A Toast To Colorado

Then

Can you wax nostalgic about a street? I don't know about you, but I can wax nostalgic about anything, inanimate or still breathing. I'm not that picky. Yesterday I teared up as I crept along Colorado Avenue on the way to Ocean. You see, nice people, when I was a Westsider -- up until the mid-80s when hubby and I made the trek to the Valley -- Colorado was my go-to street. Colorado was my happy street. I just loved it so much. It was quiet and wide and got you to Santa Monica in record time. These days, getting to Santa Monica from Sherman Oaks for a swanky early bridal shower-type celebration takes serious navigational skills. Naturally, I relied on How-Waze. Longtime hubby knows how to get you where you need to go. Use a traffic app in his presence? I don't think so. All you need is How-Waze. "Take Colorado," he said. He'd taken it the day before to schlep his daddy to the DMV. "I'm taking Colorado," I said. And that was that.

Now

Only How-Waze didn't take into account that Colorado now shares its once-spacious turf with the Expo line. Colorado narrows into a bumper-to-bumper slo-mo ride to Hell. The Colorado of my youth is now a ticket to tardiness. "You're never late," one of the gals said, a Westsider, when I arrived 10 minutes behind schedule. "I blame Colorado," I said. "The street, not the state," I clarified. The Westsiders in the party offered no solace, no sympathy. Only the Valley gals understood my pain. They embraced me in a healing group hug and offered champagne. "You're here now, honey," a Calabasan goddess whispered. "Going home, you'll go another way," said an angel from Agoura Hills. I felt better once the booze kicked in. And after we toasted the lovely bride-to-be, I toasted my Colorado of yore. "Let's raise a glass to Colorado Ave., the way it was. We had some good times. didn't we? Progress is a bitch. L'chaim." Only the Valley gals joined in. No surprise there.