This week’s column was guest-written by the crotchety Park City Mountain graybeard who cut me off on Home Run and told me to go back to the bunny hill. He wasn’t born here. But trust me. He’s been here longer than you.

Welcome to Park City. But not the one in that New York Times article you might’ve seen last week. This is “36 hours in Park City,” by someone who’s lived here since lift tickets were printed on paper with a piece of string. Back when ski patrol smoked Marlboros from Earl’s. I don’t care what your concierge said, or that skinny blonde Gwyneth what’s-her-name recommended — though I do wish her well. And don’t even think about getting first chair.

Friday, 3 p.m. Getting There

You’re just getting into town now?! You already missed the reason you supposedly came in the first place. But go right ahead and drop your gear at that slopeside rental your cousin booked online. You know, the one with “Swiss chalet charm” and zero parking. Locals are already three Johnny’s deep at the Pig Pen, where the fries are loaded, the pitchers of IPA are cold and everybody knows you have to go to the parking garage to find the restroom.

6:47 p.m. Gridlock Gratitude

You’re jammed in the back of a Toyota Camry on Park Avenue, crawling toward your 6:15 dinner reservation at Le Depot. The driver explains that it could be worse — it could be Sundance. Looking at Google Maps, you see you’re only a block away from the restaurant. Sure, you could walk, but I’m betting my last Buddy Pass those fancy designer snow boots probably aren’t broken in yet. If only your driver could get beyond the delivery van that’s been double-parked in front of Shucks since Tuesday.

It’s all moot anyway since the hostess gave your table to a group of cosmetic dentists from Scottsdale who bribed their way in with a bottle of Veuve they found in the liquor cabinet of their rental at The Chateaux. You’ll end up at a taco joint at the top of Main with an hour-and-a-half wait and $22 margaritas.

Saturday, 7:59 a.m. Heated Rivalry

You roll up early, thinking you’ve got a shot at first chair. Rookie mistake. There’s a big red sign that says LIFT CLOSED and behind it is a group of locals who’ve already been there for 40 minutes. I’m the one on the far right. We don’t talk much. We just lean on our poles, avoid eye contact with anyone behind us and don’t put on our skis until we’re good and ready.

You stand in an open spot next to the red sign, grinning like a goddam golden retriever. Congratulations. You’ve now broken the one unspoken rule. You. Do not. Block. The Sign. The last guy who tried that got “accidentally” bumped off the side of the Payday chair into a crash mat.

Later, you ride the lift up with three fin-bro snowboarders from Florida. They’re chugging mini bottles of Fireball and ripping a weed pen when one of them points down at the snow-covered trail — the one that was brown dirt 24 hours ago — and yells, “This sucks!”

You ask when they got in. “Last night,” they reply — clueless to the fact that the same trail was basically good to go for mountain biking yesterday morning. “We shoulda gone to Breck,” one says, and you silently pray they do.

8:30 p.m. The Hat Incident

After a long day of skiing and shopping on Main, you have high hopes to unwind in the hot tub at your chalet — a two-bedroom VRBO next to a dumpster. But then it hits you. You left your Kemo Sabe cowboy hat in the Uber.

The one you bought that afternoon after a $750 lunch at High West. The one the guy at the shop said made you “look just like a local.” The one you wore outside No Name for an Instagram selfie captioned “#wokeuplikethis” and “#apresandroseallday.”

You spend the next hour frantically refreshing your Uber app and messaging your driver: “Zachary, please! I don’t know who I am without that hat!”

Meanwhile, the hot tub is full of your cousin’s friends, two bachelorettes they picked up at The Spur and a guy named Tyler who keeps screaming, “Park City, motherf*****s!!”

Don’t be sad. You can always try KPCW’s Lost and Found report in the morning. Though my best guess is that hat is bellied up to the bar at The Notch with a plate of fried pickles and a shot of Jim Beam.

Sunday, 11 a.m. Naur Way

You heard Five5eeds was the spot for brunch. “Elevated,” “Australian-inspired,” “Not to be missed.” Well, I can personally vouch for that from the one shoulder season three years ago that I got a table there. But unless you joined the waitlist in November, you’re not getting in. Which is why most locals don’t do brunch in Park City. We attempt brunch. And then we go home to raid the fridge for a bacon-and-egg sammy on a hunk of crack bread.

If You Go

Don’t forget your cowboy hat. That way, we’ll know you’re just visiting. Don’t bother trying for first chair. We already got that covered. And hey, thanks for coming. Really. We give you a hard time, but we all know you’re part of what keeps this town running. Just don’t forget to go back to wherever you came from. Don’t stay forever … like we did.