The black hole of Denver, Colorado

Leaseless living, homesickness, and carbon monoxide leaks

I was eating dinner when I heard the beeping.

“What’s that sound?” I asked the dogs sitting at my feet. The smallest one cocked his ear.

Overhead, a robotic woman’s voice began shouting: “WARNING! CARBON MONOXIDE DETECTED! WARNING! CARBON MONOXIDE DETECTED!”

These were not my dogs and this was not my house. I was staying at my friend Whitney’s in Denver, Colorado.

Denver is a black hole that keeps pulling me in. It’s never my intended destination but I always seem to end up there, like my own personal purgatory. I spent a total of six weeks in Denver this summer as a waystation on my road trip out west. Upon arriving for the first time, I was surprised. I’d pictured—oh, I don’t know—mountains? Nature? It was giving South Dakota. Baffled, I began surveying residents on what they loved about it so much.

“The mountains are close by!” they would all say. “It’s a short flight to anywhere in the US!” 

So the thing you like most about Denver is…how easy it is to escape?

People will try to tell you this is Denver. Don't believe them.

Now I was back in Denver again for two weeks before heading to Mexico. Tonight, I was alone at the house because Whitney was on an overnight trip in Vail.

I waited to see if the robot woman would give further instructions, but she just repeated that same unhelpful phrase over and over.

I called Whitney, trying to be casual. 

“The carbon monoxide alarm is going off. Is that…usual?” I was hoping she’d respond, Oh yeah, all the time, it’s basically white noise at this point—just ignore it!

She told me it had never happened before.

“I’ll come home right now,” Whitney said over the phone.

“No!” I said, frantic to prove myself a competent houseguest. I looked down at the dogs, then around at the beautiful Tudor home where I was staying for free. I imagined it exploding.

People often ask how I find places to live when traveling full-time. The first thing to know is financial: I don’t have a lease anywhere (I gave that up back in September 2022) so wherever I am, that’s all I’m paying for housing. My first preference is almost always co-living spaces like Outsite, because it makes meeting people so easy. There’s Furnished Finder, a fee-free version of Airbnb that was created for travel nurses, that I used in Portland. And when I’m in Denver — which, as I said, happens alarmingly often — Whitney graciously insists I stay at her home. 

So it would be extremely ungrateful of me to blow it up.

the beautiful house I almost blew up

“Don’t change your plans,” I assured Whitney. “I’ve got it under control.” This statement was more aspirational than anything.

I hung up and opened ChatGPT: What should I do if the carbon monoxide alarm is going off? I took a bite of my dinner while it whirred up an answer. 

Call 911. ChatGPT told me. Ventilate the house by opening all the doors and windows, and evacuate immediately.

Well damn. I put my fork down. 

Imagine you’re in my situation. An alarm is blaring. A robotic voice is loudly shouting a critical warning from overhead. An AI has just told you you’re about to die. You need to evacuate the house. There are dogs everywhere. It’s 16º outside. You are not wearing any pants or shoes. 

What’s your order of operations? 

In my panicked state, I chose: dogs, doors, evacuate, 911. Pants did not make the final list. I did, however, have time to grab a fluffy blanket from the couch and wrap it around my waist like a makeshift skirt.

I dialed 911 while hurrying the animals outside, thinking only of their tiny lungs filling with toxic substances. A few minutes later, I heard sirens start up in the distance. 

A tall wooden fence separated Whitney’s backyard from the neighbor’s. On the other side of it, I could hear children screaming: “IS THERE A FIRE? IS THERE A FIRE?”

“No fire! We’re all good over here!” I yelled toward the fence. I sat down at the patio table and eyed the house for signs of a pending explosion.

When I tell people I’m traveling full-time, the most common response is: “I could never do that. I’d miss my space too much. Don’t you get homesick?”

As someone who identifies as a homebody, I get it. I am extremely particular about the quantity and placement of lamps. When I started traveling though, I knew I needed to redefine home for myself. Instead of a physical location, it became a collection of routines and rituals I could take with me. In Denver this summer, I had it down to a science: a favorite park for my long walks, a corner shop for coffee and fresh fruit, a sunny spot on this patio to do my morning pages. If I could make a home for myself in Denver, I could do it anywhere.

The backyard turned blue and red as the firefighters pulled up in their truck with its flashing lights. From beyond the fence, the children grew more hysterical: “THERE’S A FIRE! SOMETHING! IS! ON! FIRE!”

I hitched up my blanket-skirt and walked across the yard to meet the firemen. The fence didn’t have a gate on that side so I addressed them through the iron bars like a prisoner. 

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” I said, as composed as possible while half-clothed. I gestured to the open front door, regal in my palm-frond printed blanket: “Right through there.”

Walking across the yard to the back door, I saw more concerned neighbors approaching. I contemplated how to explain myself, but realized with relief that I knew them already.

They were an older couple from across the street. I’d gone to their house last summer for a cookout, so they also remembered me (as the girl who had shown up high on edibles to their cookout). At the cookout, when I told the couple about my recent travels, they were confused — having never quite grasped the concept of ‘working remotely’ — but encouraging. 

“You’re so brave,” the wife had told me.

This is the second most common thing people say to me. It always feels a bit like stolen valor. ‘Brave’ implies that the alternative would have been easier, but the opposite was true. Staying seemed impossible. Leaving felt like a relief.

“No fire,” I told the neighbor couple once they reached the gate. “The carbon monoxide alarm was going off, so I called 911 just to be safe.”

“Oh, good!” the husband said, clearly happy for some excitement.“Make sure they check around the boiler!”

The tall fireman popped his head out of the backdoor and motioned me inside. I went in, the pack of dogs following closely behind.

“Are you feeling okay? Nauseous? Confused? Disoriented?” Tall Fireman asked me.

Fun fact: Carbon monoxide has been responsible for many ghost sightings! In addition to the usual headaches and nausea, symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning can include confusion, vision changes, pressure on your chest, auditory hallucinations, and an unexplained sense of dread. In the first documented case in 1912, a family began hearing voices and footsteps and reported apparitions appearing at the foot of their bed—only to eventually discover their furnace had been leaking the posionous gas.

I assured Tall Fireman I was feeling totally clear. Never better. Sharp as a tack.

He asked more questions but I was only half paying attention. The other half was wondering if this was the handsome stranger I was supposed to meet in March. I imagined working up the courage to call the fire department tomorrow.

“Hi,” I’d say. “I met Tall Fireman last night and I was hoping to get in touch with him. We had a real connection.”

“Tall Fireman?” The person on the other end of the phone would pause for a long time. Then, in a creaky voice, they would say: “I’m afraid he doesn’t work here anymore. Tall Fireman has been dead for 50 years.”

At that moment, the pit bull brushed past us in the hallway and I jumped. He nearly knocked me over, snagging on the corner of my blanket as he went. I quickly grabbed at it to keep it from unraveling. The ghost of the Tall Fireman bent down to pet the dog.

“What’s his name?” he asked kindly, scratching the dog’s head.

I came up completely blank. What was his name? Even after nearly two cumulative months of living with him, I couldn’t remember.

“I don’t know.” I finally admitted.

Tall Fireman stopped petting the dog and looked up at me with concern.

“Didn’t you…name him?” He seemed to be second-guessing the potential neurological damage I’d sustained from the carbon monoxide leak.

“Oh, this isn’t my dog,” I said, trying to reassure him. “I don’t live here.” 

This did not clarify things. If anything, it confused them more. I could see him silently wondering: Then what are you doing here?

Even when I’m not barefoot and pantless in someone else’s home, this is a fair question. I’ve gotten used to the blank stares when I attempt explain my current setup: no lease, no home base, a different city every couple months. Even I have a hard time articulating why this lifestyle suits me so well. Here’s what I know: I love seeing my normal life in the light of a new place because it shows me new facets of myself. I love running errands with my sister in Nashville and salsa dancing with strangers in Mexico and a life that lets me have both in equal measure. I love cultivating the ability to feel at home wherever I am in the world.

Tall Fireman didn’t inquire further. He delivered his assessment of the situation: “The meters are reading all clear,” he said. “No leak. You just need to replace the batteries.”

I nodded vaguely, still trying to think of the dog’s name.

“Batteries,” Tall Fireman said again with the slow, inoffensive tone you would use with a toddler. He paused to confirm I knew the word then spoke slowly: “Do…you…know…where the batteries are?”

I lied and said yes, otherwise I think they would have carted me in for a psychological evaluation.

The firefighters left. The children stopped screaming. The neighbors returned to their homes. I closed all the doors and windows, and called Whitney to let her know all was well—and also, where did she keep the batteries?

“You know what’s strange?” my co-worker Jess had observed on a walk between sessions at our work retreat that week. “People in Denver don’t honk.”

I started listening for it and she was right. People didn’t honk.

“It’s all the sunlight and trees,” Jess said. “People are just happier here.”

I conceded that people in Denver did seem unusually happy. Folks chatted with me in the grocery store aisles. Neighbors waved as I walked by and invited me to their cookouts. No one even seemed to mind that I’d riled up the entire neighborhood and dispatched a team of five firefighters just to change the batteries on an alarm.

Maybe it’s the carbon monoxide poisoning, but Denver is really starting to grow on me.

Love,

Lane 💋