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Show Ten O'ClocIc Whistle by David Flelsher I just returned from a family visit to the southland, the REAL southland Georgia. It turned out to be a pleasant trip with a lot of my time being spent either on the golf course or reading various local newspapers (I always like to check out the competition. The Atlanta Constitution is not a bad paper. It has a larger classified section than the Record, but we have something they'll never have Park City). My putting has not measurably improved, but my nine iron shots are becoming at least respectable. Anyway, I met a fellow traveler on the plane on the way to Denver. He said he was considering visiting Park City and wanted to know more about people, places and things in town. I assume he was trying to decide if it was worth coming here to spend his vacation. It seemed important at the time to give this guy a mini tour guide of Park City as we flew high above the clouds somewhere over Colorado. "What's there to do at night?" he asked. "Well, on Wednesday night, you've got your planning commission meeting in the Treasure Mountain Inn located at the top of historic Main Street," I replied. "I don't think me and my family would want to go to a planning commission meeting," John said. "Well, on Thursday night, you've . got your City Council meeting," I said. "I doubt if my wife, Bertha, would want to spend an evening at a City Council meeting," he said. "And anyway, we only have a week for our vacation." "But Council meetings can be very exciting sometimes, especially if they're going to vote on a proposed development in town. If you're lucky, a brawl will erupt between a developer and one of the council members," I said. "What else is there to do in Park City?" asked John. "The Park City School Board meets once a month on Tuesday night in the brand new Park City High School," I said, "but you'd better take a soft cushion with you because the meetings are at times very long." "I don't think the children would enjoy a school board meeting," he said. "Do you like to eat out at different restaurants?" I asked. "The only type of food me and my family like is Chinese food," he answered. "At the turn of the century, and even later, Park City was blessed an abundance of Chinese food," I said. "Now, we have just about every other kind of restaurant, but no Chinese." "How can a town not have a Chinese restaurant?" John asked. "I don't know. It's really a shame, isn't it?" I said. "Where's the closest Chinese restaurant?" he asked. "Salt Lake," I answered. "How far is Salt Lake from Park City?" he asked. "It'll take you about a half an hour to get an egg roll," I said. "That's too long," he responded. "We only have a week." "Do you like to ski?" "Yes, the whole family skis," John smiled. "Well, you could ski everyday. W.e have great skiing in Park City," I said. "But I wanted to know what to do at night," he insisted. "You could go skiing at night. We have lights on the ski hill," I offered. "But I don't want to go skiing at night!" said John, raising his voice a little. "Then you could go to one of Park City's private clubs. And if you're lucky, maybe you'll run into a member of Utah's liquor commission getting totally smashed on tomato juice with a twist of a banana peel," I said. "What's the difference between a private club and a regular bar?" John wanted to know. "You can drink in a private club only if you're a member or if you're with someone who is a member, like a friend," I explained. "But I don't know anybody in Park City," he said. "Then go to a bar," I said. "I don't want to take my family to a bar!" John screamed, provoking an old lady who was busy knitting across the aisle to stare at us. "What do you like to do besides ski?" I inquired quietly. "I'm asking you what I should do in Park City. So tell me," John demanded. "But I am telling you. On Wednesday night, you've got your planning commission meeting..." John got up from his seat and walked in a breezy fashion to the front of the airplane, mumbling cuss words to himself. As the-plane landed in Denver, the old woman looked up from her knitting and said to me, "Don't ya just hate it when strangers, perfect strangers, pester ya with a thousand questions and expect the right answers all the I time?" After a half an hour lay-over in Denver, I took off on another plane and waited anxiously to hear something I forgot to tell John about: The Ten O'CIock Whistle.. . .' , ,',V y, |