Over a Beer at "The Sink" in Boulder.

Sometimes the most interesting conversations start with a quiet beer and a simple thank you.

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It was a hot, sunny afternoon in Boulder, July 2025. My other half was tied up in a work meeting, so I had time to kill.

I wandered the historic downtown—old brick buildings, summer air thick with pine and pavement, the kind of day that makes you slow down.

I browsed a few mom-and-pop shops, picked up some homemade baklava, chatted with a shopkeeper about how this was "Palestinian Baklava made with rose water, and not honey". Still pretty damned tasty.

Eventually, the sun wore me down. I ducked into The Sink—an iconic Boulder watering hole. Cool, shaded, humming with old stories—and offering the kind of cold beer that makes a hot day worth it.

I sat alone at the bar, sipping quietly, wearing my Army veteran hat like I always do. I watched a little TV over the bar, kept an eye on the time, and waited to pick up my wife.

“Thank you for your service,” he said.

I looked up. A couple, a few stools down had noticed the hat, and he had made the comment.

“Appreciate that,” I replied. “It was my honor, and it is nice to get out and see the country I served". "It’s been a while since I was in Boulder… but these mountains—still something special.”

That opened the floodgates. They both slid down a couple stools, he on one side of me, she on the other, and started talking.

They’d just moved back to Boulder after living in Queenstown, New Zealand. “The mountains there,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe. Like something out of a dream.”

He was athletic, clearly more alive outdoors than in—"grew up here in Boulder, in the mountains, in the great outdoors" he said, all his family still nearby.

She was warm, polite, with that unmistakable Midwestern aura—"Chicago, she said. Working-class family. First one to graduate college". You could tell she was proud of that.

It wasn’t really a dialogue between the three of us—more of a duet with them talking to me. I just listened, ping ponging back and forth, pint of Guinness in hand.

Their story unraveled in sips and sentences. They’d made the leap to Queenstown chasing his dream. He’d been fixated on it since he was a teen—read about it once and couldn’t let go. Said: "he belonged there".

She’d come to Boulder for a geology job and met him after crashing her mountain bike in front of him. The rest of the love story was history.

They married, both had good jobs here in Colorado and were building a life. But his dream kept pulling him, and she wanted to support his dreams.

So, she started applying for work in New Zealand, more to humor him than anything else. Never thinking a job offer would actually come. (She didn't say those exact words, but her meaning was quite clear)

Then surprise! She got an offer—doing what she was already doing, but for less money.

She would be taking a pay cut, and he didn’t have sponsorship to work there. But he figured something would come through, it would all work out.

After all, this was "the dream", "his dream".

Despite her concerns—and some from his family—they packed up and left, moving halfway across the world to a place they hadn't been to before.

That’s when the story split as they were telling their pieces of it: from romantic mountain vistas from him. To cracks in the dream starting to show from her.

He kept talking about Queenstown—how spectacular it was, how incredible the trails were, the vistas, the lakes, the adrenaline sports, the quiet wilderness. The rugged mountains that invited adventure.

And I just sat and listened.

But in my head?

I was thinking: What the hell are you talking about, man?

I was thinking: You grew up in Boulder. Estes Park is 30 minutes away. The entire Eastern Range is right outside this door.

Are you telling me that this—this town, this state, this range—isn’t enough? You flew across the world chasing something you already have in spades?

Meanwhile, in my other ear, she talked about the reality.

Rent was high—especially with his “needs”: for space, and views, and a yard for his aging dog, and extra rooms for all the people that will surely come and visit, and an office of course.

She biked to work. OK in the Summer, but as it always does, Summer gave way to Winter. Not OK...

He found only part-time retail work during tourist season, not enough to refill the coffers.

Their savings vanished faster than expected. Utilities in the winter were brutal.

Eventually reality won, they came back—back to Colorado, back to family.

She told this part softly. Not bitter—but the weight of it lingered.

In my other ear he pivoted back to the dream. Talked about going back someday. About reaching those mountains again, the adventure, the....... I was looking at him, paying attention. Then he looked at me—really looked. And I think my face said it all.

I didn’t speak. But something in my expression must have whispered: Brother… what you say you’re searching for, you already have.

Or maybe it was a clear "WTF" are you talking about look, I am not certain. But let's go with the first one.

He got quiet after that. Just sipped his beer and stared into the distance—maybe still in Queenstown, still chasing mountains, hiking the trails.

Said he was getting another drink, then quietly moved back to the spot at the bar where they’d been sitting originally.

She lingered a moment. Gave me a small smile, and a quick touch on the shoulder.

“Thank you for the conversation.”

“Happy to lend an ear,” I said.

She stepped away, adding a soft “Good luck” as she walked back down the bar and rejoined him. There they sat quietly having a drink, looking at nothing in particular.

And I sat there thinking: She’s back in Colorado and sad she couldn't give him his dream. He’s still wishing he was in Queenstown sad about his dream, not thinking about her dreams.

What struck me wasn’t just the story—it was the mismatch.

He was still dreaming. She was carrying the weight of reality. One reaching higher, the other already scanning for solid ground.

They were kind people. Smart. Sincere. Obviously in love.

But not all relationships crack or break. Some just wear down—under the quiet friction of unshared realities. Different destinations of the mind and heart.

Fifteen minutes over a beer. But it stayed with me.

Maybe because it felt so familiar.

We’ve all seen that couple—one chasing something, the other carrying everything.

And sometimes, that’s all it takes for a detour to become an ending.

Later that night in the hotel, I told my wife what had happened. Told her my thoughts on it, what made me sad about it all.

She listened, shook her head and said quietly, “So sad. Let’s pray for them.”

Sometimes… that’s all we can do - pray.

Well, pray, and dream.

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