited the first sign of my new life in the distance. I expected the first sight to be like eye contact across the room—shy but sure. And I expected to feel like I was jumping. But when I first did see the city, traffic threw that jump into suspenseful slow motion. I stared at my snow globe come to life and I knew the real thing was about to shatter that little world.
It is surreal to look at a place for the first time and know that it is already home. I tried to force myself to love every part of it.  But the skyscrapers seemed not a collection of guardians like mountains, but like huge staring strangers that sensed me in their midst. Wherever my family ate, wherever we stopped, I wondered if I would return. I nervously regarded every street and assured myself that with time, the city would open up. Or I would open up to it.

So after a day of fighting for parking on Fisherman’s Wharf, racing flocking tourists for a sunset view from Coit Tower, and photographing myself with the city (with the stranger across the room I’d thought I wanted to talk to), we ended up at our bed and breakfast. Escaped from the coils of the city, I encountered the strangeness of Painted Ladies. They are the clothing of an eccentric city, the perfect setting to a colorful Wes Anderson movie. I could not help wondering what personalities filled those bright, bold, ornate walls. My first San Francisco specimen was the owner of the B&B. A man who has devoted his later years to the intricate mini reproduction of historical furniture. Lining the walls were doll size cupboards, ovens, closets, typewriters. 

Part of the view from my window

Desperate to enter a bigger world quite literally, I couldn’t wait to return to my university. To reaffirm the reason I was there, to claim my reserved place, to begin what a summer of fantasizing had yielded. I rushed my family to the campus, beat all the lines, and was the second on my floor to move in. It left me time to look around. To feel the school. Every corner of it oozes a kind of gold pulse, and it’s more than just the paint job. It is in a perpetual state of hugging, open arms. And it seems willing to share its beauty, which increases in my esteem every time I see it. 

From Salt Lake to the sharp waters and wits of my second city. From miniature furniture to my university. I am undeniably intimidated by the world I have sought out to be mine. I am lost before being found. But I’m going to dance with this stranger, walk the streets until they are mine, and look at my snow globe in a new way. 

So Long, Farewell

“What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”
― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Change used to come to me in small droplets. Fragile and long-awaited, like rain. I’ve been in sun showers and rain storms and felt them soaking in one by one. But this change is different. I am engulfed, submerged in change’s world when before change ventured into mine. I cannot reach my hand out and receive the change I want. I reach out and see that I am pulled by the current that’s been waiting to take hold.



My summer was swift and beautiful and bold. The first swipe on my new canvas. I think of it and yearn for that simplicity that seems so complicated, so unattainable now. But it was so perfect because its end was always destined to be this—the receding of my friends, my family, my city and my mountains. A heightened sense of droplets rumbling at my feet. A notion that my life is no longer still-standing water, but a roar of waves.

My family all piled in a car to drive me to my university. It was like a death processional and victory tour all at once. The road was what it always has been--relentless, graceful, Lion King and Sound of Music magnificent. Mountains and other sights to behold, unfolded before me like pages of a pop up book.

The best, perhaps, was the existential expanse of the great Salt Lake. In places it was strewn with trash, in others devoid even of footprints. Occasionally carefully placed stones created messages in the hardened sand. We stopped where the salt was frozen, arching upwards in small ripples. My brother and I raced across the surface of the abandoned paradise, two specks moving closer and closer to the mountains ghostly in the distance. Rain water trickled across the surface, over our scratched feet.

Even when stopped at the side of the road, nature in soft acts of motion pushed me on.

Swing Dancing

With only two days left in Colorado, I called up my friends for one last hurrah before all of our lives change in some way. We jumped in my car, what we affectionately call the mystery machine, and headed to downtown Denver. The destination is truly one of the gems of Denver, one cleverly disguised as an old, chipping building with an intimidating eccentric air. This place, the Mercury Café, holds swing dancing lessons every Sunday.

As a hopeless romantic, swing dancing has always entranced me. But up until Sunday, it had always seemed a (sadly) antiquated wooing, a vibrant stream of motions doomed to dance farther and farther back into the past. Physical movement correlated with intrigue, happiness, laughter, connection. Something replaced by the angsty and constant anger of the modern generation. So I expected to find a group of oldies obsessed with bringing back what most of the youth will never understand.

Instead what I found was a surge of hope for the idealistic youth. Young couples looking for a way to be close, shy teenage guys looking for a way into the world, the regulars poised to sweep a girl off her feet (literally). Spiced with the adults who truly do preserve the beauty of the dance and instructors that hop with excitement, my feet started to tap the minute I walked in. From the ceiling hung a spidery chandelier of Christmas lights, and on every table sat a red rose.

Half of the room  was comprised of couples, the other half of singles rotating. In the middle the instructors demonstrated their poised moves as the outer circle tried with sweaty hands to mimic the dance in some way. When pairs began to move to the floor, the open dance period had begun, the live band moved into its position and the girls lined themselves on both sides of the room waiting for the hand to reach out. And it was an unbelievably romantic tucked away paradise in a hot attic of Denver.

I danced with younger guys, I danced with older guys, I danced the Charleston with my friends. I danced to what I can only think of as the swing dance version of the Cuban shuffle. I was dipped three times, spun until I was dizzy countless times, was even switched off mid dance between two competing expert dancers. By the end of the night I was sweaty, tired, and elated that such a place exists. Can any other form of movement feel as light, as cultured, as fun, and as purposeful as even the simplest of swings? It was my Midnight in Paris, my transport to another time that I am thankful exists in some form today.

My friends and I exited the café into the light of the biggest full moon of the year. We walked the city streets to a cake café and recounted the miracle of dancing. 

Happily Ever After

Me standing with my brother at the wedding site

Never have I been caught up in such a large, elaborate, destined for disaster wedding. And never have I seen anything allotted as such turn out to be in its own over the top, elegant, affectionate way successful.  Ingredients for chaos included (but were not limited to): the convergence of two east coast families, 12 bridesmaids, 6 groomsmen, 4 flower girls, 250 guests, open bars, hiking in high heels, 2 days in the mountains and one ski lift carrying all of us up to the fairy tale scene. Sound like a cheesy Rom-Com yet?

I was along for the ride the whole time, feeling like an insider reporter. Watching to see how crazy my family could get and how happy they could get. I’d been to a bachelorette party, menhdi women empowerment night, a massage, a facial, a bridal party, an engagement party…and found myself dropped off at the beginning of the weekend at my aunt’s house for another episode. I love this side of my family unquestioningly, but never cease to be amazed when they run late. No, they redefine late. The bride (my cousin) and the rest of the family (including myself in a car with my other cousin and another bridesmaid) were an hour late to the rehearsal. I suppose grand entrances are more noticeable when they are late. More suspense maybe?
So we burst into the town of Copper Mountain where our story takes place. We scurried up with irritable, hungry bridesmaids (who were on time) to the part of the mountain where the wedding would take place.  More ingredients: a sick ring bearer, a wedding planner insisting the number of bridesmaids requires us to stand in the dirt, a cowboy with a pipe who hasn’t memorized part of what’s needed to marry the couple. When moving in to our condo, we found boxes of party favor counter parts, unassembled. I love what my aunt had to say. When more would come up, she’d insist on having a sense of humor. “Happy times,” another of my aunts said. It was hard to imagine 250 sticky muffins and fraying ribbon as happy times.

But they were, of course. The next morning as bridesmaids clustered to get their hair and make up done, I finished the favors. But I had my Cinderella moment when a makeup appointment was open and I was freed from chores to prepare for the ball. We surrounded my cousin Jenee to fix her make up crisis, we sighed at her beautiful hair, we raced her to the lift before the approaching groom and groomsmen would see. The day was supposed to be cloudy, but miraculously it was clear. The cowboy remembered the lines and make a joke. None of us bridesmaids tripped, and we spitefully stayed on the concrete. My brother and step brother looked like body guards more than ushers, standing with crossed arms and dark sunglasses on each side of the seats. One of the flower girls, a one year old, stopped in the middle of the aisle, suddenly perplexed at the situation. But she, just like the entirety of the wedding, just needed a nudge and a little time to regain her eager step.

Then began the trials of the bridal party. We walked down a hill, our heels sinking into the ground, for forest pictures. We then were left in a room for the first hour of the reception, choreographing a dramatic entrance to the song “Fancy.” However more were eager to practice our second task—a nerf gun war with the groomsmen. The bridesmaids stowed away ammunition in our surprisingly accommodating dresses (except when one fell out during the reception, before other guests knew of our plans). Someone asked an employee while we were waiting in the room “What would we have to do to get us some vodka in here?” A characteristic line of the two days there.

And the reception. Guests danced with the same fervor of a high school social, with an infused belief in true love. My dad accompanied my cousin as she sang Moon River for Jenee and her dad, as warm light and warm-hearted people flowed in and out from the mountain balcony. The champagne and words shared were sweet, a photo booth confirmed our cheesy happiness, and there was no end in sight. I even suckered my brother into a slow dance, which began what would become a long night of dance offs for him. Afraid for my feet and face with his crazy flying elbows and sliding shoes, I passed him off to the middle of the dance floor-- his rightful place.  The best moments were surrounding the bride and groom as they danced and kissed in the middle of us all, immune to the odd perfection around them, thinking only of their perfection in the middle of it all.

A wedding is an interesting cultural phenomenon. Especially big weddings. Yes, plenty rolled their eyes at the detail after detail, person after person added to the list. But people were plucked from every which direction, from their dream lives or average lives, and placed in a setting to experience the same happiness. To mix together lives. Whether everyone was the happy drunk of a weekend off from work or teary eyed from the vows and bright mountain sun, it was a jigsaw completeness. So we got a Rom-Com. My cousin got her fairy tale ending. Everyone else had each other, with the glimmer of stars and champagne and disco lights and togetherness in their eyes.

Another Slice of Paradise…

All summer my dad has had me on a 14er crash course. The whole works—small local hikes, Red Rocks stairs, the evil stair master at the gym. I’d learned all the tricks and lingo- how to “suck air,” how to take breaks and many small steps, the importance of not looking up (and seeing how far there is to go) or looking down (and seeing how dejected and exhausted everyone is behind you). I had the look- layers of clothing, a stuffed bag, splashing water, a homebred Coloradan naiveté. Bulky shoes and a bulging heart. What I didn’t know I was in for was two days of the brutal and the beautiful. The daunting and the delightful. A “slice of paradise” indeed, as a hiker exclaimed walking by. If only it were delivered on a platter.

Day 1- Mt. Bierstadt Rainstorm 10:00

My first look of the mountain on the car ride up was stunning. My hands pressed eagerly against the window as though approaching a ship, anticipating my maiden voyage to an unknown land. The clouds were already gathering, but in my mind they unlocked a mystical kingdom, a majestic lifestyle. Bierstadt was as wondrous as its namesake’s paintings and more.  The bottom of that pass bred the most excitement I have ever felt around me. I was infected as my dad said “let’s go get us a mountain.”

We were met by the first hard stinging pellets of reality (round one) thirty minutes in. The trail hissed with hail. We turned back, were headed to the car when the mountain changed its mind. The sky was stretched with its blue lacy lashes to seduce us once more. We headed back up. It cleared, we hiked, ever more encouraged by our advances. But just when the summit was in sight, and we stood at the top of the first false peak, round two hit. Thunder shook our delightful naiveté away. A curious man, both dramatic and crazed in the eyes, frightened new hikers with stories of storms. “Redefining, redefining” he muttered, a fake ferret tied to his shoulder apt for stroking. Within minutes he had a woman whimpering and praying.

My voyage sunk. People scurried from the top looking like the special effects of Titanic. Sumo wrestler clouds flopped over mountains and towards us. Thunder sounded the cracking of the ship. The mountain was a theater…it brought out all the works. Wind, rain, hail. It was theater of the absurd. It was Rocky Horror, literally. At the bottom the battered audience stood shocked. 

The sun was out when we at last stumbled down, the mountain’s weak apology. We sprawled across my dad’s heated car for warmth, and we tied our clothing to the doors to dry. It was quite the camp. It was there, stationed like the homeless, that we decided to come back.

Day 2- Do we look like Michigan people?

Back again, less innocence, less ignorance, more hardened determination. It’s a developed Colorado trait when the world tries to change on you too much. Not a cloud dared to come out. My dad and I remembered our training, we took our small steps, we made our small talk and mentioned to awed faces that we were back the second day in a row to get our full of the mountain. My dad was wearing a hat with an “M”(for Mullen) lettering, and at one point a woman assumed it was for Michigan State. She remarked “You’re not doing bad for Michigan folk.” We promptly passed her and beat her to the summit.

It amazed me the way the mountains opened up. Like one of those unfolding pop up picture books. Floods of people gravitated upwards—babies carried in back packs, small children, large dogs, small poodles, a man that would propose to his girlfriend on the top. The summit was practically a city of hustling bustling people, a potluck of purpose. A group of teenage boys showed off, racing to complete push -ups on the boulders. A veteran of 14ers, a man who had climbed every one in Colorado, regarded the peaks as old friends. An art student captured the view, sharing her dream of painting from the top of many more.

2 names on the registry, 2 days, 1 mountain. 2 months of training, 2 sets of eyes, 1 good story. 1 summer of seeking Colorado beauty, finding it after many, many steps.

Lake Dillon, Colorado

  There is nothing quite like sticking your head out of a window in Colorado. The air is thin and cool but never sharp. My friends and I rejoiced in it as we drove to a house by Lake Dillon. Another respite from our college-destined worlds, this long awaited 4 day trip was our way of going out with a bang. As all mature 18 year-olds do, we sang to Disney songs, the most obvious source of philosophical conversations and adventure. We wore sunglasses and banged our heads. My fingers hung out of the window, tangling with the wave-like air. A charming little town waited for us, full of cafes and strings of light, carefully tended flowerbeds and dogs to dig through them, children skipping and couples stepping slowly. With such a sweet destination, we were serene.

But as it is usually with the beginning of my adventures, it stalled. Some element of experience is always that moment of fear, doubt, or danger when we are defined by the decision to stay or pull away. My car puttered to a stop just off the highway, steaming and stubborn. A coolant leak that my mechanic had failed to solve yet again. At first we all just stared at it. Then everyone looked at me. I imagine I visibly gulped. After an SOS to my step dad, we set to rigging up a hose and attempting in our perplexed unknowledgeable way to temporarily fix the car. Of course it started to rain. I suppose it was a movie moment, just not the one out of all others I would choose. But we laughed. After cooling down the radiator with a hose, we threw ourselves in the grumpy car and spun around breathless. I said jokingly “No more breakdowns” –in more ways than one. In my leaky submarine of a car we drove out of the flood of water pooling.  

Dillon was comparatively calm, but breathtaking in its own way. As the night descended gently, we danced to an 80s cover band playing in a small amphitheater by the lake. We were the youngest there, surrounded by retired couples swaying happily just off beat and children sticking their tongues out. We laughed at a woman recording her father, whose dance move was comprised of pointing over and over again. When we found a sculpture of the founder of Dillon a day later, pointing his finger at the view, we deemed the dance move the “John Bailey Dance.” There’s something about dancing by the water, as the night slowly fades the features. Maybe it’s having beauty in different forms all around me, in my ears and my eyes and my dancing feet.

Every night we stayed up until three, talking about college then philosophies of life then the silliest things that set us into uncontrollable laughter. I’m starting to think to really know a person one must hear out these late night musings. It was exhaustion of the body, but not nearly the spirit. We awakened to breakfast on outdoor patios, watched movies in our dreamy half-asleep state, and stepped into our small town. Out again into the warm air, sun tickling up my sleeves, wind blowing my hair gently away from my back.



One day we wandered into Keystone, Colorado. We walked through a hotel entrance to the small square instead of through the public stairway. Hotel elegance is always nice to behold. It is fun to enter in the less obvious way, especially when it turns out the grander. Once through we rented paddle boats and bought fish food. On the pond, I laughed at the word “fish.” We had an entourage of geese. For a minute it was pleasant, until they got vicious. They grabbed the boat with their beaks, honked at each other, swam right in front of the boat to get us to slow. It was all we could do to escape them, including some clever back-pedaling. When we were in the clear, I enjoyed driving my friend and myself right under the fountain, soaking us when I got too close. She threw fish food at me in fake anger and we were right back where we started.

I returned home to my ever-quickening countdown. In less than two weeks Dillon will be a world away. I found solace in Dillon’s small pocket of the world right before entering a bigger one. Somehow late nights, dancing, water fountains and even maniacal geese put life into perspective. When I make small, simple memories, I prepare myself for bigger ones. I brace myself for when it comes time, when there is more than breezy wisps of Colorado air pushing me forward.