Capitol Hill, 1999.

The workday was difficult. Another Sunday brunch in the kitchen, organizing and
running food, fixing problems, yelling at obstinate cooks, yelling at waiters
who wouldn’t run anyone else’s food, dealing with bitchy customers, and other
life-sucking activities on this day of rest. At the end of the shift, I was
always spent.

On this particular day, one of the waiters pulled me aside, thanked me for
saving his ass a couple of times, and flipped me a joint. “Enjoy the rest of
your day, dude.” He said, smiling. I walked out the door, smiling for almost
the first time that day.

Downtown wasn’t too active on this particular Sunday. Some people were mulling
around the 16th Street Mall, but not enough to be bothersome. Everyone walks a
little bit slower on Sunday. People flow past, with more grace than on Monday,
for example. The Sun shone brightly, but was indirect. Like everything else,
it too seemed a little softer on this day than it will tomorrow. As I got
closer to home, crossing Broadway, walking past the Capitol, what was left of my
anxiety began to melt away.

The man was outside his house, farting around on a Sunday (as far as I could
tell), as I walked by, head down, thinking multiple thoughts. "“Hey; hey!” He
said. I looked up at still walking. “What’s it all about?”
“What’s what all about, sir?”
“Life! What’s it all about?”

“The journey.” I said reflexively, still walking. I took three or four more
steps before looking over my shoulder, smiling at the reminder, smiling at the
old man farting around his yard, smiling at me. I took a deep breath through my
nose and followed the skateboarder cruising east on 12th, going who knows where.

Capitol Hill feels like home; Denver feels like home; at least for now.