Asher on Aspen: Lost in a sea of green
The Maven Hotel/Courtesy photo
I have always loved St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe it’s my Irish roots coming through, maybe it’s my love for Guinness, or maybe I just enjoy an excuse to wear an outrageous amount of green. Whatever the reason, this day has always been pure fun — a stress-free excuse to drink mid-day and make questionable decisions in the company of friends.
Every March, I relive my previous legendary St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin — the Super Bowl of Irish celebrations. The streets were a sea of green, Guinness flowed like water, and at some point, I entered an Irish dancing competition, all thanks to a cute local named Aidan. I didn’t win, but I did walk away with 50 Euros, an XL Guinness T-shirt, and a lifetime of bragging rights as the official runner-up to Miss St. Patty 2014.
This year, however, some friends convinced me to shake things up with a trip to Denver. Unbeknownst to me, the city hosts one of the largest St. Patrick’s Day parades in the country. Intrigued by the promise of green beer and rowdy crowds, I packed my best green outfit ensembles and hit the road.
My home for the weekend was The Maven Hotel at Dairy Block, a hip and eclectic downtown hideaway that had all the makings of a perfect stay. The hotel’s lively atmosphere immediately set the tone for the weekend. The lobby was an artful explosion of colors and textures, a curated collision of industrial-chic design and local flair. Even better, its location was unbeatable — a stone’s throw from Union Station and within stumbling distance of Coors Field.
That first night, my friend Shannon joined me for dinner at Kachina Cantina, the hotel’s Southwestern-inspired restaurant. We kicked things off with margaritas and fresh guac, as any respectable weekend should. The fried corn was a flavor bomb, the deep-fried plantains were basically dessert disguised as an appetizer, and by the time my chicken enchiladas hit the table, we were deep in a food coma. But did that stop us from ordering churros? Absolutely not. They were warm, cinnamon-sugar perfection with a gooey center and a scoop of strawberry ice cream — because restraint is overrated.
Post-feast, we wandered to Poka Lola, the hotel’s on-site bar that channels a retro-cool cocktail vibe. We bellied up to the bar, determined to make friends and bask in the pre-St. Paddy’s Day revelry. By the time we finished our second round, we had absorbed a group of equally giddy women into our night. We bonded over our shared love of yoga and all things Western, and spontaneous friendships forged in dimly lit bars. By the end of the night, numbers were exchanged, pinky promises were made, and we vowed to reunite over a future round of margaritas.
The next morning, we suited up in our finest St. Paddy’s Day attire: A hodgepodge of emerald hues, gaudy beads, and an unreasonable amount of shamrock paraphernalia. Somewhere between slipping on some oversized green sunglasses and juggling potatoes passed out during the parade, I developed an Irish accent that would remain for the entire day (A phenomenon that seems to happen whenever I drink).
The Denver St. Patrick’s Day parade did not disappoint. Bagpipes wailed, Irish dancers skipped down the streets, and floats adorned with leprechauns and Celtic symbols paraded past as crowds cheered and clinked their drinks in celebration. The energy was infectious, and the streets buzzed with that rare, electric camaraderie that only comes from a holiday where everyone suddenly claims to be just a little bit Irish.
After the parade, we embarked on a day-long bar crawl, hopping between downtown hotspots. It was a blur of Jameson toasts, impromptu dance parties, and meeting strangers who instantly became best friends for the day. Somewhere between rounds, I found myself in a heated debate about the true origins of the Irish goodbye, and before I knew it, the day had melted into night.
At the end of it all, retreating back to The Maven felt like a luxury. Feet sore and cheeks aching from laughter, I collapsed onto my perfectly plush bed, still humming “Galway Girl” under my breath.
There’s something about St. Patrick’s Day that unites people in a way no other holiday quite does. Maybe it’s the shared heritage, the luck of the Irish, or the unspoken agreement that, for one day a year, everyone goes all in on the same rowdy, shamrock-studded celebration. Whatever it is, I’ll be chasing that feeling again next March — preferably with a pint in hand and an accidental Irish accent to match.
Pitkin County sees first wolf depredation since reintroduction
A yearling on a cattle ranch up Pitkin County’s Capitol Creek died to wolf depredation, according to a regional cattlemen’s association official. Another yearling is missing from the ranch, but the reason is unconfirmed.
