You can't go home again. (Or can you?)

Since I moved back to Colorado in '97, I've expended considerable invective on Boulder-bashing. My once-beloved hometown, I felt, had become but a poor parody of its delightfully quirky former self. At the slightest provocation, particularly with the encouragement and participation of my best friend, fellow Boulderite, and current globe-circumnavigator Julie, I would launch into a rant against the rigid spandex-and-fleece dress code, the mandatory vegetarian diet, the recycling bins for recycling bins, the sub-10-percent body fat requirement, the glaring whiteness, and the overwhelming number of city residents to be found at Vic's or the Trident at 2:00 p.m. on any given weekday.

But over the past few months, I've felt a strange sensation creeping into my heart during my forays to Boulder. At first it felt like mild heartburn, or perhaps a slight case of altitude sickness. It waned slightly when the Buffs' recruiting scandal broke, but quickly wiggled its way back. Finally, this weekend, it dawned on me that I was not, in fact, suffering from indigestion brought on by too many Girl Scout cookies. Instead, I realized, I'd developed an acute case of Boulderitis. In other words, I was homesick.

The real clarity as to my condition came yesterday, as I gallivanted around Boulder with some friends. The day began at a yoga ashram in Eldorado Canyon, segued to lunch at the Boulder Dushanbe Tea House, continued at the Boulder Rock Club, and culminated with sushi on the Pearl Street Mall with my daddy. The first inkling that something odd might be stirring inside me came during yoga, when the surroundings of Tibetan thangkas, guru photographs, incense, buddha statues, and meditation music failed to annoy the crap out of me. Next, while heading downtown for lunch, I was struck by the beauty of Boulder Creek and the panoply of interesting shops and restaurants, and was hardly bothered by the crowds of skinny, tan, fit people swarming the streets. And at the climbing gym, I gazed in awe at the many incredible climbers around me, including some of the country's top pros, while chatting amiably with fellow climbers, who were far friendlier than the crowd at my usual hangout. Perhaps most important for non-driving me, I realized that all of these places (except perhaps the ashram) are easily accessed by bus and bike.

So when my dad asked me if I miss living in Boulder, for the first time in years I was forced to admit that I do. I miss being able to run up Boulder Canyon or Mount Sanitas and do a little bouldering right off the road. I miss being surrounded by climbers, triathletes, and tele skiers. I miss The Mall. I miss being able to ride my bike almost anywhere in town without having to leave the bike path. I miss being able to go to any bar in town and not come home reeking of smoke. And I miss being close enough to my parents' house that I can see them more than once a month, which is about all I've been able to manage these days.

The commute would be fine -- as my father pointed out, I could get loads of work done on the bus, and the Boulder/Denver service is fast and convenient. But the fly in the ointment of all this missing is that I'm really not in any position to move right now, and I certainly can't afford to live in the parts of Boulder that would work for me. Plus, Steve's not such a Boulder fan (although he's there four days a week this semester). So for now, I'll have to sit back and see whether the longing grows or fades, and then reflect further on what (if anything) I might do about it.