Colorado Springs neighborhood Spotlight: The Broadmoor baguette
The grocery store line was moving slower than molasses uphill in January. I had a frozen pizza and a six-pack of something claiming to be seasonal, probably spiced to taste like gingerbread regret. In front of me was a woman who looked like she’d effortlessly wandered off the set of a Nancy Meyers film. She was carrying one of those woven market baskets that practically screamed, “I don’t shop here often, but when I do, I win.”
She caught me looking at her basket and grinned. “It’s the last decent baguette of the day,” she said, lifting it like a prized trophy. “I got lucky.”
“Ah, the elusive perfect baguette,” I said, nodding. “That’s worth standing in line for. I’d probably fight someone over it.”
She laughed, light but confident, the kind of laugh that said she wasn’t here for frozen pizzas. “I’m pairing it with a cheese plate. A proper one. Broadmoor parties demand it.”
“Broadmoor?” I asked, perking up like a tourist who’d just heard a local secret. “What’s it like living there? It’s the neighborhood everyone’s mentioned since I got to town.”
“Oh, are you visiting?” she asked, curious but polite.
“Yeah,” I said vaguely, not committing to more than that. “Passing through. Everyone keeps saying Broadmoor’s the jewel of Colorado Springs.”
She smiled, tilting her head. “It is lovely, I’ll admit. Gorgeous views, quiet streets, and neighbors who’ll lend you a cup of sugar and their best chocolate chip cookie recipe.”
“Sounds dreamy,” I said. “But… there’s a catch, right? Something like an HOA that fines you for sneezing too loudly?”
She chuckled. “Well, you’re not wrong. The HOA can be… involved. They care a lot about appearances. Forget to take in your trash bins? They’ll remind you. Want to try out some avant-garde landscaping? You’ll get a visit. But it’s part of what keeps the neighborhood so nice.”
“Sounds intense,” I said, half-laughing. “Is there at least room for regular folks to live their lives, or do you all need to carry baguettes as proof of residency?”
Her grin widened. “It’s not as fussy as it seems. The people are kind, genuinely. They care about their community, and the Broadmoor Hotel gives everything this sort of magical, old-world charm. It’s like stepping into a postcard most days.”
“Postcards are nice,” I said. “But what’s the vibe? Like, really. Are we talking wine tastings and silent auctions, or is it joggers and kids on bikes?”
“A little of both,” she said. “We’ve got the wine tastings—of course—but also potlucks and charity car washes. And yes, the kids ride their bikes everywhere, even to school. There’s something wholesome about it, even if the homes have names like Whispering Pines Manor or The Gilded Summit.”
“Whispering Pines Manor!” I said, laughing. “Do you get your mail delivered by a butler on horseback?”
“Not yet,” she said, winking. “But I’ll suggest it at the next HOA meeting.”
The line shuffled forward, and she placed her baguette and organic wine on the conveyor belt. “What about you? Where’s home?”
“Oh, you know,” I said, waving a hand vaguely. “Not here. Somewhere less… baguette-friendly.”
“Well,” she said, grabbing her receipt and basket, “wherever it is, I hope you find a neighborhood as lovely as Broadmoor. But if you move here, bring a cheese plate. It’s a Broadmoor rule.”
She gave me a smile and walked out the door, leaving me to ponder a life of baguettes, cheese plates, and HOA regulations while I clutched my frozen pizza and wondered if seasonal beer could make me classy.
