Making an Escape From Tourist Trap

I began to enjoy my vigils in the Aspen Mall, sitting on a bench while my wife shopped. It was like sitting on a bench in Paris, except that the passers-by all appeared to be dressed for tennis.

Zan Thompson had warned my wife: “Don’t take any dresses. Everybody wears pants and shorts.” Now and then I saw a young woman in a little black dress--probably on her way to work--but for the most part Zan was right.

Despite the fact that we were all visitors, somehow the place didn’t look touristy. Maybe that’s because we saw no tour groups. It was mostly families; dozens of young couples with infants; and hordes of healthy-looking teen-agers. It seemed to me that at least seven out of every 10 teen-agers were girls. Usually they traveled in packs of three. It was a disturbing phenomenon.

The mall was spotless. There seemed to be no litter problem. Waste barrels were scattered liberally about. But that alone couldn’t account for the pristine condition of the walks and gardens. One morning early we discovered the answer. A phalanx of half a dozen girls came down the mall hunting litter. When they sighted a napkin or a plastic cup they bent over, scooped it up and dropped it into a bag. They didn’t miss a scrap. I wondered if such an approach would help clean up L.A.’s Broadway. No. It would take more than a pack of girls.

One afternoon, I sat on a bench with the park at my back while a rugby game was going on. I watched it for a while, but I hadn’t the slightest idea what was happening. I felt sure that American football would be much easier to decipher than this wild running about, evidently without purpose.

There was an oblong iron grate in the brick sidewalk. Four jets of water rose from underground and climbed in slender plumes to a height of 10 feet. A man stood by to supply colored balloons to children, who rushed out to place them on the rising jets, meanwhile soaking themselves, and then ran back, screaming in delight, as the balloons rose on the crest of the streams. I don’t know how long I remained thoroughly engaged in watching this innocent game.

One morning, we walked to the top of the mall, at the base of Aspen Mountain, to find the ski lift. “Sky Rides” was one of the 99 recommended things to do. Beside the ticket booth I saw an intimidating sign. It warned that the cars rose 3,000 feet in 15 minutes, and that persons with medical problems should beware.

We decided to have lunch instead. But rather than face up to a restaurant with a full menu, we decided to try the Popcorn Wagon and hot dog stand in a corner of the park. I had a hot dog and a diet Pepsi. My wife had sausage on a bun. It was one of our best meals.

It was my wife who pointed out the absence of birds. I hadn’t noticed, but it was true. There ought to have been clouds of them, as there are in most parks. Later, I read a letter-to-the editor in the Aspen Times:

“Am I the only one to notice the disappearance of songbirds from the Aspen area? Even the noisy critters such as magpies and blue jays have vanished. . . . And one bird which was actually becoming a pest, the house sparrow, has mysteriously disappeared. I used to see hordes of them down on the mall, mooching food from around the benches, over at the Popcorn Wagon, and outside of Big Mac’s. This summer I haven’t seen a one. . . . It seems that Rachel Carson’s warnings in ‘Silent Spring’ are coming all too true.”

We had been told to go to the Crystal Palace for the dinner show ($30). The palace is Victorian, with stained glass windows, Tiffany lamps and crystal chandeliers. We were placed in the balcony, but after dinner we were allowed to move to the railing, so we could look down on the show below. The cast was composed of waiters and waitresses. They were young and brash in their satirical skits on Reagan, Bush, Barbara Bush and Quayle. The piece de resistance was a song sung Nashville-style by a waitress: “I love a man whose belly hangs over his belt.”