At the Broadmoor

The Broadmoor, built in 1918 by Spencer Penrose and his wife Julie, immigrants to Colorado from Philadelphia, is just over an hour south of Denver, a perfect spot for a winter weekend retreat.
We have a handsome room with a soaking tub and a picture window filled with sky, mountains, and a pond with Canadian geese and a swan.  Yesterday while walking Claire after we arrived, we saw a red fox on the golf course, pouncing on something, then loping along as if in a dream.
We had dinner last night in the hotel’s Tavern, because of the band.  From the start of the music, a serious set of ballroom dancers took the floor, and we did dance a slow one.  But mainly the music did not succeed in moving me beyond my inhibitions, and we were content to admire the couples who knew what they were doing.   I liked seeing that many were a couple of decades older than we are, and having a ball.
I have not checked email since yesterday morning.  That’s worth the price of a fancy hotel room in itself.  We’ve been reading our Kindles, and Claire has been chasing her ball across the thick carpet.  The Broadmoor is pet friendly.  Soon after we had settled in, there was a knock on the door.  A woman carrying a big dog bed was there, embarrassed to see a tiny Yorkie was the pet she was going to be friendly to.  “They said it was a medium-sized dog,” she explained.  No problem. Claire has a bed large enough for five Yorkies, and a water dish she could bathe in.
That’s about it.  This place is grand in the old style, a perfect getaway.  Darlene negotiated a 2 p.m. checkout, so we’ll have time to take in the famed Sunday brunch in Lake Terrace dining room.  There’s a quilt shop on the north side of town that we will no doubt visit on the way home.   A guy with his entire library on a Kindle can be very patient while his wife wiles away hours at quilt shops.
It just began snowing lightly.  That’s okay with me.  As is everything else.
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