Of Sidewalk Musicians & Sore Mucles

  Last weekend we drove the flat, boring 73 miles to Oklahoma City, and somehow ended up in a magical, almost whimsical, bit of forgotten life. Downtown OKC seems like a million miles away from the normal, dirty, gang-ridden downtown scene.

  El and I wandered through the narrow streets, listening to the clip-clip-clip of hooves against the brick-paved roads, the high-pitched ringing of bicycle bells, the low rush of water as bright yellow gondolas passed underneath our bridge. There's a tall red-head in a black velvet dress playing violin on the street corner. She has quite a crowd gathered around her, and her small son, dressed in a mini- tuxedo and top hat, is playing with the coins left by appreciative listeners. Just past her is a lanky bicycle-carriage driver. Judging by his passenger’s curious looks and whispers, his dread-locked hair and big smile are fascinating to them. White lights are reflecting off the river beneath us, where a guitarist is singing and couples stroll down the sidewalk with eyes only for each other.

  We stand there for what seems like hours, until El gently tugs on my hand and reminds me that we both need some sleep.

  By the next morning the magical remainders of our night have long vanished, now replaced with a crazy, silly, excitement. Pack the bags, check out, and head to the water park! Windy, warm morning... perfect for hitting the water slides. The sun lives up to expectations, keeping us hot and darkening our previously fading tan. Eight hours, a foot-long corn dog, and the best workout I've had in months, we finally head home to Tulsa. And I can hardly move. Talk about aching muscles! I hurt in places I didn't even know I could hurt.

Our weekend still isn’t quite over… now we're headed to the drive-in movie theatre. and then home. and sleep.