On the jetway, we're listening to Bob Seger. Inside the plane it's the New Radicals. I wonder whatever happened to Gregg Alexander.
Mountains still confuse me a little, since where I grew up is practically concave, and Utah's crags and unforgiving facades are a little intimidating. I wonder who arrived here and though, man, this place is homey. Let's settle down. All of the buildings here are brown. Farther down the road, I find myself involved in a conversation with three men from Toronto about the pros and cons of visiting Arizona solely to stand on a corner in Winslow. I worry a little that I am turning into my mother, who has done that very thing.
I like how the billboards here tell you how long it'll take to get anywhere. "Moab's only 4 hours away!" Utah knows that you don't have anything better to do than drive.
If there were snow and I was so inclined (and knew how to ski), I could ski into and then back out of this hotel. This feels decadent, but also a little dangerous.
Utah seems to be full of the sort of people who won't notice at all if I watch them for just a little bit too long. I'm pretty sure that I spend much too much time alone, but the alternative is even worse. Samanthas come in particularly breakable types of glass, and you've already smashed so much when I wasn't looking.
I made a playlist for this trip of every song I could think of that had whistling in it. Whenever I get fits of lonelycolduntouchable I just walk around listening to people whistling in my ear and looking at all of the new scenery. It's turned out to be an excellent way of viewing this particular world.
Because I am the lamest girl in the entire universe, I've actually got altitude sickness, here at around 7,000 feet. If this is what being in the mountains is like, I think I will stay in the lowlands.
The obvious solution is to ignore the altitude sickness and go drinking in town. This place is empty in the off-season, but you have to become a 'member' to drink anywhere. Eventually I go back to the hotel and hang out in my giant jacuzzi tub reading a book about Seattle.
The people of Park City are ridiculously attractive, like a toothpaste commercial, all big bright smiles and shiny hair. I think it's because they're all skiers; all of that fresh air and exercise and little booze and irony. I'm sort of in love with them, and not just because I've been waking up on empty often lately. Everyone's so friendly, and I want to squeeze them. I don't think they'd mind.