Arrival

The sky in Denver was still dark as we pulled quietly up to the east wing of the Denver airport and put the car in park. Greg hopped out and walked to the back of his Honda element and opened the back to reveal my entire life, stuffed into two bags. There had been three bags, but let me go back a bit. The day before:

The sun was shining on my peaceful valley of Paonia, I was driving home for the last time, bare feet on the pedals, as I navigated the newly rain rutted rocks in our dirt road. My border collie, Fly rested her head in my lap and the window beside us was open. I knew Fly knew I was going. She had been keeping close tabs on me all week, but now she was keeping as physically close to me as possible. We reached the top of the hill and turned into our driveway. Greg's red element sat in front of my tiny cabin, awaiting everything I would take into my new life.
I paused, as I went to open the door to the house, trying to wipe the still damp tears away, the ones that had run freely when I had said goodbye to my mama and my best friend.
It took me another half hour to pack all my stuff, including all my bedding, down comforter and cast iron frying pans. (what's a Colorado girl to do without her cast-iron?) All while Greg, very kindly, didn't moan too loudly when he heaved them into the back of his car.
Greg and I have been friends for a couple of years now, and his generosity, kindness, and heart centered dance skills have made us close and fast friends. So very thankful for friends like him.

It was only a few more moments, and I had wrapped my dust covered papa in a hug, as he stopped work for a minute in a large hole in the hillside, the beginnings of my oldest brothers new house; had kissed my border collie and told her what a good girl she was, as tears fell freely into her rough and climbed in the car. As we descended down into the valley, the afternoon light shone across it. Bright and golden, into the craggy edges of my mountains and stretching in long shafts touching all the places and people that I know. At the bottom of my hill we turned left and headed East.
As we climbed up the familiar road to the pass, I felt the sneaking suspicioun that Colorado might be showing off, just a little, for us. The deep blue of the October sky, high lighted by the fresh snow, laying like sugar of the jagged peaks. The aspen trees turning their leafs to gold. It made my heart jolt, feeling the fleetingness of something so precious and astounding, trying to pack it in, laying my heart with the heady scent of autumn and mountain air. 
When we headed into Glenwood Springs we were hungry. We found a place called the Pullman, and it seemed busy, we took that as a good sign. And oh man was it a good sign. We ended up with a four course meal and each time I put a fork full in my mouth, goosebumps ran down my arms and traveled towards my toes. Have I mentioned, that I like good food?
We started with pork tostadas, drizzled in onions, and freshly spiced guacamole. Next were the salads, the first sprinkled with nuts and an aged Italian cheese, but the second salad was amazing. It was called the goat cheese salad, but the soft flavor of ricotta, pan fried and then served on a bed of fresh tender organic baby greens with chunks of juicy melon. Just about sent me over the edge.
It was amazing. And for the main corse we got two kinds of steak, perfectly cooked, perfectly juicy and tender, the first in a bed of garlic whipped potatoes and the second on a bed of tender greens, with carmolized onions, beacon and blue cheese. Both were absolutely exquisite. (And for desert we had apple ravioli with gingerbread ice cream. Gosh. So good.)
After that we were hard put to do anything besides drive and sigh contentedly into the dark along the interstate running parallel to the Colorado River as it rushes through Glenwood canyon. But soon we found our voices again. There was a time complication with my friend who was originally going to pick me up. (Finding someone to pick me up from the airport at all had been super difficult, I had so much luggage) - did I mention the guitar case and back pack along with the three other cases? - it was physically not possible for me to carry all my luggage, at once, let alone try and land a taxi, or heaven forbid, try and make it to my new house on the subway. Greg watched my worried face in the glow from the dashboard as I listened to my friends message, explaining my other options for getting to my new apartment. I felt my stomach wobble and I hung up feeling unsure. Greg clicked open his phone and said. "I'm gonna make a call."
Did I mention that what Greg does for a living is he is a concierge for the 4 seasons? Yeah.
He proceeded to pull some strings, calling his dispatchers and finding out how much it would be to get a car to come pick me up and have it not cost an arm and a leg. After a flurry of other phone calls, he had gotten it set, with someone to pick me up, help with my luggage and deliver me to my new place in style. I sat in silence, completely stunned. Incredibly grateful. And with no words to fully express all I was feeling. The only words that felt at all right to be coming out of my mouth was my gratitude. "Thank you" I said into the hum of our tires on the road. "No problem" Greg replied. And then he changed the subject.

We got to Denver late and I repacked my bags in the dim light on his kitchen floor, while he figured out a way to ship one of my bags because the airline wouldn't take it. We slept for a few hours and then we're back to loading everything back into his car. I stood alone by the car in the driveway while Greg searched for something in the house, the sky was still very dark. The orange glow of street lamps, the suburbs of Denver stretched out before me. Way off to the left I watched a traffic light switch lazily from red to green, no traffic yet for it to direct. The wind tugged at my scarf and on it I heard the far off barking of a dog, and somewhere the lonesome note of a train whistle. I stood there, trying to soak it all in. I tilted my head back and above me were my stars. Not as many as I have at home, but still the same familiar twinkling. They were one if the things I would miss the most. But as I stood there, looking up, I got the distinct feeling that they are always shining, always bright, just beyond the glow of all our man-made light. It made me smile and not feel so alone.
On our way to the airport we dropped off the third bag to be shipped, for a fraction of what I would of paid on the airplane. And then we were there, at the terminal, standing on the sidewalk next to my heavy suitcase, backpack and duffle bag, guitar case in hand, and with one more hug, smile and wave Greg got back in his car and back into the stream of early morning traveler traffic and I headed into the terminal.
The first sign of trouble was when I hefted my first suitcase up onto the scale and it weighed over 70 pounds. 50 is the limit. And the intake of breath through my airplane representative's teeth was audible. "50 is the limit, miss." I gentle set down my guitar case and backpack and unzipped the suitcase. This was the third time I had repacked and this was by far the lightest it had been so far. I grimaced to think what it had weighed before.
I began pulling out anything that might lighten the load. Boots, jeans, my sweater, my art supplies, the fabric boxes I had brought to put clothing in. I jammed whatever I could into my other duffle bag, which was only 37 pounds when I started. It took two of us to zip it closed but we got it. And both were teetering right around 50 pounds. The man took my bags and gave me my return slips.
The only problem is that I still had a pile of things that hadn't fit in either bag. I piled them into my arms and started walking towards security. After I had stuffed absolutely everything into my backpack I looked for a big plastic bag to put the rest in. The closest I came was a small bag from a news stand. I sat down with all of my things at the entrance of security and surveyed the damage. What was I going to do? I still had two pairs of jeans, a summer dress, a sweater, a huge sleeping shirt, an extra pair of boots, the boxes, and my art supplies. I soon realized the boxes were not important and could then be tossed. I stuffed the art supplies and what ever else would fit into my guitar case, nestled around my guitar. As for the jeans, I saw no other recourse but to try and put them on over the ones I was already wearing. I got some curious sidelong glances as I hopped my way into the first pair in the early dark of morning at the beginning of security in DIA. But I was impressed that despite the fact that I had just washed them and they had shrunk the way jeans do, that they buckled over my first pair of jeans. The second pair went on, but they definitely wouldn't button, or zip for that matter. I pulled my tank top down as far as I could and called it good. I then put on the extra sweatshirts and proceeded down the long ropped off isles towards security. I felt like I had gained about 20 pounds and I was beginning to sweat, but I also felt a little like Joey from Friends, when he puts on all of chandlers clothes. That thought made me laugh. Honestly, the whole predicament made me laugh. Adventures.

I made it through security, without too much ado, and no one commented, - or saw - my three pairs of pants. On the other side of security, I dropped one of my boots from my bag, but someone yelled and I went back and got it. I couldn't help but feel a little like Cinderella.
Finally I made it to my gate and onto the plane, my guitar safely tucked on top of the baggage, and my extra purse tucked under the back of my backpack, undetected. I sat in my seat, between a New York mom taking her oldest son to check out colleges, and a man going on vacation to the city for three days.  I sat there sweating, in all my layers, smelling of sweat and exhilaration, nerves and adventure.
The flight passed and I talked to my seat companions and before you knew it, we were flying in low, over the city. The clouds were no where to be seen and the city was laid out under us, the statue of liberty glinting in the October sun. After disembarking I made my way to baggage claim and there was the man picking me up. My name written in sharpie on a wide piece of paper. I asked him about his life in New York as we waited for my luggage, people sending us surreptitious glances, my in my cowgirl boots and with my guitar in hand and chauffeur. I must have looked like a real somebody. It made me laugh. Delightedly so.

Finally my luggage came and after a few turns round the parking garage, with my cart full of things, we found the car. A shiny black sedan.
I got to see the city as we drove into it across the Kennedy bridge, the view of the Brooklyn Bridge down river from us, stunning in the mid afternoon light. We hit Manhattan island and also hit the projects. My driver, Rodolfo, warned me to not go into them. And when he dropped me and all my luggage off on my front step, just a few blocks later I could tell he probably didn't usually deliver farm girls wearing actual boots into the heart of Harlem.
"You smart girl, you do fine. But be safe." those were his parting words to me.

I stood on my front stoop, waiting for my friend and new roommate Tracy to let me in and surveyed my street. There was a laundry place across from me and a police station down the street. The street was busy and dirty and full. Down to the right was a small Park and the subway entrance. I noticed I was by far the whitest, most freckled person on the street.

My new apartment is amazing. Third floor. Huge. With tilted fake wood floors, and a living room. The room I'm sharing with Tracy even has two windows and a view of some back yards and ivy climbing up the neighbors building. It's nice.

So this is it. My new home. Holy wow. I guess I forget how fast you can change your life. When you decide to. Thank you to everyone who helped me get here, supported me, loved me, wished me luck and especially to Greg, and ALL the help he lent me. I hope I can pay it back someday.

Your are wonderful.