At the gas station I got directions to the laundro­mat, then walked through the quiet little town with its Swiss-­chalet shops. As I walked, I admired, and as I admired, I felt my face relax, felt the scowl fade away. Seven Slopes would probably be as perfect a home as I could find.

Suddenly a lifestyle of normalcy was the most attractive thing I could imagine. I wanted yellow kitchen curtains, just as Alice had once had.

Seven Slopes, Colorado, was nestled in a bowl where six valleys converged. The seven slopes rose dramatically on three sides of the little town, and while they were green and pleasant in June, they surely were awesome snow-­skiing territory in the winter.

A winter trade would mean transient outsiders from October through April. Tourists. Where a small town might get stale after a while, outsiders would probably sate my appetite for newness, freshness, aliveness.

As I walked, I noticed that the gondola ski lifts were still operating on one slope. Summer tourists. The quiet little towns­people in the off-­season proba­bly had their noses in each other’s pockets from May through September, but I could stay aloof, apart. I could have an orderly life without becoming overly involved. I could live here and enjoy the visitors. Year ’round.

I found the laundromat, and availed myself of the restroom to clean my body while the machines cleaned my clothes. When I was again tidy and refreshed, I hiked up the hillside to spend the night. I walked through waist-­high grass and wildflowers, my boots kicking up a fresh, green smell. My heart felt lighter in this place; I was anxious for the morning. In the morning I would begin to settle down and make this magnificent setting my home.

I watched the sun set behind the Rockies, and felt the excitement of living. I barely had time to wonder where that excitement had been before falling asleep with the sweet smell of fresh mountain air all around me.

In the morning, I awoke to the song of the birds and the dramatic vision of the sun on the mountains.

I knew this was home. I felt it in my bones.

The apartment I could afford was a converted basement under a clothing warehouse. It was dismal, the only windows little push-­out ones next to the ceiling along one side, but it had two bedrooms, a living room, bathroom and kitchen, and nondescript gray-­brown carpeting throughout. The smaller bed­room and bathroom had no windows at all, but I loved the place. It was my first apartment, my first home, my first step on the road to responsible adult­hood. After I paid the landlord, I walked through the empty space, touching the walls, and I felt proud.