Christy won a pair of tickets from Southwest Airlines. Folks who live in Dallas know this is a gift that presents certain challenges. Namely, how to use the tickets. The ridiculous Wright Amendment makes it hard to get anywhere worthwhile in under two stops via Southwest from Dallas. After pouring over several different options, Christy declared Park City, Utah (via Salt Lake City) as our destination. The Olympic Park in Park City was the big draw for her. For me, I knew we’d have some good hiking and mountain biking options.
So we set out for the airport on Saturday morning and by early afternoon we were staring at the most beautiful show of Fall color either of us had seen in a long time. The mountains looked as if someone had randomly dumped buckets of orange, red, and yellow paint upon the hills. The yellow leaves of the aspen were the most striking.
After we got checked in Christy and I decided to walk to town. We were staying at the Park City Marriott which is a couple of miles from the historic main street in an area called Prospector Square. The Rail Trail, a paved pathway that snakes through Park City for miles, was right by the hotel. We followed it to the middle of town, winding past the Miner’s Hospital, City Park, and many condos, most of which were buzzing with contractors of one sort or another, busily sprucing up for the coming ski season.
Main Street is typical of these types of resort towns–a single street lined with galleries, restaurants, and t-shirt shops, their contents often totally incongruous with that of their historical occupants. Here a southwest art gallery in the old Sheriff’s office. There a high-end gift shop in one of the town’s original saloons.
Towards the end of Main we came across the Wasatch Brew Pub. It’s hard for me to pass up a meal in a micro brewery and the smells that made their way to the street were all Christy needed. We floated in to the restaurant like a couple of Warner Brother’s cartoon characters. I had to shake my head in wonder at the couple before us who turned up their noses at the twenty minute wait. In our neck of the woods a 45 minute wait would not be uncommon. Plus, what’s half-an-hour with a finely-crafted microbrew in hand?
The Superior Ale was aptly-named. As I’ve done with every other beer I’ve ever had with Christy at my side I offered her a sip. As usual, she declined, saying, “They all taste the same.” How sad that she believes that! Still, I was obligated to offer, in keeping with tradition.
Christy’s beer-battered shrimp and my fish-and-chips (“Our two best sellers!”) were good, but not spectacular. I’d get something different the next time. But I’d stick with that Superior Ale.
