marijuana. “I’ll need to see some photo id, sir,” says the
young beardy-weirdy behind the counter to my grizzled
62-year-old countenance. “I don’t carry any,” comes the
peevish counter-thrust. “That’s fine, sir,” ‒ dazzling smile ‒
“we’re open until 11.” As I leave the shop, dignity strangely
undented by this surreal exchange, I notice that the T-shirts
in the window all depict plants with long pointy leaves.
Recreational pot has been legal in Colorado since
2014, and Aspen’s 40ha downtown is home to a number of
boutique dispensaries stocking the crop. These operate
cheek by jowl with outdoor gear shops, art galleries, and
luxury fashion stores run by the likes of Ermenegildo
Zegna and Brunello Cucinelli, as well as by local designers
offering high-quality attire. Restaurants and bars are also
thick on the ground and most evenings, I find myself
gravitating to The Red Onion on East Cooper, a bar
established in 1892 that’s now patronised by a gnarly mix
of buffalo-plaid-clad locals and snowboard boys with
straggly beards and baggy pants. All come for the cheap
beer, cheerful grub and local music acts.
There’s an agreeable, laid-back vibe to Aspen, a town
where everybody comes to enjoy themselves in the snow,
but nobody is hell-bent on pleasure. It’s a sedate sort of
place ‒ Ted Bundy once famously escaped from its prison ‒
and if strolling around the compact town centre seems like
too much effort, you can hail a horse and carriage, or jump
in the extraordinary Ultimate Taxi, a cab that offers an
exuberant surround-sound experience with flashing cabin
lights, funky beats and even live drumming by the driver as
it proceeds at a snail’s pace along the streets of downtown.children to get under your feet. At one end is a bar
dominated by a long mural of an enigmatic woman riding a
white horse while yellow aspen leaves swirl around her, a
depiction of a local native legend. At the other end, a
musician strums and growls Americana. You can spend
hours immersed in this warm ambience.
But, of course, Aspen is all about playing in the snow.
“This town needs snow,” a concierge remarks, and she’s not
the only one I hear expressing relief that there’s recently
been snowfall. I stroll a couple of hundred metres along the
road to Aspen Mountain’s Silver Queen Gondola, where
scores of skiers and snowboarders are swooping in, rose-
cheeked, breathless and exhilarated, and jumping straight
back into the gondola queue for one more run before the
mountain closes for the day. A sign informs me that it’s 31°F
(-0.5°C) here at 2,400m elevation and 17°F (-8°C) 1,000m
higher up at the ski hut. Apparently, it’s a warm day.
From the gondola, the mountain’s patchwork of ski
fields and conifer forest is revealed as tiny plummeting
figures cut diamonds in the snow. The hut at the top is
festooned with icicles hanging from the roof. Inside,
there’s a fireplace, a pizza unit, framed monochrome
photos of Aspen past and, at a long bar, people fortifying
themselves with champagne and beer before taking to
the slopes for a final descent. I wonder if you can be drunk
in charge of a pair of skis.
Back in town and looking for a souvenir, I stroll into a
shop displaying T-shirts in the window and past a screen wall
to be confronted with an apothecary-like set of shelves, each
small compartment displaying a different strain or blend ofThere’s an agreeable vibe to
Aspen, where everybody comes to
enjoy themselves, but nobody is
hell-bent on pleasure
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192 PRESTIGE J U LY 2019