Good bye, Unit 129, Cascade Village, Purgatory, CO…
It’s not easy to let go of this place; the problems that we had with it had nothing to do with the condo itself, or its proximity to the ski hill, or the views, or the price or the HOA. It was all about a stick of butter; no matter what, we were 27 miles from a stick of butter. And where the “stick of butter” lay, so lay the doctor’s office, and the dentist, and the pharmacy – and meetings. And church.
We found ways to mitigate this – we’d drive down on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, make the 5:30 meeting, then go out to eat, get groceries, and run our errands, then make the 8:00 meeting and drive back up; this got almost everything we needed in just two trips per week. I was okay with this, myself.
But once Ethel needed a prescription, and I tried to head down to Durango to pick it up, and I had to turn around halfway there – traffic and poor snow removal kept me from making it down the mountain. (N.B. – this was in an all-wheel drive car with Blizzaks; we’re not talking rear-wheel drive here). And it seems to me, in retrospect, that that event – which happened in the first week that we had moved into the second condo – was the death knoll. From that point on, Ethel was not comfortable with the distance from town.
I agreed with her stance, but I was always willing to live with it. Heck, I was living at 9000 feet in the Rocky Moutains, 1.5 miles from the chairlift. I’d’a put up with ground-glass hemorrhoids.
Then we moved to Utah, and it didn’t make sense to have ski condos in both states; here recently, it has seemed that it would be just as easy to live in Colorado as in Utah, as I’ve gotten pretty comfortable with working remotely on this job, but Ethel has remained adamant – 27 miles from a stick of butter. And I couldn’t disagree.
And now we’re about 2.8 miles from a stick of butter, and the dentist, and a bunch of restaurants – including reasonably good, reasonably priced sushi, as long as we’re there in time for happy hour. We have plenty of bandwidth, we’re two minutes from the freeway, twenty-five minutes from a real airport, and there is a lot more skiing available in Park City than there ever will be at Purgatory. Being where we are is smart and practical; being where we were was difficult and impractical. And I have always loved Park City, and always will.
But it’s still hard to let go of that little condo. At some point, I’m going to cry.