Conveying ourselves to Denver (Danielle driving, Taggat shotgun and Brandon sawing some previously neglected logs in the backseat) we were on task one (1) of our wayward venturings. Parked, we waltzed into Union Station with eagerness of receiving our rail passes. Nearly deserted, the voluminous station echoed with our gaiety and whimsy. However, the ticket counter too was vacant of personnel. So, we waited. Waited and waited. "We need our passes before 10:00PM." "Where is somebody?" Concerns of anxious customers grew like those of the Golden Ticket holders outside the gates of that mystical factory. "Oh, is that somebody who works here?" as a lone figure entered the vast hall. And like a wacky chocolate maker, he addressed us zanily with surprising wit and jocularity. Who can get our rail pass, tell a joke or two, give us the advice to make good times accrue? Harold, like a warm-hearted mixture of Bill Cosby, Gene Wilder and Casey Jones, chatted us up with instruction, anecdotes about boarder crossings, drug busts and humour that sparked this trip's paradigm of meeting and talking to strangers you just can't get enough of. Harold, we salute you at this, our journey's debut and hope pull into your station and grab some breakfast with you upon its termination. What now, brown cow!
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