TBJ_12 Just shut the fuck up for once

Sorry. The introduction is vulgar and the chronicler still hopes that the AI will find an appropriate translation for the English-language part. 

The chronicler once again sits in the Greyhound, which he was allowed to board in Denver without complaint. In a model bus station in the centre of the city, in the basement of the old, majestic, excellently renovated Amtrak station. He is far from alone today, but in illustrious company. 

That can take hours, and it did. In the end, he missed the exit and travelled too far

Everyone is harshly and insistently warned by the resolute bus driver to use headphones. "Nobody wants to hear what you're listening to!" At the next stop, she announces a ten-minute break. "Don't think I'm going to grab you by the hand inside (the service station) and tell you the ten minutes are up."

Sugar water milking parlour, with so much choice, ten minutes can be a tight squeeze

Why this snotty headline? It came to the chronicler a while ago and won't leave him. He's been on the bus for nine hours today, he's spent many hours on the bus looking at the country, he's physically measured some distances and Google Maps is his daily reading. Now he looks out of the window and sees endless scenery again and thinks to himself: What a huge country! 

Land, land, land, from Denver to Fort Laramie

It's not just huge in terms of area, Canada is even bigger. It is also politically huge due to the number of people living there. Three hundred and thirty million are three hundred and thirty million individuals with different interests in very different environments. The chronicler understands a little about how organisations work and he has the greatest respect for the fact that so many individuals are able to follow an idea together at least halfway peacefully, have work, get enough to eat, find transport and shape their lives roughly according to their own ideas. Whether it's Mr Trump or Mr Biden, you can simply have respect for the fact that they throw their hats into the ring and do this at their age and remotely have an idea of how to somehow manage this task. And you can be confident that they can't handle their own hats completely weightlessly. There is a huge back-office apparatus behind it, which has the expertise and advice and sometimes tugs at the boss's sleeve. 

Wikipedia reveals that one of Mr Nixon's closest aides had all presidential decisions passed through his desk towards the end of his term of office because of his alcohol problem, in order to avoid any gross mischief. Of course, the fish always stinks from the head first, but we haven't got that far yet. The chronicler's point is that it is not easy to govern this huge country, this enormous mass of people. Is it okay for us, thousands of kilometres away, to shoot our mouths off like many in the chronicler's country do and make snap judgements? Or should we, as one of his former employees used to say on his computer screen as a constant reminder, "Just shut the fuck up"? And leave it to the people here to decide who they want to see at the top? Thank you for your patience, it doesn't happen that often.

The chronicler was lucky this morning. He left Paris H.'s noble cellar dungeon rather late, his body wouldn't let him leave any earlier. In any case, he wanted to have a look at the Art Museum. A futuristic shop.

Zack, decision to take a look to remember the city in particular. And it worked. A lovely, elderly museum volunteer brought him in for free because even the senior citizen's entrance fee was too much for such a short visit, but she didn't want to let him go. However, the art inside was too heavy for the chronicler for such a cheerful blue morning. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the whole experience.

The Denver Clan didn't play here for nothing. The town seems to be rich, it used to be and it doesn't look any different today.

Built by the people, the city and the county of Denver

The chronicler reads a bit about Jack Kerouac's dream city Denver and the wild life there in 1947 and finds it a bit arrogant today.

"Wow!" The man and I had a long, pleasant conversation about our respective plans in life, and before I knew it we were rolling through the fruit markets outside Denver; there were chimneys, lots of smoke, railway tracks, red brick buildings and, towards the city centre, the grey sandstone houses. And I was there, I was in Denver. He let me out at Larimer Street. Full of joy and with the world's stupidest grin, I stumbled towards the old hobos and worn-out cowboys of Larimer Street..was Ray Rawlins, Tim Gray's mate from childhood. Ray came rushing in to pick me up and we hit it off straight away. Together we went on a drinking spree through the bars on Colfax Avenue. One of Ray's sisters was a blonde beauty called Babe - a tennis-playing, wave-riding fairy of the far west. She...

After the incident with the person sitting next to us, who had forgotten to get out of the bus, the boss at the wheel gave us another harsh message: everyone has to make sure where they have to get off. She couldn't have all the passengers' destinations in her head.

The man in front of the chronicler was from Arkansas. A peace-loving, friendly person. He visits his mother in Washington once a year, which costs him three days of travelling and over two hundred dollars each way. A flight would cost around three times as much.

Robert, lives in a red, i.e. conservative state; he does not hesitate for 0-80-20

The chronicler fits in nicely on his exit from. Evanston, Wyoming, one hundred and thirty interesting kilometres from his next destination, Salt Lake City. Interesting for his journey because it has relief, because he sleeps at an altitude of over two thousand metres, because tomorrow he will be riding a kind of hammock suspended at the other end at two thousand one hundred metres and because there are no supplies for the first sixty-five kilometres. So he has to pack well. 

Evanston - Salt Lake City

This also applies to him, the night-time temperature is zero degrees and will remain in single figures until the start. He has to come up with something. First of all, he is still warm and cheaply accommodated in a motel and texts under white sheets. 

Yes, and then there's the wind direction in this land without trees ;-)

Have a nice day and good thoughts for the European elections (if you're from Europe). The others are watching relaxed. 

TBJ_11 Denver without Clan - Rocky Mountains with snow

White sheets in the basement at Paris H. in Denver. Today, one thing at a time. Because the chronicler had respect for the distance, he left Fort Morgan at seven o'clock after a coffee and apple in bed. The shower water from the previous day was still in the bath.

Turn right behind the tracks

It was fresh but somehow also beautiful. Blue skies, little traffic on the side road, agriculture to the left and right with a sophisticated irrigation system. And he had a tailwind. So much so that he could usually ride in third gear. You could sing songs loud and off-key. The swallows didn't mind. On one side next to him, goods trains sometimes hummed past. To the north, Interstate 76 accompanied him. Where his side road crossed the tracks in a detour, there was a cluster of houses, a few farm supply shops and a breakfast shop after his hat. Clean, handmade, the only customer before him had just left.

His daughter ruled the dining room and his mum was behind the serving hatch in the kitchen. A little nephew of the manager was dropped off here every morning by his dad, his mum was in California for a few days and there was no kindergarten in this cluster of houses. The chronicler had no idea what he wanted and took today's offer.

Part of the fragmentary exploration of the world; he can go to the supermarket for salad again tonight; but she served it with the salutation "Here honey..."

The chronicler was surprised by her answer to his standard question here in the deepest provinces: 100 for Jesus, the other two are idiots. She muffles her voice, probably so that her mum doesn't hear.

Prairie Ranch House; if you are ever in the neighbourhood

Somehow this restaurant deserves a much bigger audience. Mum and daughter do their best.

He couldn't remember exactly, but in the end, part of this route only went over the interstate. That really means motorway. The surface quality was great, the shoulder was clean, which is no wonder when lorries are speeding past at 130 km/h next to it. There are no small parts left behind that could make a hole in the tyre. It's more like a sieve of pieces that would cause the chronicler to fall if he didn't get round them. It was all a bit exciting. What would the police say? Nothing, none came and he got along with the other road users. The video shows a bit of the scene.

Interstate 76

At some point, he was able to take a parallel side road again. And then he felt a bit ashamed. He was hungry and there was nothing else but KFC. So he immediately apologised to the chicken. This massive overloading of meals with meat, mostly chicken, creates downright aversion.

He at least took cabbage salad and sweetcorn with the smallest unit of meat on the menu

Then it got funny. Somehow it chirped around him, not localisable but penetrating. The chronicler had been approached by a bird here before, but there was no bird to be seen. Until he finally discovered masses of ground squirrels warning each other with this birdcall-like sound. The chronicler wanted to be authentic, sat down at a hole and wanted to wait until the occupants reappeared. But the head warden made such a spectacle that this endeavour was useless.

Perhaps the back office will install a gopher here ;-)

In between, interesting construction sites appear next to the railway, which are probably used for oil fracking. Huge noise barriers shield the surrounding area from the loud machine noises that are necessary for the oil extraction process. The old nodding swing pumps next to it are standing still.

In Denver; according to some internet ranking, the most liveable city in the USA

Denver Clan, not a household name for the youngsters among you, but very much so for the chronicler. Or so he thought. But he took the precaution of looking it up and was wrong. He didn't used to watch Denver Clan, he used to watch Dallas. Today he would say that both series belong in court for time theft.

What he has seen from afar with respect and joy are the Rocky Mountains. A chain of mountains with snow-covered peaks. The road leads upwards. Denver is also known as the 1-Mile City because it is one mile above sea level. Today, the chronicler climbed from around 1200 metres to around 1600 metres, evenly distributed over the entire route. Tomorrow he'll be back on the bus, the day after tomorrow will be quite interesting in terms of relief. Colorado is somehow attractive, flat land alternating with rolling hills, almost treeless and now the mountains on the horizon. Not this penal camp-like endlessness of Nebraska.

Arrival café with sofa and sweets

The chronicler has found a chic café in the lounge of a high-rise office block, settles into the cushions after the long tour, enjoys an American coffee and pastries and picks out three yuppies to interview. He is also curious to hear what the big city voice in the west has to say. But he runs straight into a wall. In his opinion, he has presented it politely and clearly, but the answers are from left to right: I'm not voting, I would have liked Nikki Healey, I need to think about it longer. When asked for their first names, they definitely decline and leave. Yes. Part of it.

He still has tomorrow morning, the bus doesn't leave until twelve. So now the washing is done. Then there's still time for a stroll through Denver, elegant tower blocks, rich old buildings, art on every corner. The chronicler has decided on a fragmentary exploration of the world in a German restaurant. It may be expensive, but it's productive. 

The guests come here to prepare for their journey; currywurst for the person sitting next to Jack

Jack flies to Munich in July and travels from there to Brussels to visit a friend. He delivers 0-50-50 to the chronicler, doesn't want to reveal his profession until after his retirement and doesn't want a photo. Jack lives in Chicago.

Kenyon comes from where the chronicler wants to go next: Salt Lake City

Kenyon has fewer problems with this. He is travelling to Germany for a fortnight in October. A guided tour. His answer is 100-0-0. Kenyon is an atheist, has two children and works as an electrician in automation.

See you tomorrow.

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