We Went to Cheyenne So You Don't Have To

It's only a model. Shh!

14 May 2016

We drove to Cheyenne because it was close enough to Fort Collins that we could get there and back, say we'd visited Wyoming, and get back to Colorado in time for the wedding we'd come here to attend.

There's not much to see or do in Cheyenne on a Sunday. The main museum is closed. The botanical garden is closed. Everything is closed.

This, dear readers, is Cheyenne on a Sunday:

That's the train depot.

That's the Capitol building.

This is one of the places that the city lists as an attraction. Seriously. That's how exciting Cheyenne is.

Seeing as how it was the only thing open, Jack said we should go in. We'd driven all this way, after all.

"You first," I said, and was greeted by this:

Because every good cowboy needs an oversized cross goblet?

There was a moose, though:

If you need a cowboy-style cross, get yours here, and if you need rhinestone crosses on your rhinestone belt, this place has you covered.

Boots, and flip-flops:

Cowboy hats!

More boots!

Can we go now?  Please?

"The Depot Museum is open," Jack said. We headed that way, passing a sign that there might be deviant life here after all. Or not.  Could be a country-western bar.

Inside the Depot Museum is the history of the Transcontinental Railroad and Wyoming's own Union Pacific Railroad's role in it.  For a tiny place run on $8 admission fees, the museum had a lot of disparate history on display.

Including this, which I'm sure is mislabeled.

What it's really a picture of is the Saturday Honey Do ride out of Cranbury.

Upstairs was a model railroad that wound its way around the entire top floor, copying, rock for rock, real passes along the Union Pacific line. If you don't look to hard, it seems real.

Another listed Cheyenne attraction: giant boots.

On our way to the one open restaurant, we saw this:

"What's a bagel? Can I deep fry it and put pork on it?"

There were no hipster beards and no artisan pickles at the burger joint. I got the one salad on the menu that didn't come with meat in it. Jack had a burger, because "How can I go to Wyoming and not eat beef?"

This is our little rental car:

Back on the highway, I pulled off immediately at the first exit, up on a knoll, behind a Denny's, so that I could take some pictures of the landscape.

I zoomed way in to get the wind farm:

Near the Wyoming-Colorado state line, high on a bluff, stands a buffalo statue. To the left is a water tower. That's how big this buffalo is.  (I apologize for the poor resolution; I took the picture from inside the car after I pulled over to the side of the highway.)

We got back to the hotel with enough time to change into our fancy clothes. For Jack, that's easy. He likes wearing suits. For me, not so much. I don't do dresses. I refuse to be objectified. Plus, no pockets. I was one necktie short of Annie Hall. My shoes were suede ankle-high Keds. Really.

Weddings are boring. Funerals are sad and tough, but at least they give me something to think about. Weddings drag on and on and on. And this one was the draggiest-on I've had to sit through in a long, long time. 

The heteronormative, woman-submissive, Jesusizing god gobbledygook was over the top. Even the music: mellow god-rock. 

Y'all know me well enough to know that I near bit my tongue clean off.

We were herded into a tent before dinner. Jack and I stood off to the side. We didn't know a single person in the room (the guest of honor and his family being off for photos). I looked around. I certainly had the wildest hair in the place. I counted two non-whites in the crowd of 40-odd people. I scoured the room for anyone who didn't look like a white conservative. On the other side I spotted one. She and her partner seemed to be having a good time, though.  I went back to drinking my water.

"I see you two match each other," she said. "Pink tie and pink shirt."

"Purely coincidental," Jack grinned.

"I refuse to wear a dress. I refuse to be objectified."

"Amen, sister!" she said.  

And the four of us hung out for the rest of the evening. 

Anyone who restores 1950s Schwinns as a hobby is all right in my book.

I can say with a degree of certainty that this is the first time I've discussed cadavers and brain dissection at a wedding. 

Pro tip:  Don't wear dresses. You'll meet cooler people that way.