In 2014, I took a road trip to map a blueprint for my novel Motional Blur (Skyhorse, 2016).
I took Piker along as a model for my first-person protagonist.
I’d never been to Boise and did not expect much more than a convenient overnight stopover. But I was pleasantly surprised by what a generally clean, safe, friendly and wholesome city Boise is. (Again, the secret to happiness is low expectations.) This, from someone who generally loathes large US cities due to their ongoing decline under so-called “progressive” management.
Here is the nonfiction version of that visit.
The Big Sky scenery of Montana gets even better when we cross into eastern Idaho.
I slap The Best of Dion and the Belmonts into the CD player. Piker groans, scribbles into a composition book he’s brought along, informs me I’ve been reprimanded (again) for such music.
Rule of the Road: Whoever pays for gas chooses the tunes.
And then we approach Bliss, Idaho, where we ramp off, possibly for a photo op, but discover we cannot ramp on again due to an entry ramp closure.
“You know what the lesson is here?” I tell Piker.
Piker shakes his head.
“Never trust bliss.”
In times of happiness, don’t despair, misery is just around the corner.
Sure enough, misery finds Piker when he discovers toothpaste on everything inside his travel bag, extending to his immediate surroundings in the front passenger seat.
This leads to another road rule after he admits the tube went into his bag without a cap: If you can’t cap it, lose it.
Boise’s skyline from the highway quickly absorbs us into The Grove Hotel.
Around the corner, North Eighth Street, turns out to be more vibrant and artsy than I ever might have imagined about the capital of Idaho.
A cool wine bar and a creative jeweler named Robert Grey Kaylor, who has a line called REAL STEEL: Fine jewelry crafted out of old railroad nails. I’m drawn to a pin and almost buy it, but decide I need to complete my novel first, maybe buy it as gift to myself upon finishing. As in, Nailed it!
Further on, I happen upon a studio belonging to Tony Caprai, a painter of expressionistic nocturnes.
As usual, I wander about to scout a bar for a libation come cocktail hour and a restaurant in which to dine.
The hotel concierge recommends Lucky Fins Seafood Grill, but its appearance is tacky and suggestive of fast food, with a menu to match. So my search continues, past Ruth’s Chris, a possible fallback, but soon the right place pops: Juniper, which as its name suggests, celebrates gin.
Boise, it transpires, is everything Butte, Montana is not: Alive.
As for the people who inhabit this city: Very friendly. Even beggars (of which there are few) are exceptionally polite.
Be Bold in Boise is the slogan, emblazoned on tee-shirts and baseball caps in the official University of Idaho store.
From beat-up Butte to bold Boise, feeling buoyant.
My choice at Juniper is Junipero, an astonishingly good gin.
Perpetually piggish Piker moves straight for bison meatballs. I raise an eyebrow, Can’t we aperitif first?
No sense of decorum, he. “Hey, at least it’s indigenous.”
I am too content to further object.
The ambience inside Juniper is joyful. Boise’s young women are feminine and friendly; bohemian hipsters and colorful characters abound.
After stuffing himself stupid, Piker’s calorie intake requires a hike, and I concur he should take one, leave me in peace to savor Planet Oregon pinot noir.
My own exercise, afterwards: A leisurely walk around Boise’s Capitol.
Unlike the U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C., there is no security, no paranoia—and I have a sense that this building is not inhabited by mostly corrupt and useless politicians accompanied by a bevy of spin-doctors, lobbyists and their corporate benefactors.
If Butte caused me to lose faith in America, Boise helps restore it.
Even the modern architecture is better than I’ve seen elsewhere, contrasted side-by-side with preserved historic landmark buildings, an eye-pleasing mélange of old and new.
The city’s dive bars have their own neighborhood. This is where the dregs congregate, including beggars. I hand out dollar bills to a war veteran and a single mother-of-three (so their placards proclaim) before decamping to a wine bar called Bodovino, situated in the artsy Bodo neighborhood I’d scouted upon arrival.
Piker finds me here and begins making friends with the pretty young things pouring wine: Stephanie and Alexa. They tell us that liberal Boise is completely different from the rest of Idaho, which is very conservative and largely Mormon.
Next morning, Goldie’s Breakfast Bistro up the boulevard serves a fine mug of coffee, and we’re on the road again, if sorry to leave Boise—who would’ve known?