Four Stops in the City: A Postcard, a Palace, and a Station at Night
Union Station After Dark
So there I was, ending up at Denver’s Union Station after dark—Mostly unplanned, which, let’s be honest, is how the best stuff usually happens. The old Beaux-Arts building was lit up in soft red and green, like it was either getting ready for the holidays or just showing off for the night. That iconic “Travel by Train” sign still crowns the roof like a neon crown—kind of like the city’s way of saying, Welcome, you’re here.
Union Station’s been Denver’s front door since 1881, surviving a fire in 1894 and a bunch of makeovers since, but it’s never lost its soul.
Inside, it’s quiet. The great hall feels like a cathedral for people going places, with massive chandeliers and tall arched windows letting in whatever night light there is. Shops and cafés are closed up, but the marble floors still shine, and the wooden benches hold a few scattered souls charging phones or just soaking it in. Even empty, the place hums with history. You almost expect to hear a conductor’s whistle echoing off the rafters.
Outside, the vibe flips. A couple of guys strum guitars near the entrance, their chords drifting into the warm night air. A saxophone player leans into a slow, smooth tune while his dog lounges nearby, half asleep, half on guard. It feels less like a city center and more like a stage where something old and something alive meet under the stars.
No rush. No agenda. Just one of those moments that makes you stop and really look around.
The Oxford Hotel
Just a quick stroll from Union Station, tucked in the heart of LoDo, sits another Denver treasure—the Oxford Hotel. If Union Station is the grand front door, the Oxford’s the cozy drawing room, intimate and full of character.
Built in 1891, it’s Denver’s oldest hotel still in operation. It’s watched the city grow from dusty cowtown to modern skyline and never lost its style. You feel that the second you walk in.
The lobby’s not sprawling or flashy by today’s standards, but man—it feels grand. Maybe it’s the soft glow of the chandeliers, the rich wood paneling, or those old architectural details that whisper stories of a hundred years. It’s not trying to impress. It just is impressive.
The Oxford mixes Victorian bones with early 20th-century Art Deco flair—brass accents, marble finishes, rich fabrics—reminders that craftsmanship used to matter. You can picture writers with whiskey breath checking in under fake names, or railroad men in crisp uniforms grabbing a quick drink before the next train west.
Speaking of drinks, the Oxford’s got The Cruise Room—a legendary bar that opened the day after Prohibition ended.(wink wink allegedly) It’s a single, windowless lounge modeled after a room on the ocean liner RMS Queen Mary. Denver architect Charles Jaka designed it, with stunning Art Deco bas-relief panels from local artist Alley Henson, each showing a “toast” from cultures around the world. The lighting? Imagine red lights glowing over chrome trim and soft pumpkin-colored walls—a weird but glamorous vibe that somehow feels like home.
And you can’t miss all the canary's in the lobby. they are a nod to the miners who stayed here and used canaries to sniff out danger—real “canaries in a coal mine.” It’s a little detail that ties the Oxford’s elegance back to the city’s rough-and-tumble roots.
Even if you’re not staying the night, the Oxford invites you to slow down, look around, and soak in a kind of luxury built on stories, craftsmanship, and decades of footsteps echoing on the floors.
Standing there, it’s easy to forget what year it is. And maybe that’s the point.
The Postcard Panic
If you’ve been hanging around here for a while, you probably know one thing about me—I’m a sucker for postcards. Sending them, collecting them, the whole retro vibe. They’re little pieces of a slower, more thoughtful time when you actually had to put pen to paper.
The kids like getting them. Jamie digs them. My mom looks forward to them. Even my sister gets a kick out of finding one in the mail. They’re tiny moments in a world drowning in digital noise.
But here’s the kicker—I never remember to buy the postcard as soon as I land.
This trip, I actually tried. Landed in Colorado Springs all set to grab some postcards, and guess what? Nada. Not a single rack at the airport. Not even a sad, dog-eared one by the gum and neck pillows. So I shrugged it off and got distracted by everything else.
Then, about three-quarters into the trip, the familiar panic hit: Oh crap, I need postcards.
I hit up three places that didn’t have any. Convenience stores, gas stations, some weird boutique that sold only beard oil and incense. I was sweating it.
But then I lucked out. Google gave me an address
And just like that, I found myself wandering through Denver’s Highland neighborhood—and it hit different. No pretension, no show. Just life.
Old Victorian houses with turrets and wildflower gardens pushing through iron fences. New townhomes leaning into the scene like the city was layering time instead of erasing it. Color everywhere—murals wrapping buildings, chalk messages on sidewalks, painted bikes chained to posts. It felt like the kind of place where people still write poems and know their barista’s name.
Highland smells like fresh bread, coffee, and something green and alive. Kids on scooters zip by. A dad in flip-flops pushes a stroller while sipping something fizzy from a mason jar. Not perfect. Just real. And that’s perfect enough.
Tucked in that vibe was Workshop Paperie—a shop that felt like it had been waiting just for me.
Open, friendly, with people coming and going like they all belonged there. The air smelled like paper, ink, and something calm. And the postcards? The real deal. Thick cardstock, bold designs, some with that classic “Greetings From…” look like the Asbury Park album cover. Not tourist junk. Cards that mean something. Cards that say, “I was thinking of you from a place with soul.”
Crisis averted.
Maybe that’s why I still send postcards. Because those moments force me to slow down, to think of someone else, to put real words in real handwriting and send a slice of a trip across the miles.
In a world that’s speeding up, maybe postcards are my little act of rebellion—a way to say: I was here. And I remembered you.
Wandering the Brown Palace
The Brown Palace doesn’t shout. It doesn’t have to. Built in 1892 on a triangular plot that used to be a cow pasture, it rises from the corner like it’s always belonged, carved from sandstone and red granite, shaped not by a grid but by stubborn elegance.
Inside, the atrium opens like a hidden cathedral. An eight-story stained-glass ceiling glows softly over open hallways and cast-iron railings circling each floor with quiet authority. An enormous American flag hangs from the top, suspended in stillness like a relic of another time.
While I was there, a guy sat at a baby grand tucked into one corner, playing softly. No grand show—just calm melodies drifting through the air. Around him, people dined, laughed, clinked glasses, made quiet memories. The music tied it all together, a thread from past to present.
I wandered past Ellyngton’s, peeked into the Palace Arms with heavy drapes and a formal air, then moved through the Churchill Bar—a dark, handsome room that smells faintly of leather and cigars even if no one’s smoking. The Ship Tavern, tucked away like a sailor’s hideout, felt like the kind of place you could disappear into for hours with a prime rib sandwich and a whiskey neat.
By the elevators, I paused. The mural by Alan Tupper True is breathtaking. Nothing flashy, but just right. That’s the Brown. Not loud, not sprawling—perfectly placed, perfectly aged, carrying itself like the most important guest hasn’t arrived yet... but will.
Why I Wander
Four places, Four vibes, and all unforgettable.
Union Station glowing like a jewel at night reminded me transit can feel like a cathedral. The Oxford Hotel pulled me inside with stories, Art Deco charm, and a canary or two keeping watch—proof that history lives in details, even the small ones. Highland wrapped me in color and soul, the real city hiding beneath the surface. The Brown Palace stood steady, grand, and welcoming, like a friend you can always count on.
None of this was really well planned out. I was just chasing postcards, trying to fill a tiny space with a few real words. But the deeper I wandered, the more I realized travel isn’t about ticking boxes or snapping selfies. It’s about walking into the unexpected and letting it change you.
A baby grand’s melody floats through a lobby. A saxophone cries into the night. You run your hand over a century-old railing or stumble into a shop smelling of ink and fresh paper. You remember what it means to be present.
This isn’t sightseeing. It’s soul-searching. It’s finding beauty when you’re not even looking. Walking past noise and rush and letting the city tell you its story.
That’s why I wander—not to escape, but to remember.
That the world still holds wonder.
That small things still matter.
And sometimes, the ordinary detour becomes the part you carry home forever
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