Capitol reluctantly awakens

J. Patrick Coolican, Las Vegas Sun

Sunday, Feb. 4, 2007 | 7:46 a.m.

E very cup of coffee at Java Joe's here tastes a little different than the one before.

No quality control overlord like in the Pacific Northwest to make sure Adam Whitney serves the same cup. That makes Java Joe's, near Nevada's grand, Victorian-style Capitol building on Carson Street, feel a little unrecognizable to a visitor from the assembly-line hospitality of Las Vegas.

The local tattoo artist painted the wall mural, a pleasing reproduction of "The Creation of Adam," perhaps a nod to Whitney, who's worked at Java Joe's for seven years. Whitney knows all his customers' names. He is starring in a community production of "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown" next month.

There's no Cirque in Carson.

Java Joe's catered an event recently for a group of public officials from Southern Nevada, and "They were snobby and very Vegas and didn't want to be here," he said.

The feeling is mutual, as lobbyists and legislators often snicker about Carson City and the Friday race to the Reno airport.

The juxtaposition is stark and awkward as legislators and many times more lobbyists invade the quiet of Carson City every other year: Las Vegas legislators, so steeped in growth and glamour, in the new and the fashionable, living part time in a small city with history and a love of community and stability.

"You go to the grocery store, and it takes three hours because you talk to everybody you know," Karen Crawford, who works at St. Teresa of Avila Church, says of her city's charm. Churches here work under the umbrella of FISH, or Friends in Service Helping; they assisted 500 families this past Christmas.

In the old part of the city, the streets are narrow, the traffic ambles and the sidewalks invite walking and looking. Many of the yards are fronted with - no kidding - white picket fences. The snow-capped Sierra Nevada stand regally above town.

"I'll tell you, I know my mailman by name, and if a piece of mail comes into the post office that just says, 'Ande Engleman,' on it, I'll get it," says Ande Engleman, who's lived in Carson City for decades and is first lady Dawn Gibbons' chief of staff. Engleman works at the Governor's Mansion, which is little more than a fine and approachable, albeit large house. In fact, the Capitol and the Legislature Building are largely open and free of the metal detectors and other security measures that can stultify faith in open government.

Still, there's no escaping the war. On the sidewalk in front of the Legislature, a handful of protesters against an escalation of the Iraq war wave their signs and cars honk their horns.

Engleman recalls when someone tried to open an adult movie theater. They were run out of town.

The city does have its secrets, Engleman says, but the townsfolk guard them to protect their neighbors' privacy, even if the neighbor is sometimes an elected official.

There's some consternation that the city's growth from about 10,000 in the 1960s to 60,000 now, as well the ever-widening influence of Las Vegas, will corrupt the town's friendly and wise character.

"I do worry," Crawford says. "It's bigger than I'd hoped it would be," she says, before adding, "If you don't grow, you die, so, you know," before her voice trails off.

Although change and growth are inevitable, Carson City has taken steps to manage it with another step unthinkable in Las Vegas - a growth-management ordinance.

There are many legislators in Southern Nevada who talk a lot about building a different kind of Las Vegas, a place where neighbors know one another and people stroll a street other than the Strip, a place where people are as important as developers. They should soak up Carson City, which has much to teach about these civic virtues.

"We grow within our means. Imagine. Novel concept," says Charlie Abowd, the head chef and owner, with his wife, of Adele's, the city's well-known restaurant and watering hole.

With the Legislature about to begin its deliberation, the parking lot is filled with Range Rovers, Porsches, Lexuses - likely the cars of lobbyists. The most popular drink at Adele's right now is the pomegranate martini, perhaps an indication that Vegas has crept up to Carson City.

Although the session is good for business, giving Adele's about a 10 percent uptick, Abowd says he also loses some regulars. Indeed, the locals say they don't try going out to dinner during the session.

Abowd expresses admiration for lawmakers who give up a few months of their lives every couple years to try to move Nevada in the right direction.

"It's too bad that everyone thinks the legislators all have a hand out for some baksheesh. I think most of the legislators are doing the best they can, and I don't think they're opinion is going to be swayed by a dinner at Adele's."

Adele's is where lobbyists socialize with lobbyists these days, he says. Legislators favor other haunts. Red's is a barbecue joint with the kind of drinks that led one patron - not a legislator - to tumble off a stool around 8 p.m. Then there's the Cigar Bar, a narrow, intimate joint of witty banter. It's where Adam Whitney can rub elbows with Sen. Bob Beers.

For all its charm, Carson City is no utopia. Across from the Legislature at the rundown St. Charles Hotel, which is a fine old Western building in need of renovation, a sign reads, "Linda Seeley is not allowed in this hotel." The place has the feel of a brisk methamphetamine trade.

Still, as Crawford said of her father's first view of the Carson Valley, "When he came over that hill, he said, 'This is it.' "