Boise, ID

I recommend you read Bend, OR prior to taking in Boise.

I may not be able to hear a single thing you're saying to me, but by the good graces of God I CAN hear the presence or absence of the pronunciation of a consonant in a proper noun. People grown in Wisconsin do not stress the C. Local: Wi-sconsin. Non-local: Wis-consin. People grown in Boise stress the S. Local: Boy-see. Non-local: Boys-ee. I will heretofore write it as it is phonetically pronounced to train myself.

Boysee has my figurative panties in a bunch, not to be confused with the literal ones I almost left in the washer at the Airbnb this morning before the Corolla and I left for Salt Lake City. I have been conflicted since I took my freeway exit and the road rage came tidal waving back when I, but an innocent ocean rabbit (turtle), saw the outbound traffic piled up on the on ramp like plastic in the water; since I walked Downtown and was affronted by people yammering on their doom scrollers and a woman telling me to get off the sidewalk because her dog just flooded it with diarrhea. I still pet the poopy red and white pitty mix because she was cute and she made extended eye contact. So while I didn't feel like a technological homewrecker for using my phone in Boysee, I kind of liked that Bend made me feel that way. But I also liked the way the cutest pair of teal pleather kitten heel boots made me feel as what HAD to have been a Boysee native, pedaled by in them.

My first impression of Boysee was that it is... a mid-sized city in the United States. If I hadn't just navigated my own arrival five hours through eastern Oregon to Creed's top three songs on repeat, I might have guessed we were in Indianapolis and been confident I was right. Boysee has a good hospital, a downtown, a university with an enrollment of 25,000, museums, a riverwalk called the Greenbelt, and dedicated public spaces, all within a mile. The people are kind, and there are signs and stickers all over the city reminding you to "Be Boise Kind"… or else… what?

For as much as they talk about their tater tots, I didn't see a single potato. That's how I felt about a lot of things “Idaho” in Boysee; possibly for fear of not being taken seriously as a major metro but as a bunch of potato-loving perverts, they cover up the parts that keep Boysee prominently different than an Indianapolis or a Kansas City or a Columbus. I wonder if people are disappointed when they go to Milwaukee and nobody is wearing a cheesehead hat. In the Lewenauer household, we would wear our hats in private when cutting the ceremonial cheddar before dinner every night and then take them off only when the last bit curdled.

I was shocked. Shocked! Where is this place which I was considering my personal Promised Land based on the thinnest bit of research, second hand opinion, and almost entirely made up fantasies?? I broke my cardinal rule of having low to no expectations, the rule that has kept me mostly happy since I was 25 up until just then as a 32-year old woman drinking a glass of water in a brewery across from Costco just south of I-84 watching a stand up open mic of six men who, you guessed it, opted to primarily talk about dicks (their own and others').

In my professional opinion, grocery stores and open mics are the best way to catch the vibe of a city. For this reason 1) I have an extensive Dewey Decimal system of canned bean varieties in metros throughout the United States and 2) I attend an open mic in every place I visit, if they have one. Like an online dating profile, I can judge someone at their most vulnerable, with virtually no stakes of my own. 

In Bend, the Saturday night audience topped out at 15 including the comics. I was looking forward to coming to Boysee where the population is double and not having to supply 10% of the laughter in the room (if you have a calculator you can see that I was over contributing). Unfortunately, a light room was still the case at Mad Swede "The Sweet Swede" mic which, though I can contend it was a Monday night, started with 12 audience members and dwindled to 8 by the second to last comic (again get your calculators out if you need to, that's 4 that left before the end).

The Great National Bank of Pity Laughs, of which I am the the main stockholder, was suffering from a bank run in Bend and literally just describing the Olympic French pole vaulter whose package pulled down the pole as the entire bit isn't actually funny. Props are in order for these folks keeping their energy and doing their set for such a tiny crowd. It's a situation with little to no upside; I've done it myself. But, I was hoping in Boysee I might cash in some forced chuckles at the Bank of Belly Laughs. It was closed.

Crime is of no concern in the North End neighborhood. The outside door to the Airbnb was purposely left unlocked. At entry was a mud room with one door to the utility room and one door to the house. So too was the utility room door unlocked, inside which was a huge laundry room and a precious vacuum cleaner. I love vacuum cleaners! And this one was left simply unattended. The key to the house was hanging in a basket right next to the door knob. There could be families of raccoons doing laundry in the dead of night. After washing and folding, they may pop a squat on the couch to watch Arthur and then slip out with some rotten vegetables from the crisper before sunrise. 

I walked the jaunt to Hyde Park coffee shop the next morning. The cafe was BUSY. Is there a sale on arabica beans that I don't know about?! If they're canned, give me 12, I'll eat them for dinner. I had a lemon poppy seed muffin that I swear must have been related to the hundreds of muffins I ate at my penultimate local Chicago coffee house, Sip, which unfortunately closed in May 2019. This muffin and I caught up like old friends -- I told it about the new horses; officiating a wedding; my grandmas dying; and the date I went on that we accidentally scheduled for St. Patrick's Day and had to go to Dunkin' Donuts because everything else was packed.

Bikes are always zooming every which way in Boysee. At this morning hour on this particular thoroughfare, every bike had one to three tots (the human kind) bouncing on the rumble seat. Tykes are being yeeted off bikes at school drop off like they're the morning Idaho Statesman newspaper and daddy's got a route to finish. The bike racks at every K-12 establishment are more full than a Costco parking lot on a midday Saturday at peak free sample hour. I am actually currently observing this across the street from North Junior High School where a group of (probably) "good-smelling young boys" (these are the other lady's words not mine, your honor) warm up for some sporting event, and documenting my observations as voice-to-text dressed in all black and sunglasses while holding my telescoping coffee mug that somebody in line said they thought was a camera lens. Maybe I won't move to Boysee not because I don't want to, but because I will not be allowed to and my face will be taped up on lamp posts next to Ponyboy the missing cat.

My second impression of Boysee is that it is hot. I was told it was less hot that week, in the 90s, than last week, in the 100s. The sun is bright. Every direction I look the sun is making uncomfortably direct, unwavering eye contact. Between all the weird Google searches I'm asking it to run, the brightness at 100%, and my chronic chub rub that may just set my pants ablaze and spread to the pocket in which my phone lives, my doom scroller is putting in its own calls to Smokey to report wildfire risk. I'm doing things here that I never do at home: I'm guzzling water; I'm putting on sunscreen in the first place, and then REapplying sunscreen halfway through the day; I'm using air conditioning. I feel like a big piece of matzo on its way out of Egypt and all I want is to be hidden in the coat pocket of a fur jacket of my grandparents’ coat closet being looked for by a 7-year-old on Passover to be traded in for a dollar.

Slathered in MyChelle suntan lotion smelling like a freshly baked batch of Pillsbury sugar cookies, I left for the bike shop. They set me up on a dual suspension Santa Cruz, a more skillful steed than I really require. I threw a leg over her and jabbed my knee into the metal death spikes of pain and regret (known as pedal pins to people that can properly mount a bike). Already bleeding, I headed for Camel's Back Park just a two-minute ride away.

Immediately I got lost. When I travel, I assimilate by discombobulation. I ended up on an easy trail through a little shroud of trees with gentle slopes. I really felt like I was in one of my Windows 2000 horse video games, each rise and fall of the handlebars over the pitch like the horse head floating when it jumped on the tap of the spacebar. If you know you know, and for those of you that don't, you can just fuck right off because I guarantee you would have made fun of me in grade school, or that you will when you read this.

There are a lot of creepy crawlies out in the Foothills. A lot of grasshoppers that jump right in front of you and little lizards that run away like they owe you money. I was attacked by flies at the bubbler. I wish again that I had my anti-aging eye cream handy so that I could rub it on the dry, dry pores of the Foothills. There is no shade anywhere which makes my newest fashion decision to dress like Michael Kors, problematic.

The stakes feel a little bit higher on these trails. They are sandy and your back wheel is liable slide out, when it's not skidding. To misjudge a turn in the Foothills means you will be launching Jackass style over a ridge. The comfort of being caught by a sturdy pine tree with its twig arms wide open, like they were in Bend, is not there. I am reminded of how lucky I was in 2008 when I drove my VW Bug off the modest cliff our driveway climbed, and that same welcoming pine tree lodged the car into a 45 degree angle with the overhang, protecting the underbody from further harm. To fall on Crestline Ridge Trail would not be a joyous reunion with my old friend, the ground. It would be more like a wedding receiving line in a way I can barely keep up with the salutations and felicitations.

I often oversell my abilities, but telling the bike shop man I could probably handle the blues was like advertising an iPhone 15 and shipping a third generation iPad Nano. My Garmin bike computer gave up trying to determine when I was walking my bike uphill versus actually riding it and just turned into the blue screen of death flashing TURN AROUND, FATTY (rude!). It's not a great feeling when you bottom out your gears and are only 50% of the way to the top. The incline by itself was a lot for this Midwestern ocean rabbit (turtle), but to combine it with little rollers is the Devil's doing. I traded in Bend's bucking bronc for a rearer because the front wheel is LEAVING THE GROUND as I muscle my way up those fuckers. After this ride, I'm going to be giving everybody in Boysee's dump truck a second look because the only way this can be part of your day-to-day is if you've got one JUICY double. Again, I may not take up residency in Boysee, not because I don't want to, but because I'm not allowed.

A man came behind me on my second ride up and visibly startled me. He apologized and asked how my day was going and whether I thought the climb was slow. I say I'm from Wisconsin and this is difficult for me so I'm not a good barometer. He rides alongside me so I also tell him I just came from Bend and the terrain is very different. He says he owns property in Bend. Felipe!? Is that you!? No, it's not. They both have gray soul patches, but this man paired it with a full mustache and goatee. He said he left Michigan 35 years ago and would never go back. When he realized I wouldn't be able to carry a conversation and climb, he zoomed away and my iHop $8.99 buttermilk pancake short stack butt got off and hiked up the rest of the incline.

The patience required for an uphill climb is a very special kind of patience that I strove to cultivate on my distance rides, but did not come in clutch here. Long climbs make me question everything: whether I would even be strong enough to lift three pinecones; whether I should have added Oreos to that cup of Euro tart frozen yogurt; whether this is how I want to spend my free time; and how hard it would actually be to get my hands on whatever Lance Armstrong was on.

I've never pointed myself down a mountain bike trail and said I can't do this. But I looked up Motorcycle Trail 8 and even from below I knew I wouldn't be able to come down. I hate the rule about downhill riders having to yield to uphill -- fun killer -- and I wasn't about to ruin someone's descent with my prostrate body blocking the trail like the Hoover Dam after wiping out.

On the downhill I was carrying enough speed over the rollers that my backpack would be suspended for just a second, like a little skier cresting a headwall. I felt confident to throw a bunny hop over the rollers and I tell you the whoop whoop I let out must have been heard from the Capitol building at the bottom of the Foothills. It was not unlike Little Creek whoop whooping with Spirit, Stallion of the Cimmaron, when they leapt across the canyon. Again. If you know you know and if you don't, there's an open invitation to come to my house and watch the entire movie together on my Dell Inspiron 14 laptop.

Landing on a double suspension bike feels incredible, like you're perpetually enveloped in a trampoline double bounce before it prepares you for launch.

That night, by recommendation of a friend who has corporate stints in the city, I drove to the Sandbar Patio Bar & Grill which is in the back of the Riverside Hotel in Garden City. Garden City is on the opposite side of the Boise River as Downtown and has been increasing in popularity. Navigating there, it's obvious the transition is in process. It reminded me of when Kim and I were in Hawaii for 48 hours in 2016 and attended a budget-friendly luau in an industrial park. After wrongly questioning the GPS, we found the celebration behind a chain link fence. The food must have been catered by Costco and the performers were definitely moonlighting as... dancers. 

Sorry, Germaine’s Luau…

I was stumbling around the Riverside Hotel parking lot, lobby, and every breezeway to every block of rooms looking for this beach retreat restaurant before finally rounding the backside around some construction cones and popping onto the Greenbelt where I could follow the sound of live music like we were playing Marco Polo.

Blues to Lose was in full jam by the time I hunkered down at a table. Patrons in Florida garb are swing dancing to Paint It Black. An 85-year-old man is housing nachos in dress pants and a shirt with three ballpoint pens in the pocket. Dogs are barking. A guy is barefoot in a kilt. Another guy with an undercut and top knot is playing air guitar. The energy is electric. 

The president of the Boise Blues Society, noticing, commented that I appeared to be enjoying the music and asked if I wanted to join their mailing list, which of course I did... after all, I just moved there from Wisconsin and will need to hire a blues band for my housewarming. A man that looked like Mike Ehrmantraut from Breaking Bad wearing an aquamarine polo shirt a size too big locked eyes and beckoned me to the floor, so I went. We and his group of three friends that come four nights a week danced and danced. A young blonde lady in what had to be a SHEIN jump suit grabbed my hands and screamed "I WAS WONDERING IF YOU WERE GOING TO JOIN!" When I insisted I must go because I will turn into a hash brown at midnight, the floor begged for one more song. We closed down Sandbar to The Beatles Come Together; my beckoner slapped the floor with his hands when the chorus came 'round. Blues to Lose packed up their things and my new friends invited me to pickleball tomorrow. Concerned that the wife of Mike Ehrmantraut was going to be injured on the seven-mile Greenbelt bike ride back home, for which they tow her with a rope because she is the only one without an e-bike, and that I may then need to be a permanent fixture in their group and my lie about being a real Boysee resident would be unearthed, I declined.

I drove back through Downtown to get home. Even nearing 11:00 the streets and bars were alive with people. It's Tuesday night and Boysee is throwing me for another loop. Shouldn't everyone be at home julienning potatoes?

Wednesday I spent 2 hours petting animals at the Western Idaho fair. A giant 18.1 hand (6.25 feet tall where her neck meets her shoulder) Percheron horse named Big Booty Judy parked all 2,040 of her pounds at the back of her pen and ignored my scratching hands. A goat pulled off my sunglasses. I said hello, how do you do? to a lot of longhorn cows.

The capstone event was the summer evening concert series in Kristen Armstrong Park. My sandals rejected the second application of super glue I put on to repair the halved sole so instead of limping through Boysee I figured I'd join the rest of the population in the bike lanes. I pumped up the woefully flat tires on Suzanne, the AirBnb owner's Diamondback bike. Five minutes into the ride when trying to avoid collision with a teenage boy just COVERED in peanut butter and jelly, I realized it has no brakes. At the park, a born and bred Donnely, Idaho artist played music from his newly recorded first album and a high concentration of 2-foot tall children danced. His tune about floating down the Boise River really had them in a Paw Patrol level trance. I took to the Greenbelt one more time on the way home to see what the post 9-to-5 crowd was like. It wasn't significantly different from during 9-to-5, but I did catch myself saying "Well that looks like a group of nice young ladies I could get to know." (Boysee extradition -- strike three.)     

I still don't know what to make of this place. Boysee offers ski in-ski out access for activities beyond skiing. Want to paddleboard? Walk it from your house down the steps of the Greenbelt and float on, friend. Want to bike? Stretch your glutes and pedal out to Camel's Back. But there is an inflection point where the spotlight moves from activity life to city life, and in my professional opinion that's correlated to population. I've tried to plot that curve in the 2.5 days I've been here and Boysee as I experienced it is more city than activity. Walking about the grasses of Military Reserve that look like a grandpa's windblown hair, I saw 8 people on an hour hike. Do they think they owe me money like the lizards in Camel's Back, and maybe I can find them hiding in the bushes? I GET IT it's 3:30 PM on a Tuesday, but I thought the fervor for being outside would trump professional obligations and all 236,634 residents of Boise would be building sand castles in the Foothills out their backdoors no later than noon.

While visiting, I met a friend of a friend and she suggested I check out the groups on meetup.com to find what I wasn't seeing with my own peepers, maybe because the sun melted my retinas. But the tolls that all introverts have to pay when they interact (no toll is paid for animals) are totaling up to be quite exorbitant, I don't have an E-Z Pass, and my cash is as dry as the day of a bank run. I have no intention of putting the remaining cities that I'm visiting (Salt Lake City, Steamboat) up on the stand, as I won't have spent enough time on the discovery and will have no evidence for a proper trial. I'll be seeing old friends with whom I spent the most formative years of my 20s -- talking to them instead of to cats and cows and muffins. The intensity with which I cross-examined Bend and Boise will be funneled instead into listening, reacting, and desperately yearning for their love. 

Getting to Salt Lake City

But, still 350 miles to cover until then. In my all-black uniform with my Gen Z-inspired sage green sling bag, I am camouflaged in Craters of the Moon National Monument which is exclusively cream, brown, black, and green against the blue, blue sky. Even the curbs and sidewalks are painted black; I need Blues to Lose out here playing the Rolling Stones' hit. 

I loved stealthing around the park. It's expansive in its vistas and simple in its execution -- from the one-way streets to the color-blocked landscape. It reminds me of some of my other favorite things: White Sands National Park, the artist Andy Fletcher, and unflavored beans. They are uncomplicated just like horses and ducks and dogs. I didn't take many pictures because the camera was really not doing the colors justice and I think that's unfair to misrepresent how cool Craters is. Google images also doesn't do it justice so I guess you just have to drive to the middle of Idaho and see for yourself.

It's been six days of hyper reflection and remember I only timeshare one month a year in Flexibleville. I am looking forward to getting back on the tried and trusty grid system of Chicago, to placing my skin care containers in their proper standing positions, and ordering "the usual" for dinner with a poor, sweet friend while telling them how much I enjoyed being by myself for so many days.

Nearing 100 miles per hour, the wind beckoned my damp clothes draped over the headrests onto the dance floor that is the backseat of the Corolla, and we (Zach Top too) all line danced into Salt Lake City. One block here is about 3 miles long, so if you're trying to walk the four blocks to the grocery store to take stock of the bean situation, make sure to allot at least an hour to get there. Granted, since you only have 9 seconds to cross the six-lane street, you may be able to shave off a little time if you zig and zag.