I’ve just downed a delicious espresso from a coffee shop in Boulder. The barista claimed she was professionally trained in an Italian-style coffee house. Not sure what that means, or even if that’s what she said, because she was so nice to look at, but it was an excellent espresso. Music is playing, there is free wireless and attractive, smiling people all around.
“Jenny’s” Cappucino. (I had espresso)
I’ve just come back from bouldering all by myself. There was no one else there, and no one with me. At one point, I slipped and landed a bit hard on my heel. If I had slipped wrong, without a crash pad, I probably could have hurt myself pretty badly. Instead, I’m here, writing about relaxing in a coffee shop and how beautiful it was on Flagstaff Mountain, finally completing a bouldering problem I’d tried many times unsuccessfully in the past. (Tree Slab, both directions, for those who know the area.)
The fact is, sitting here right now, relaxing and typing about almost hurting myself, is the way that all my stories up until now end. Nothing exciting is ever going to happen in these posts because, in the end, I am sitting in front of my computer, blogging about it.
The time I was knocked out cold in Iceland from wind blowing a door into the side of my head ended with me writing about it (someday) in this blog. Before the Berlin Wall fell, when I was briefly interrogated by the East German police, ended without much drama and me typing on a laptop. Falling, feet flying overhead, while rappelling in South Africa? Still nothing. I righted myself and here I am, enjoying a sunny day in Boulder. (I’ve got video of me doing that one; it’s hilarious.)
I tell a lot of stories. Fortunately for me, they all end the same. No matter how hard I try to inject some drama into them, nothing ever really happens, because by the time I write about it, I am back home, safe and with enough leisure time to write in a blog. I hate to spoil this, but you always know the end of my travel posts before you’ve finished reading them: everything comes out all right. They’re anticlimactic.
When you read about me getting ripped off in Morocco, or seeing the blown-out remnants of the cafe in which I’d had dinner two nights running in Cairo, or hear about the volcano that blew its top five days after I visited it? You can relax. Nothing happened. My story really won’t get any more exciting than that.
Someday, if I am not so lucky, maybe one of my stories will have a truly dramatic ending. Something really will happen. It’s just that I won’t be the one to write about it. Hopefully, someone else will. In the meantime, it’s a shame that everything I write about ends up the same, but I hate to break it to you: you know how this one is going to end, too.