[15: a place you recently visited]

It's 6:15, and already the heat is creeping in through every crack it can
find. Air conditioning has spun to life, but there are places it just
doesn't reach fully. The air is heavy, and I'm reminded of the hothouse at
the botanic gardens, keeping bananas and palms and bromeliads alive in the
harsh cold of Denver winters. It's not unpleasant if there's enough room for
the air to move, but here, waiting for the elevators, there isn't. A little
room, cut off from the breeze that the air conditioning makes in the main
lobby, it starts feeling stuffy.

I still expect to feel a slight chill when I open a door. If it's humid
inside, I think to myself, the evaporation will make even the slight breeze
of of the door cool. Every time I open the door here, I feel like I'm
slapped with a wet towel. It's going on ninety degrees already, and the sun
is just peeking down into the riverway. I keep expecting it to be cool, the
water dropping the temperature, and it doesn't. The dirty water looks
inviting, but I know it's just as warm as everything else. 

The air is heavy, and no amount of heat will dry it. There's enough water
ready to go to keep the humidity up unless the weather plays some
exceptional tricks, alternating hot and cold, and that just isn't in the
cards today. The forecast says 105, but they quickly add that there's a
"heat index" that makes it feel another ten degrees warmer. It's matter of
fact here, no mention of records broken or news stories about nursing homes
losing patients when the air conditioning glitches.

Everyone drives here. They park, and there's a rush from car door to
building door, and the reverse is true too. At night, there's a crush of
people meandering the riverwalk, but it's so hot then, too, that nobody is
willing to move at more than a snail's pace. The crush will wind for blocks,
from restaurant to club to bar to hotel, and a boat trolls the river back
and forth, a water-taxi for those too hot to walk any further.

I take the stairs up to street level. It's still early. The artisan village,
the little shops selling native knick-knacks and "contemporary American art"
are shut tight, the spaces between the little buildings are wide, obviously
expecting a throng of people, but now just looking a little awkward, missing
the reason for its scale.  The open paths let a little breeze pass, and it's
comfortable for another few minutes.

Traffic is already backing up, the narrow old roads have been adapted to
cars for the most part, but here in the city, there were enough old
buildings and paths running in all different directions, and bridges built
to cross the river at places that were convenient years ago leaves a sprawl
of roads that alternate between two lanes and four, with forks and curves
that can leave anyone unfamiliar unsure where they are and even unsure of
which way they're facing. 

Walking, it's navigation in three dimensions, with the river running one
way one story down under foot, and in places right through buildings, to
roads and sidewalks running entirely different directions above. Bridges
arch up another story, sometimes connecting to buildings that otherwise
wouldn't have river access -- the determining factor in whether a business
survives here -- and making the possibilities for getting somewhere endless.

If you stand up far enough, you can see where the river stops being a
pedestrian throng, and into the residential neighborhoods where the old
Governor's house was, and the affluence that attracts, into little clusters.
Then, just a short walk from the river, a road cuts across the city and you
can see the other side has left space for warehouses and apartments, a
hundred years newer.