I am lucky enough to write for a wine blog on topics ranging from food to wine to travel. Here’s a post about wine and how we select a varietal.
Where do I want to go
I want to hike Mount Kilamanjaro and then sit on the beach in Zanzibar.
I’d like to trek in Nepal and come back looking at my world with unfamiliar eyes.
I would like to be able to fly, quietly, like Superman or Santa around the high rises downtown and look into the windows and the lives of the people who live in the sky. I want to see what they do, how they live.
I’d like to go where people who die go, just for a little bit. I’d like to talk to my Nana and Grandpa, and my big brother.
I’d like to go to Italy, travel light through the cities and towns with no schedule.
Often times I only want to go to the sofa, with my big comfy blanket, so I can sit and watch stupid TV for hours on end and not talk to anyone.
The lines
She’d had a boyfriend who wouldn’t walk on the lines on the sidewalks. It made for very interesting experiences. He was especially terrified of the grates. He was big and hulky and hot, the line and grate thing humanized him.
She babysat a friends kid awhile back. They colored and his little, earnest hands gripped his crayon so tight his fingers went white. He was concentrating so hard, trying to stay in the lines of the Sponge Bob figure. It took some of the joy out of coloring.
She flew Southwest Airlines. Before they set up the new numbered system she used to watch the lines with amusement and surprise. People were so fascinating, she thought. Here were grown men pushing children, women, anyone to get to the front of the A or B lines. She flew with SWA often enough to know that as long as you were somewhere in the B line you’d be ok with carryon, C it was a crap shoot. Each time she flew she was amazed at the behavior that would emerge in people, panicked to get in the spot they wanted.
She regularly drove up to wine country. As she made the transition from urban downtown to country, she marveled at the beauty. It was striking to her, but didn’t resonate like the lines of the tall skyscrapers near her house, or the swoop of the cables on the bridge. But as she drove, she looked at the rows and rows of grapevines, some straighter than others, and wondered at what an art form this type of agriculture and farming is. She had heard someone explain that one of the well-known wine makers in the area was meticulous about his vineyards. They were immaculately groomed, set in perfectly straight lines. This was part of his art, vineyards cared for like small children until they grew and gave up their fruit to people picking it by hand, and taking it on the journey to make a great wine.
She herself disliked lines. She stepped on them, colored outside of them, stood in them grudgingly. But as she’d seen and gone more places in the world, and expanded her perspective, she’d realized there was a purpose to structure and order. Sometimes the purpose was liberating, other times restricting.
It’s raining
It’s really coming down. Now this is real rain, she thinks as she runs through puddles and dodges the spray the cars send off. The rain is cold and coming down with a purpose, heavy and dark. Not like the rain she was used to growing up in Southern California. But then nothing seemed as real down there.
She ran the short block between her and the bar where her friends were waiting. It had been a long week. Long meetings, hectic days, and intense office politics. She was ready for that vodka martini and she was only moments away from it and some great unwind time with her friends. And, with any luck, a little fun with whatever handsome men may be in the bar.
As soon as she walked in the bar she made her way to the bathroom, trying to make the best of her fine hair that never did well with recovering from the rain. She put herself together and strode confidently into the room to look for Mercy. She spotted her 6′ tall, blond friend immediately. As she approached Mercy held up a full martini, “Hi, here you go sweetie. Let’s toast to another week of kicking ass. And to our new friends,” she said as she turned to a few handsome men in suits. She went around the group and introduced me to each of them, they were already a few drinks in, that was clear. She was intent on catching up.
She’d met Mercy, of all places, in a pole dancing class. The breakup she’d had two years ago with Alex had left her listless and without her usual feeling of strength. The drawn out breakup had done a number on her. She was telling her waxing girl about it one day when she said, “I know exactly what you need” and brought out a pair of stripper shoes. I was confused. Picking up stripping at 32 didn’t seem like it was the road to empowerment. “Pole dancing classes. They are so fun and confidence building. You’ll get your mojo back and get a great workout.”
Always up for a new adventure, she signed up. Her waxing girl was right. It was a blast, and slightly terrifying to bare yourself like that to strangers. It was all about shutting down the mind and dropping into the body. Yeah, she was excellent at that. But after two years, she found a new resolve, a new confidence and some very fun and bold friends.
I never looked back
“I just don’t know,” he said. She felt sick. How many times had they had this conversation?
They sat at the top of Dolores Park on a sunny afternoon. They had come to relax but the mood was heavy. “I wish I did but I’m just not sure if this is right. I can tell you’re the best woman I have ever met but I don’t know if this relationship is right for me.
She felt a combination of fury and panic rise up in her. The panic won. She felt that she was being left, that she was not good enough, that this man who she loved so much was not as captivated by her as she by him. She looked at the gorgeous San Francisco skyline, thinking that she didn’t know if she had it in her, to have this conversation again. To try to convince him again. To then move on like all was fine.
They packed up their blankets and walked to the car. She got behind the wheel but did not start the Honda. He looked at her with sadness in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, I wish I could be different for you. I love you so much, we’ll work this out. I just wish I was sure about where this is going.”
“You know what? That’s OK, because I am sure,” she said. “This is over. I do know I and I know that I don’t want more of this.” She turned on the car while he sat in silence, stunned. They drove back to her apartment, where they sat on the sofa. Oddly, since she’d made her unexpected choice in the car, she felt a little more peaceful. Still, goodbyes were not easy.
They sat on the sofa; she told him again it was over. He seemed reluctant. They hugged and then she asked him to leave.
In the days and weeks that followed she felt miserable. She’d loved his spirit, his out of the box way of thinking and living. She had not loved that he criticized her for eating the whole carton of yogurt in the morning, “Do you really need all of that?” she can recall him saying. She did not love that he regularly did recreational drugs or that he hung out with a crowd that spent entire evenings high, pontificating on the benefits of Polygamy. Seriously? But still, this breakup stung. Except in one way. In one way it was different than the string of breakups she’d had in her young life. With this one, she’d made the choice for herself. She’d decided to want more and better rather than dwell on the wounded feelings of not being worthy. She rejected that reality and created her own the moment she told him it was over. It felt good. She felt powerful for the first time in her romantic life.
She came out of her funk a few weeks after that fateful night at Dolores Park. She realized that she’d re-written some of the shitty stories she had in her mind about herself and whom she wanted. That moment of taking control, of making a choice for her, and of losing that loser had changed her. She did not look back.
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