Denver is a surprisingly quiet city. Cars do flow by, but they are more disperse than I'm used to (think NYC, Boston, Chicago) and nobody is honking. Walking down the streets of its downtown, threading past enormous skyscrapers, I can hear people talking on the other side of the street.
I'm pleasantly surprised to find that Starbucks gives me free wifi with my coffee. The weather is warm, suitable for any long sleeves, and the air smells sweet. I went from snow and the ever-present but never-reconcilable roar of millions of motors, to a warm, nice-smelling city with a breeze, bright sunlight, and practically no noise. Wonderful, and I soak it up.
Without any other real destination, I head to the Tattered Cover bookstore. It's pleasant. On the way, I don't see a single obese person. Not one. Looking at the largest woman I've seen all day, it's easy to imagine her rock climbing and biking and being entirely vegetarian. She's not fat; she's just got a stocky build like a lumberjack.
I do meet an incredibly pleasant man named Jason, who's holding a sign for a newly opened medical marijuana dispensary. I'm an out-of-towner? No problem, they'll still give me a license, it'll take five minutes. This is rare, but I have not the slightest desire to stop talking to him, nor any feeling that he expects me to stay.
What is this place? How did Denver, Colorado become a peaceful, quiet, pot-friendly, utopian city of the future? After the Tattered Cover, I hop on the free inner-city hybrid-powered rail system and I'm dropped off where my bus will pick me up.
How did they get the noise level down so low? It's as quiet as a church on a Thursday afternoon. Maybe the building code requires an acoustical engineer to ensure signals are scrambled? Maybe there are strict regulations on mufflers? Maybe anyone who honks is shot on the spot? In the 1990s, Denver had a pretty high murder rate if I remember correctly. Hard to believe now.
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