Fine, Denver. Ya Grew On Me, Dammit.

When I first moved here, people noticed my southern accent.

“Florida,” is what I’d inform when they asked where I came from. And though I transferred from Jacksonville, I spent my formative years in the swamps of north FL, where netherworldly humidity, shoe-sized bugs, and ill-hidden rattlesnakes provided dubious company most of the year.

Then Denver called to me with its promise of low humidity, charming White Christmases, and summers that, in comparison to the south, felt like autumn. What I wasn’t prepared for, as many transplants aren’t, are conversations that go like this:

“Where you from?”

“[Insert Your State].”

“Oh, [Your State] sucks. Congrats on your move.”

“Ever been to [My State]?”

“Nope. But we’re better.”

(Well ok, then.)

And before I go forward, please hear me when I say: I completely get that not all natives do this. Some of you welcoming, kickass Coloradans are genuinely interested in hearing about where we came from and what we think of your city.

Without a doubt, if I ran into a stranger from Colorado in my small hometown, I’d be ecstatic to get them into my home, put some sweet tea or a cold (probably cheap) beer in their hands, and ask if they’re hungry. That’s our way. Hell, even the stereotypical southern mouthbreather who hates the government (but is on welfare, go figure) will pat the dust off his couch and insist you stick around while “Maw-Maw makes us some fraad cheekun and sweet ‘taters.” I suppose the Colorado equivalent would be to invite you on a hike, then insist you come to a Broncos pre-game at a stellar microbrew-house. Both are just as steeped in regional hospitality, and both very loving in their ways.

But let’s get serious: The “congrats” on leaving your home state to be here (because your home “sucks in comparison”) is a cutting and very personal insult. When you bash someone’s home, you bash the culture they’ve been raised in, and you’ve bashed an enormous part of what makes them who they are today.

So, in defiance to the (probably inadvertent) inhospitable welcome, but a tasteless welcome regardless, my eyes began to immediately see the unseemly aspects of this city — those that couldn’t hold a candle to my home state.

The initial “ugh” came from the 55mph average “fast lane” speed. No one seems to observe that lower traffic should stay to the right. I’ve heard that it’s a “transplant” problem, but riding shotgun with a native on more than 10 occasions proves that the transplants are a scapegoat. And hey, listen: Denver is a small city. I get the impression that the natives still deploy that “small-town interstate speed” in spite of the “let’s goooo!” transplants. It’s your city — drive as you see fit. (But slower traffic should, as the law dictates, stay right.) As this is your city, this has grown on me.

The potholes and gouges in your asphalt are something we’d never let our local government get away with back home. These are causes for major weaving in both cars and motorcycles, and major weaving royally fucks up traffic. But! The snowing and salting and plowing wreaks a havoc that we don’t have to deal with back home. So! As this is your city, this has grown on me.

The apoplectic football fever is pretty intense. Where once I said aloud that I dug my trip to Seattle, I was met with, “Then go live there!” Whoa, there. What’s that about. (Hint: Superbowl. 43 to 8, Seahawks. Yes, of course.) But seeing as how you really love and support your team, I suppose I wasn’t hip to the burn the city felt. And now, seeing how the camaraderie is a good thing, I get it. As this is your city, this has grown on me.

There are so many things I could go on about, but they all end up at the same place: You’re good people, even if you’re a little territorial. But hey:

This is a great territory and I hope to truly belong someday.