Getting Our Feet Wet (But Not Our Whistles)

(PARK CITY, UT – Friday, 1:26 pm) The town of Park City brings our memories back to Skagway and Dawson City, with maybe a little bit of Wall Drug, ND thrown in. The streets have an old west style and are flanked by the cowtown storefronts we used to see in Gunsmoke. But these are not the plains. Here the town sits right up in the mountains. You climb the streets hills, look up at merchant signs and in the distance there are double-diamond trails and skiers, like tiny raisins on whipped cream.

We spent the first afternoon walking the festival area trying to get tickets to movies we don’t know why we want  to see.  We just want something. Everything is sold out well in advance and you have to pick up what you can from turn backs that go on sale the each morning. We score something for tomorrow morning. It probably has subtitles.

 In the evening the streets fill with film festers and those skiers who made it down to dinner. Everyone’s head is on a swivel to see stars. Anybody here could be a director or distributor or an on-camera someone. In the bars and restaurants patrons seem to be a little posed — looking good and looking around.

We had dinner at a place called Zoom that happens to be owned by His Majesty King Redford. There was a small dust up when our drinks were shown to have suffered a seriously short pour. When I fished the two olives from my martini there was barely a shot of vodka remaining.  Complaining to the waiter was no help. “I’m not responsible for the bar.” He was dismissive. We asked for the manager, who was a nice enough fellow but dressed like he’d been on dish duty in the kitchen.  He seemed a little surprised we would complain. He explained that the problem was we are in Utah. It seems that the State, not the restaurant, measures the drinks and they scrutinize it here with decided Mormon sensibility. It puts one in mind of what might happen to cocktail hour in a Romney presidency –- Not sayin.’ I’m just sayin’.