We strolled Pearl Street in Boulder.

There were buskers of all kinds:
a trio of strings, three women playing a cello, eukelele, and a guitar;
balloon artists;
a harpist;
a fire-eating contortionist;
and my favorite:
poets set up with their typewriters,
promising to write poetry while you wait.

We ate ice cream cones.
We visited the toy store.
I visited an Indian clothing shop, inside which I am always gaga over their colorful and wispy dresses, scarves and skirts.

We strolled past the City Hall, with its sprawling green lawn.  My kids spotted a father/son game of catch, and they asked if they could join in.

(Could we just take a moment to acknowledge their confidence?  I love this about them.  Respectful of a no, but hopeful for a yes.  Never hurts to ask.)

Before long, the pickup game of catch became a full-fledge, honest to goodness, baseball game – complete with co-ed teams and innings.

(It contained everything but a score.)

People joined the game as they strolled past, and children took their turns to pitch, catch, bat, and play the infield or the outfield.

A couple lounged in the grass; she lay back against him, her head against his chest and her cowboy boots resting nearby. They cheered for children they didn’t know and caught grounders within arm’s reach.

It was all things charming, all things Boulder on a sunny afternoon.

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