Sorry, Kids. We Have Aspen at Home

 

Aspen. It’s the kind of place people talk about as if it were Mount Olympus. A mythical vacation destination where snow falls in silver flakes, whiskey flows endlessly from aged oak barrels, and the kind of people who slosh around the word “après” with one pinky held high. 

 

I love that idea. 

I really do.

 

And maybe there’s a version of me that lives in Aspen. She wakes up to the postcard snowfall, zips herself into a Moncler jumpsuit, and skis down an aggressively photogenic mountain right into the biggest fondue pot known to man. 

 

Then there’s the real me. The one who lives in Florida. No hills. No snow. No luxury chalet to dry my boots next to a crackling fireplace. The one sweating in my living room, blasting the AC as high as it will go without needing an HVAC technician, and strapped into an Aeroski machine I bought off Facebook Marketplace from a guy named Dennis. 

 

Was it glamorous? Absolutely not. 

Did it work? As ridiculous as it was, yes.

 

Everyone loves the idea of an Aspen holiday. I mean, let's be honest. Jaunting around the slopes with a ski pole in one hand and a charcuterie fork in the other. Rubbing elbows with money and ego. Pretending we know the difference between a 2021 Cabernet and a two-buck Chuck. Sniffing the glass rim and muttering “tannins” before a quick gurgle and a satisfied sigh. 

 

Admirable. A dream, for sure. I just don’t like the price of the airfare or sitting next to people on planes who zone out while chewing gum with their mouths open. But every winter, I find myself watching other people’s slope stories, and I think to myself, maybe this year. 

 

So I did what any sensible, slightly delusional creative would do. I brought Aspen to me. 

 

Dennis just happened to be selling his wife’s Aeroski machine for pennies. A steal, really, considering how great it would look next to my rowing machine-turned-coat-rack. I paired it with the VR headset I’d also scored on Facebook Marketplace a few weeks earlier. The AC cranked to Arctic Tundra. And there I was. Fresh powder. Crisp mountain air (freon, technically). Aspen.

 

I didn’t even bail once. Truth be told, that’s how I knew it wasn’t the real Aspen. But I did break a sweat, curse once or twice getting dangerously close to that one fir tree, and suffered the kind of muscle burn that makes you believe you’re headed to the Olympics instead of the couch. By the end, I was high on endorphins and irony.

 

Any good trip deserves an even better meal. When in Aspen, we do as Aspen does: Après ski. 

 

 

Bubbling brie always looks its best when it's barely holding its shape on a small wooden cutting board. A spoonful of cherry jam dragged through the center in a sweet and salty slow-motion collision. Surrounded by cubes of crusty homemade sourdough, toasted and salted marcona almonds still warm from the pan, and a few slices of crunchy carrots rounded out the snacks. 

 

This restaurant is self-serve only. The most luxurious of buffets, where no one judges on the number of servings or your choice of bathrobe. This chalet isn’t what you might consider a destination spot, but it’s rated 5 stars and is my kind of luxurious. 

 

Any respectable ski lodge serves liquor with its bites. Hell, I had the bottle of Aperol open before I even put on the VR headset. An Apple Aperol Spritz was on the menu, doused with a little more Aperol than necessary and a fat slice of orange on the rim to bring out the bitter orange flavor. After being in the snow–and looking at the sizable block of brie oozing into the board–a good dose of vitamin C sounded like a smart choice. Indeed, it was.

 

Sunken into the couch with my feet up, my fingers scraped the last of the brie onto a crust of bread. A triple cream rind blistered from the flame–too good to leave behind. Drowned with the last sip of spritz and a deep sigh of contentment. Hopefully I would remember to tip the restaurant staff.

 

No, it wasn’t authentic Aspen by any means. But it was my version. One enjoyed on a Saturday afternoon without the hassle of running to the next gate, carting suitcases up stairwells, and pointing a fire hose at my bank account. It was a version I could easily return to tomorrow should the mood strike again. Somewhere in the swathes of nutty cheese, I realized Aspen isn’t just a dream to kick myself over and over again about not going. Instead, it’s a decision I could make by boiling it down to the basics.

 

And that was the point. Sure, I could chase the “real” thing someday. Book the flight, buy the gear, avoid the trees. Maybe I will. But for now, I love that I don’t have to wait for someday to experience something like it. 

 

Aspen at home is ridiculous. But it’s also genius. 

 

And if I ever get tired of it—hey, there’s always Facebook Marketplace. I might even put the rowing machine up with it, too.