The Mile High City...

On a whim, Imraan and I decided to journey out of town for our Friday evening. We found ourselves in a town about an hour north of Phoenix called Jerome: once called the "Wickedest Town of the West," population of 400 and mostly with artsy residents that seem a bit too happy. It's perched on top of Verde Valley and from 5,200 feet, looks down on every city for more than 50 miles. In many ways, it reminds me of Eureka. If Jerome were a person, it'd be the tiny artsy girl in class that's a bit out of touch with reality and often terribly unstylish, but beautiful.

A first timer to a bed and breakfast stay, I will admit my expectations were far, far exceeded. Our hostess, Andrea, was a middle-aged blonde cheerleader-type woman with a petite build, an enormous personality and very weathered skin. When you ask her how she's doing, she'll tell you she's, "pretty darn near perfect." She was like a pixie. She killed me, she really did.

Her magnificent home, nestled into the hillside of one of the highest points in town, sits full of antiques, family photos, books for all interests, town news clippings, a fat cat and booze. Each restaurant recommendation we received from Andrea was prefaced with the place's spread of liquor first. So for me, it was just perfection. Ultimately we chose a place called "Grapes."

Come to think of it, Jerome was pretty close to perfection. I mean, the local hippies were just a smidge too bushy-tailed. I found myself not entirely sure I wasn't getting one pulled over on. I'm still not sure.

In the end, I left Jerome with:

-1 pair black vintage heels
-Newfound affinity towards bed and breakfasts
-4 old postcards for the collection
and a broader horizon of the people just an hour up the road from my sunny metropolis.

Imraan left with:

-The legend of his film in the city streets (rather, the city of Jerome was left with this)
-1 potential friend who owns a house in New Orleans
-1 juvenile delinquent photographer contact
and 1 vintage bow tie.