Driving is a career that continues to offer strange prospects. So it was that I found myself in front of my hotel at three in the afternoon, thanking my driver and turning to assess my digs for the evening.
The Kimball hotel is a modest pile a half block up from Temple Square, clad in brown brick and rich red awnings, with a small flower garden in front and handsome buildings to either side. I had the history from the lady at the desk; the hotel, put up in the 70's, stands on the site of a burned out 19th century apartment building. But the cemetary behind betrays an older story - this was the property of a Mr. Kimball, who must have been a considerable person in these parts (if his 43 wives are anything to go by). His progeny are more numerous still, and yet the cemetary is all that remains here. One plinth must serve for all, a monument of some 12 feet, chiseled with dates and names, and tales of character and noble deeds. "What a wonderful old city," I'm thinking, as I close the garden gate behind me. Time to see a bit of it, then.
Charting my course for Temple Square, I begin to see clearly what a pedestrian city this really is. People of every age and description were out in the sunshine. Women in flowing skirts, men and boys in fine clothes, going about in the sunshine on shoeleather and scooters, skateboards and bicycles. It was wonderful.
Temple square needs little enough comment, but there was one thing that stood out to me. The water. Water flows in lovely little creeks, down by sidewalks and through public ways. Through the open air mall, sparkling clear in sun and still, fresh air.
I begin to think of the pleasures of food and drink, but there's a stop I need to make first. I'll be dining alone, and I haven't thought to bring a book. Deseret Books in the mall proved a touch, ah...monothematic. But my phone suggests I might find better luck at a place called Eborn's.
Eborn's! I arrived at 10 past 6, thinking they closed at seven. The door said six. This was a setback, but I elbowed in cautiously anyway. Two amiable gentleman assured me they would still be restocking, and I should take my time. Well, reader: there's hardly enough time in a human life for a place like Eborn's, where used and out-of-print books are stacked high everywhere you look. Up and down stairways, in little alcoves and narrow corridors. It was a musty chaos to me, and it was heavenly. I moved quickly out of consideration for my hosts, and settled on an old paperback copy of All Quiet on the Western Front, a book still on the endless list of books-I-ought-to-have-read-by-now.
I had my book, and by now I had an appetite. The Brio Tuscan Grille and it's extensive wine list beckoned gently, and I strode on lustily with my book under my arm.
Dinner was an exquisite affair, and I dined on good artisan bread, a creamy lobster bisque that sang of the coast, and pasta that might put an Italian grandmother to shame. Savoring my meal and complementing it with red Allegrini wine in generous quantities, I sunk into the novel. A book to put a man to the edge of tears. I set it down, and lines from the war poets came before my mind unbidden. From First Snow in Alsace and Dulce Et Decorum Est. From Homer. I sat in silence for a time, before draining my last glass and stepping into the night.
The streets were by then alive with light and laughter, and the clatter of skateboards. These boys won't know how lucky they are here, until they are boys no longer. Sighing, I realized I hadn't brought my pipe. But the night was near perfect. Smokes would do, I supposed. I went for a pack at the corner store, and smoked as I walked back to the hotel, my thoughts turning to war, and youth.
The Kimball hotel is a modest pile a half block up from Temple Square, clad in brown brick and rich red awnings, with a small flower garden in front and handsome buildings to either side. I had the history from the lady at the desk; the hotel, put up in the 70's, stands on the site of a burned out 19th century apartment building. But the cemetary behind betrays an older story - this was the property of a Mr. Kimball, who must have been a considerable person in these parts (if his 43 wives are anything to go by). His progeny are more numerous still, and yet the cemetary is all that remains here. One plinth must serve for all, a monument of some 12 feet, chiseled with dates and names, and tales of character and noble deeds. "What a wonderful old city," I'm thinking, as I close the garden gate behind me. Time to see a bit of it, then.
Charting my course for Temple Square, I begin to see clearly what a pedestrian city this really is. People of every age and description were out in the sunshine. Women in flowing skirts, men and boys in fine clothes, going about in the sunshine on shoeleather and scooters, skateboards and bicycles. It was wonderful.
Temple square needs little enough comment, but there was one thing that stood out to me. The water. Water flows in lovely little creeks, down by sidewalks and through public ways. Through the open air mall, sparkling clear in sun and still, fresh air.
I begin to think of the pleasures of food and drink, but there's a stop I need to make first. I'll be dining alone, and I haven't thought to bring a book. Deseret Books in the mall proved a touch, ah...monothematic. But my phone suggests I might find better luck at a place called Eborn's.
Eborn's! I arrived at 10 past 6, thinking they closed at seven. The door said six. This was a setback, but I elbowed in cautiously anyway. Two amiable gentleman assured me they would still be restocking, and I should take my time. Well, reader: there's hardly enough time in a human life for a place like Eborn's, where used and out-of-print books are stacked high everywhere you look. Up and down stairways, in little alcoves and narrow corridors. It was a musty chaos to me, and it was heavenly. I moved quickly out of consideration for my hosts, and settled on an old paperback copy of All Quiet on the Western Front, a book still on the endless list of books-I-ought-to-have-read-by-now.
I had my book, and by now I had an appetite. The Brio Tuscan Grille and it's extensive wine list beckoned gently, and I strode on lustily with my book under my arm.
Dinner was an exquisite affair, and I dined on good artisan bread, a creamy lobster bisque that sang of the coast, and pasta that might put an Italian grandmother to shame. Savoring my meal and complementing it with red Allegrini wine in generous quantities, I sunk into the novel. A book to put a man to the edge of tears. I set it down, and lines from the war poets came before my mind unbidden. From First Snow in Alsace and Dulce Et Decorum Est. From Homer. I sat in silence for a time, before draining my last glass and stepping into the night.
The streets were by then alive with light and laughter, and the clatter of skateboards. These boys won't know how lucky they are here, until they are boys no longer. Sighing, I realized I hadn't brought my pipe. But the night was near perfect. Smokes would do, I supposed. I went for a pack at the corner store, and smoked as I walked back to the hotel, my thoughts turning to war, and youth.
