This sauna isn't quite warm enough and smells of piss—not as bad-smelling as Denver proper, but I'm eager to be off homeward. A nasal man, a screaming child, and a medicated mother—all mercifully outside the unfortunately thin-walled sauna, insulated as poorly acoustically as thermally. I'd have waited until later but I've already been up for 17 hours at least. A woman strolls by who looks like she could displace most of the hot tub. Clearly not in Boulder anymore.
Denver smells like the middle ground between fried food and fried dogshit. Dinner at Yard House was far too large, with some kinda oatmeal stout, the name of which I neglect to record, but the quality of which I designate "good," a Green Flash Hop Odyssey: Citra Edition (enough to confirm my distaste for Citra), and a taster of New Belgium Paardebloem which is just okay enough for me to forget I didn't like it and buy a bottle when I got home, to surprise (and disappoint) myself again. Tasting my companion's Alaskan Amber makes me wish I'd gotten a large.
One man's appetizer appears to be deep-fried boneless piglets, arranged like Lincoln Logs.
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