I couldn't decide this morning whether to go get a Colorado driver's license or a Jefferson County library card. Okay, the truth is that it was a no-brainer, although I justified it by telling myself that then I would have something to read while I was waiting in line at the DMV.

While we were in Brussels, I kept a list of books that were reviewed in the American press that I wanted to read when they became available in Europe or I returned home. That list accompanied me to the Arvada Public Library today, and honestly, when I found a couple of the titles on the shelves, I felt like kissing the dust jackets, just as one of my young NPL patrons did when I helped her locate one of her favorite authors.

It was apparently naive to expect that the belongings we stored while we were in Belgium would reappear a) at all or b) in the same condition in which we last saw them. Although professional movers packed everything and took it on a moving truck to a "real" storage facility (as opposed to one of the ubiquitous self-storage units), some items never made it to Colorado, and, of those that did, more than a few are damaged, including an antique secretary/china cabinet that belonged to my grandparents. I could weep with frustration and exhaustion.

Our items that were in storage in Michigan arrive tomorrow. Other than the big items, such as our family room couch and small kitchen appliances, I can barely remember what we stored, what we gave away through Freecycle, and what went to the curb. (I do know that the curb was pretty crowded those last couple of trash pickups, leading to a stern reprimand from one of the garbagemen.)

I was explaining this to one of my new neighbors the other night, and Kim just laughed and said, "Look at it this way, it will feel like Christmas all over again when you open those boxes!"

In Michigan, you often see signs listing the population count below a city's name as you enter the city limits. Out here, it's all about elevation, as we were startled to discover driving down to Parker last weekend to visit Jim's sister. I have no idea how many people live in Arvada, but I now know that the city is 5,344 feet above sea level.

Midwestern reality check: The summit elevation at Nub's Nob, our favorite ski resort in Michigan, is 1,338 feet. Our little hometown of Northville, which boasts of having the highest elevation in Wayne County, is a whopping 980 feet above sea level.

Foothills are geographically defined as gradual increases in hilly areas at the base of a mountain range. They are generally larger than hills, but not as tall as nearby mountains. Many neighborhoods and communities found in such a location are termed "the foothills."

Wikipedia

So I've been lying awake in the middle of the night fretting about what to call a "We're not in Brussels anymore, Hana" blog. "Hopelessly Midwestern in the Rockies?" Patrick thought that sounded lame. "Clueless in Colorado?" Since I seem to be finding my way around quite nicely, thank you very much, why dumb down my virtual self? "Middle-Aged in the Mountains?" We see incredible, postcard-perfect views of the Rockies every day. Technically, though, we don't live in the mountains (see above); Arvada is in the foothills. Besides, most of the time, I veer wildly between feeling 9 and feeling 86. Middle age doesn't seem to be an option.

At 3 this morning, I came up with "A Foothills Life." It's simple. It fits my current attitude towards life, which doesn't include plans for scaling mountains, figuratively speaking. Although, as the picture shows, we've already done some hiking in the literal sense . . .