Dislocated

 

 

I woke up the next morning feeling like I had literally been charged; as if I’d plugged myself into the wall the night before, and let the electricity collect inside of me overnight. Now I was at full capacity, and energized to start the first full day of my trip.  Yet as I lay there, letting myself wake at a leisurely pace, the details of my dream also came surging back.  I recalled fragments and flashes of the bittersweet illusions with which my subconscious had left me burdened, where I found her.

In my dream we were late for a party.  One, despite all our efforts, we seemed destined never to find.  Why at one moment we were walking through the streets of New York City (a place I always wanted to show her) as I pointed out landmarks on the skyline, and the next in London (a place we had visited together) as we rushed to the London Eye because, if I remember correctly, someone had told us the party was underneath it, is a question for those more acquainted with the surreal nature of the unconscious mind.  Yet our inability to find our destination seemed to lead us on many adventures, which felt very much like the reality we, at one time, shared.  Recalling all of this immediately put her right back at the forefront of my thoughts, but I was determined not to let my inaugural day begin on a sour note, so I pushed them back as far as I could, sprang out of bed, and started making breakfast.

After enjoying two of my hardboiled eggs, along with coffee, a banana, and Danish from the hotel’s breakfast buffet, I got ready and headed to my first stop of the day: Lincourt Vineyards.  Lincourt is my favorite winery in all of the Santa Ynez Valley, so it made sense that I would head there first.  Not only do they produce great wine, but the grounds, which are rustic and picturesque, sooth me in a way I can’t quite explain.  The tasting room, a diminutive old farmhouse tastefully converted to serve its current purpose, is quaint and welcoming, and the perfect place to sample some good wine.  Whereas other wineries in the area can be overly ostentatious, even some I genuinely enjoy, Lincourt keeps things simple, choosing to let their varietals and views do all the talking.

Lincourt is also home to stoic but friendly host Ed, who introduced my former fiancée and I to the term “porch wine” (as in, “This bottle would go perfect with a nice summer eve on my porch.”) on one of our many visits, something for which I will be forever grateful.  I adore the term for the simple picture it paints, and peaceful thoughts it elicits.

To say I love Lincourt would be putting it mildly.  To say my love for the place is all mixed up with my mixed-up feelings for her would be an even greater understatement.  Considering we discovered Lincourt together (it being one of the singular new places we mandated ourselves to try during each of our visits to the Santa Ynez Valley, which subsequently became a more than welcome addition to our roster), it was understandable.  In all the years since our first visit, this was only my second time at Lincourt without her, so I knew being there was likely a ticking time bomb of unresolved feelings, a Molotov cocktail of pent up regret and loss.  It’s the reason I chose to go there first, after all.  But I was also there to taste some good wine, so I stiffened my upper lip, and made my way to the tasting room.

Upon entering I found Ed hard at work pouring for a group of eight while he chatted them up in his charismatically understated way.  I wasn’t expecting such a large and lively crowd so early on a Thursday afternoon, but I guess people were getting a head start on the weekend.  It didn’t take Ed long to notice me standing behind the rowdy row of weekend connoisseurs.  He curled his lips in a very measured smile, nodded at me, and then called to someone through the doorway that led to Lincourt’s office area.  Within seconds a woman named Debbie came out and led me to the backup bar, which is just a few feet off the main tasting room.

“You here for a tasting?” she asked once she positioned herself behind the counter.

“Sure am,” I told her with a smile.

“Where are you visiting from?”  She placed a wine glass and a flight menu on the counter in front of me.

“Los Angeles,” I told her.

“You here for the weekend?”

“Today and tomorrow, then I head to Paso,” I explained, Paso referring to Paso Robles, California, another wine region just a few hours up the coast.

“A wine weekend, huh?”  She poured me the first taste of my flight, what turned out to be a bright, crisp and full-bodied Chardonnay.  “This is our 2015 Rancho Santa Rosa Chardonnay,” she told me with a glance.  I swirled the wine in the glass, letting it get some air, before lifting it to my nose and taking a deep breath, sampling the wine’s bouquet.  Then I paused and did it again, before finally taking a sip, letting some air pass over my lips as I did, to unlock as much of the flavor as I could.

“Very nice,” I told her enthusiastically, letting the taste settle on my palette.  After a beat I went on.  “Actually, I’m at the very start of a road trip adventure.  After Paso I head to Napa and Sonoma, then up the coast.  Eventually I’ll end up in the northeast.”

“How fun,” she said.  “How long will you be on the road?”

“A couple of months at least.”

“Is the trip for work?” she asked inquisitively, motioning to my two cameras, which were sitting on the counter next to me.

“Kind of. I’ll be blogging about my journey, but it’s not for work.  I just needed to get away for awhile, and have a little adventure,” I explained, not wanting to get into too much detail, fearing it would be the catalyst for something I might not be able to control.

A few minutes later two older couples, who, I would learn, were on their own RV road trip adventure, entered the tasting room, and joined Debbie and I at the counter. Debbie’s focus now split, we all got to chatting.  One of the couples, as it turned out, was from Santa Barbara, just an hour or so down the road, and the other had travelled by plane from Michigan to meet them.  It was something they did every year, and this year, like me, were headed up the California coast, into Oregon and Washington, taking in the wine and sights along the way.  As we talked about our respective plans, I sampled another good Chardonnay, and three tasty Pinot Noir’s, one of which, the 2014 Rancho Santa Rosa, was superb.

Before long Debbie and I found ourselves alone at the counter once again.  The two couples, after sharing a tasting each, had finished their flights and retreated outside to Lincourt’s sizable patio to take in the views.  Having exhausted our topics of conversation, as well as wines to taste, Debbie asked me if I wanted to revisit anything, and I eagerly told her I’d love another pour of the Rancho Santa Rosa Chardonnay.  She obliged me, before asking; “Will you be taking anything with you?”

“I think a bottle of the Rancho Santa Rosa.”  It was on special, and a deal I could not pass up.

“Anything else?”

“No, I wouldn’t be able to fit it in the car,” I told her with a grin, knowing full well the Chardonnay was going to be a challenge.

“Are you a member?” she asked, moving towards the cash register.  I froze awkwardly.  It was a question I hadn’t considered, and I had no idea how to respond.  I was a member.  Or wasn’t I?  My former fiancée and I had signed up for a membership just a few months before we got engaged.  It was the first thing we had done jointly.  I still had my membership card tucked safely in my wallet.  Yet, since I hadn’t seen her in almost a year, and the account was billed to her credit card and the wine sent to our old address, I hadn’t gotten my portion of the wine, or contributed my half of the cost.  It was another jarring reminder of the state of things between us.

“No,” I finally said meekly, trying not to sound as devastated as the question had left me.  Then I thought about it some more, and hastily tacked on, “but I’d like to become one.”

“Great,” Debbie said enthusiastically, and started retrieving brochures, opening them up and fanning them out on the counter in front of me, going through the different membership options.  I chose the same plan we had chosen together, and started filling out the paperwork, when something occurred to me.

“Can I postpone my first shipment until I return from my trip?” I asked, imaging bottles of wine showing up to the front door of my friends Stephen and Katie’s house, since they were generously receiving my mail for me.  Actually, I don’t think they would have minded, but it seemed too big a request.  I know for sure they would have had fun ribbing me about it, graciously thanking me for all the good wine I had sent them.

“Sure, I can start your shipments in September, if that works for you,” Debbie offered kindly, and I could tell she knew something was wrong.

“That sounds great,” I told her.  “Thank you!”

After filling out all of the paperwork, and purchasing my bottle of Chardonnay, I thanked Debbie again, and gave her a generous tip, before moving outside to explore Lincourt’s grounds.  It was a place that had always centered me, and at that particular moment I was in need of some centering.

I wandered around for a bit taking pictures, enjoying the cool air, and keeping an eye on the clouds, which had been white and fluffy when I arrived.  They were starting to look a bit ominous, contrasted against the bright blue skies, and I wondered if there might be rain on the way.

I moved from the tasting room to the small vineyard, which sits at the front of the property, to the large patio, which lies between them, and finally to the front lawn and the row of Adirondack chairs they have positioned there.  I took a seat in the middle one, and looked out past the vineyard, to the mountains beyond.  It was a beautiful sight, one that normally would have evened me out, but instead I started to cry.  I tried to fight it, to push my emotions back down where I like to keep them, but everything I had been feeling, from the night before to that very moment, seemed to finally find an escape.  It didn’t help that in every spot I had lingered a memory of us seemed to be waiting for me.  Even the very chair in which I found myself sitting held one.  We had shared it for a picture during her birthday celebration about eighteen months earlier, her friends and family gathered in the chairs around us.  It was our first big celebration after getting engaged, and the moment seemed important at the time.

I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the mountains.  I wondered what it must be like standing on the precipice of one of them, looking down at the valley.  Was it raining up there?  Even if it wasn’t, I imagined it to be cold and windy.  Yet the views must be spectacular.  I tried to hold onto the mental image, but no matter how much effort I put forth, thoughts of us kept seeping through.  Despite how much I wanted them to go away, they always seemed to be there, and by then I was tired of them.  I just wanted to be free from their burden, finally, once and for all.

I don’t know why the thought occurred to me.  Maybe it was the wine.  Maybe it was my mood.  Maybe it was both.  In high school I discovered a film starring Jack Lemmon, who up until then I had known only for the comedies Some Like It Hot and Grumpy Old Men.  In it he plays a public relations man of questionable character who falls for his secretary, and together they descend into the dark depths of alcoholism.  It was my first time seeing him in such a serious role, and it made quite the impression on my adolescent mind.  Later in college, in one of the many literature courses required to complete my English degree, I discovered where the title of the film, Days of Wine and Roses, had originated.

 

Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam

by Ernest Dowson

 

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,

Love and desire and hate:

I think they have no portion in us after

We pass the gate.

 

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:

Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes

Within a dream.

 

Like the film, the poem has stuck with me over the years.  I like the poignancy in its message, the bittersweet truth to which it alludes: nothing in life − good or bad, whether happiness or sadness, love or loss (or even life itself) − ever lasts very long.  It was a good reminder that, like all the joy she and I had shared, everything I was presently feeling would eventually disappear.  The paralyzing sense of failure, the moments of crushing absence, all would eventually lose their power, and finally dissipate.  I also knew it was something I must allow to happen, a task at which I was often coming up short.  I had to find a way to better work through my dark moments, no matter the place or situation.  It sounds simple, I know, but in the throws of profound and life altering loss, it’s something that is just as easily forgotten.  Maybe it was my stubbornness – me holding onto a hope, no matter how small, that things might go back to the way they once were.  But sitting in that chair, in one of my favorite places on earth, I finally let myself face the grim truth – we were strangers now, and no amount of hoping or wishing or deluding myself was going to change that fact.  It had been almost a year since we hugged and told each other “I love you” one last time, and it was finally time to let myself move on.

My realization, or maybe it was my long overdue acceptance of it, was accompanied by a torrent of emotions, so I headed to my car.  On the way I promised myself I was going to allow what I was feeling, but only until I pulled out of Lincourt and headed to my next stop, Fess Parker Winery.  After that, there would be no more tears, no more thoughts of her, or feeling sorry for myself.  Every negative emotion would be left behind, on the bucolic property that I loved so much, to be rendered inert by the happiness that I, as well as countless others, always found there.  Each time I felt one of them creep in or up, from that moment forward, I would just think about Lincourt, and be thankful for the good times we always shared there, while getting some much-needed distance from everything else.

After reaching my Eclipse, I didn’t linger for long.  I was more than ready to get to my next stop.  After just a few minutes of reflection I started it up, loaded Fess Parker into my GPS, and pulled down Lincourt’s long driveway.  I could almost feel the weight being lifted the closer I got to the road.  Yes, it’s a cliché, but sometimes it’s also true.  In those moments it couldn’t have been more so.  Except the real test was to come, because Fess Parker, while being another of my favorite vineyards in the Santa Ynez Valley, was also the place I proposed to her.

The winery, one of the oldest in the region, sits along Foxen Canyon Road, not far from what used to be Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch.  The tasting room is a beautiful stone-dotted building that has a large warm interior with lots of wood, stone and natural light.  A large lawn for picnicking and playing (and proposing) surrounds the tasting room, and a 1500-acre vineyard frames it all.

Fess Parker, the actor mostly known for playing Davy Crockett in the 1950s (which began the coonskin cap craze) and Daniel Boone in the 1960s, started the winery in the 1970s after his acting career waned.  At the time, the Santa Ynez wine industry was practically nonexistent.  What little there had been previously was decimated almost fifty years earlier by prohibition.  By the time Fess Parker decided to get into viticulture, there were only a handful of other wineries in the valley, namely Zaca Mesa (which I don’t much care for), Firestone (which I would be visiting later), and Lafond (where I would go the next day).

As I exited my car and walked towards the tasting room, I noticed the sky was looking less ominous than it had been at Lincourt.  The big fluffy clouds in the bright blue sky only displayed a tinge of grey now, and I could tell it was going to be a beautiful day.  Inside I found only a handful of other people, three groups of two to be precise, and while they were talkative and lively to varying degrees, the room still had a very subdued feel to it.  I kind of liked it.  It suited my mood.

I sauntered up to the closest empty space at the bar, and was greeted by Tara, who would be my host for the day.  She was an exceptionally attractive hipster-ish twenty-something, who wore a beanie and a thick ribbed sweater under a fleece vest.  She also had a killer smile, one I’m sure the two guys tasting at the end of the bar to my right appreciated, because they seemed to be constantly flirting with her.

“You here to taste?” Tara asked me, flashing her big brown eyes along with the aforementioned eyeball-melting smile.  I felt myself stutter even before I opened my mouth.

“Uh, yeah,” I told her, and she slid a tasting menu down the bar, arranging it in front of me.

“So you’re from here?” one of the guys at the end of the bar asked her.

“Yeah,” she told him, almost curtly, before placing a wine glass next to the tasting menu she had just positioned.  She picked up a bottle from under the counter and poured me my first taste.  “This is our 2016 Rodney’s Dry Riesling,” she said.  I performed my pre-taste ritual before taking a sip, while Tara, in what looked like an attempt to appear busy, rearranged bottles on the counter below where I stood.

“How long have you been working here?” the guy’s friend asked.

Tara turned slightly to her left and responded, “Just a few months,” before turning back to face me.  “What do you think,” she asked after a beat, treating me to another smile.

“It’s nice,” I said.  “Nuanced, but not overly sweet.”  Just as I got the words out it one of two the ladies to my left, who had been poring over the flight menu, lifted her head.

“I think we’ve made a decision,” she said, and Tara, shifting her focus from me, moved to their end of the counter.  She seemed grateful to have something to do, and quickly got to the business of going through their wine order with them.  When she was sure she had everything, Tara began gathering the desired bottles, and putting them in a box for easy transport.  As she did, after every few moments or so, the two guys to my left would laugh loudly, and I suspected their comments to each other were not entirely family friendly.  To be fair, I didn’t hear what was said.  It was just a gut feeling, after having read the room for the last few minutes.  In all honesty they could have been telling knock-knock jokes, but I didn’t think so.

As she worked, Tara made sure to give me my next pour as soon as I was done with the previous one, each time telling me what I would be drinking with a big smile.  It was as intoxicating as the wine.  When she was through, after the ladies had paid and left, Tara moved back towards me, alternating her attention between me, and the older couple to my right, who stood between me and the two guys.  When it was necessary, she would give each of them their next pour, but for some reason she seemed to concentrate on me.  Maybe it was because I was alone, maybe it was because she sensed I was harmless, but whatever the case, I got to know Tara a little bit.  Besides being from the area, I learned she had started her career in the wine business by working at a wine store in town (I didn’t catch which store or which nearby town) before transitioning to her current job at Fess Parker.  She told me her favorite part of the job was getting to talk to new people, and from her momentary glance down the bar in response to another big interlude of laughter, I inferred the current company wasn’t exactly included.

After the older couple left, Tara started asking me questions.  Where I was from, what I was doing in town, and after getting my answers, she seemed genuinely interested in hearing about my trip.  “Why Portland and Seattle?” she asked me, and I explained to her all the things that led me choosing them as two of my more lengthy stops.  As I did it occurred to me that maybe she was more interested in trying, as much as possible, to avoid contact with the two guys to my right, but even if that were the case, I decided it didn’t matter.  I was talking to a pretty girl, and even if she was about a decade too young for me, it was still nice.  Besides, I was happy to play interference for her, if that was what I was doing.  I could tell the two guys weren’t happy with me for interrupting their conversation, and not long after the older couple left, they did too.  Tara seemed relieved to see them go.

After finishing my flight, and revisiting more than half of it as a result of Tara’s generosity (and facing severe disappointment when I learned there wasn’t a bottle of their stellar Port open for sampling), I realized I was in dire need of some lunch.  By that time Tara had a young couple, and a chatty flock of girlfriends to attend to – the perfect time to make a graceful exit.  On my way out I gave Tara a generous tip.  At first she wouldn’t take it, but I insisted.  “It’s been a pleasure talking with you,” she told me with another smile.

“The pleasure was all mine,” I said, and her smile widened.  I wished I could bottle the feeling it gave me.

I walked outside, retrieved my canteen of water and the bagged lunch I had packed for myself from my car, and picked a nice spot on Fess Parker’s front patio to eat.  After sitting, I quickly chugged a generous amount of water, unpacked my meal, and took a big bite of the PB&J sandwich.

As I ate, it occurred to me, that since leaving Lincourt, I hadn’t once thought about my former fiancée.  I could easily see the spot I proposed to her, it was about sixty yards away from where I currently sat, but it didn’t particularly bother me.  I certainly wasn’t going to temp fate and take a walk towards it, yet there it was, and I was clearly unaffected.  I immediately understood that it was because of my talk with Tara.  Then it hit me, like an eighteen-wheeler full of anvils falling from the stratosphere; it was just as much the fact that I had been living in the moment, not the past, or the future.  It is a skill I’m not always particularly good at, and the lesson hit home with a reverberating thwack.  I  also recognized that our talk had reinvigorated some of the self-confidence I had shed over the preceding eighteen months.  Yeah, I had done some dating during that time, and met one girl in particular I quite liked, though deep down I always knew I wasn’t ready for it.  I was doing it more to prove something to myself: that I was over her.  But in that moment, for the first time in a long time, I felt unburdened and alive, almost surging.  I felt so good I was ready to see where it would take me.  After isolating myself in so many ways for so long, I was ready to be around people.  I wanted to talk, and joke, and laugh, so I scarfed down what was left of my lunch, and got on back on the road, headed for my next vineyard: Koehler Winery.

Upon arriving at Koehler, which is just down the street from Fess Parker and whose tasting room is, like Lincourt, small, unassuming and quaint (but not quite as nice), I discovered it eerily empty.  Even Dan, the sarcastically-entertaining-as-hell tasting room manager, who has poured for me on numerous occasions, was missing.  In fact, no one at all was in the tasting room when I entered.  For a moment I wondered if they were closed, when Chris appeared from the back.

“Sorry,” he said, moving towards me, “we’re a little short-handed today.”

“Where’s Dan?” I asked, wondering if he had the day off.

“Oh, he stepped out for a meeting,” Chris told me.  “He should be back soon.  You here for a tasting?” he asked me when he reached the counter.

“Yes… Please,” I told him with a grin, my euphoric mood still in full effect.  Chris placed a glass in front of me, and then grabbed a bottle of Rosé from the underneath the counter and poured me a taste.

“This is our 2016 Rosé of Grenache,” he said.  After a swirl and a sniff, I took a generous sip, and I could tell Chris was watching me closely for a reaction.

“That’s really nice, “ I told him.

“Thanks,” he said with a muted smile.

“I’ve always liked your Rosé,” I continued.  “Bought a few bottles a couple of years ago and thoroughly enjoyed them.”  I took another sip.  “I love the subtle notes of strawberry and kiwi in this one.  I really like Rosé, but have had some horrendously bad ones.  I’m not a fan when they taste like Kool-Aid,” I said jokingly.

“That’s good to hear,” Chris said, his smile growing broader.  “It’s always nice to get to talk to people about what they think.  I’m the wine maker here,” he told me humbly, “and I don’t always get to do that, but this afternoon I offered to watch the tasting room while Dan is out.”

“Oh, wow,” I told him, replaying what I had just said in my mind.  Had I just compared some Rosés to Kool-Aid?  Ugh!  “Don’t make a fool of yourself. Don’t make a fool of yourself,” I kept thinking.

It’s true that over the last few years I have discovered I have a pretty good palate when it comes to wine.  I’ve made some pretty significant strides in recognizing what I taste, and also in learning the language used to describe those tastes.  But I have never put my skills up against a conversation with a wine maker.  It’s akin to letting a novelist or painter watch you digest their work – and then talking with them about it afterwards.  The lengths to which one can sound like a complete jackass were practically infinite, and we were the only two people in the tasting room.  It wasn’t as if I could look to someone else, like Tara had looked to me, to play interference.  I was totally on my own.  I decided I had no other choice but to put my game face on, lean into it, and hope for the best.  Suddenly it felt like I was about to take the SATs, but in that moment, really in that moment, I was confident in my chances for a perfect 1600.  Or at least I was telling myself I was.

“I like to use Grenache for my Rosé,” Chris told me.  “It gives it nice notes of berry, but also a tinge of spice.  Then I play with how long I let the skins contact the juice.”

“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” I said, taking another sip, really savoring the flavor.  “Not a lot of tannins, too,” I said.  “I’m not a fan of overly dry wines.  This has a nice mouth feel, and good alcohol.”  Chris grinned at me and nodded, and I could tell he meant it.  I felt like I had passed the first test.

Next Chris poured me a Viognier, which was good, but I didn’t like it as much as I did the Rosé.  It had too much minerality for my palette, and its notes of melon were too subdued, while it’s flavor of nectarine, a fruit I don’t particularly care for, were more pronounced.  So I didn’t linger on it, and drank down my taste in three big sips, but was honest with Chris when expressing my thoughts.

“Well, let’s see what you think of the Reserve Chardonnay,” he said, pouring me a generous taste.  I swirled it in the glass, took a big whiff, and then a sip.

“Mmmm,” I said.  That’s really good.  I’m assuming it’s aged in oak?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s so crisp.  Very tart.  Green apple with a hint of lemon – makes it very sharp, like a steel Chardonnay.  Is it French oak or American oak?” I asked.

“American and Hungarian,” he told me.

“I’ve never heard of Hungarian oak before.”

“It can produce similar notes to French oak, but it’s half the cost,” he explained.  I was thankful for the new information, considering myself that much more savvy and educated in the world of viticulture and wine.

I talked to Chris for close to an hour, and felt like I was consistently holding my own the entire time.  Or, maybe I just wasn’t putting my foot in my mouth on a consistent basis.  Honestly, I was proud I didn’t bust out with an ill placed, “That’s so yummy!”  After tasting his exceptional 2013 Pinot Noir Santa Rita Hills (bright and bold, with mild tannins and balanced alcohol) and Estate Syrah (which was a bit too dry and smoky for my tastes) he let me sample the 2014 Sangiovese and Cabernet Sauvignon, one of which I enjoyed more than other.  As we talked I didn’t feel like Chris was trying to hurry along the conversation, but rather that he was actively engaged in what we were talking about.  I felt my self-assuredness regarding wine growing exponentially, and over that hour became more emboldened to express thoughts I would have normally kept to myself, or shared with my tasting partner.  (Three guesses as to who usually filled that position.)  The entire experience of it, especially after what had happened at Fess Parker, boosted my confidence levels to near absurd proportions.

I could have stayed there all day, sampling wine and talking to Chris, but it was nearing 4 o’clock, and I still wanted to get to Firestone Vineyards before 5, when they closed.  Besides, I was sure Chris had work to do, and I didn’t want to keep him from it any longer, especially since I was still the only person in the tasting room.  I paid, tipped and thanked him profusely for such an engaging wine tasting.  Then I got back on the road, making the two mile drive down the street to Firestone feeling like I could have made the journey on Cloud 9.

Walking into Firestone felt as if I had been doused with a big splash of cold water.  Like Koehler, it was completely deserted, only the conversation there was not nearly as engaging.  While I, as always, enjoyed spending time inside it’s beautiful high-beamed, redwood interior (a material that’s illegal to use now – but Firestone was built in the pre-law days of the 1970s) tasting some good wines, I found myself back in my car, on my way to my hotel, within thirty minutes.  It didn’t matter, though.  During my tasting I had formulated a plan for the night, and this just meant that I had some more time to relax a bit, and maybe take a nap, before preparing dinner.

After getting back to my hotel, I quickly realized my excitement after the near perfect day I’d had would make it impossible for me to sleep, so I watched a bit of television, had dinner (while experiencing a huge sense of relief that, so far, my food strategy was working perfectly), and got ready for a night on the town.  I was antsy with anticipation the entire time, and found it hard to sit still.  I couldn’t remember the last time I was so excited to go out, especially while flying solo, but there I was, more than ready to see where the night would take me.

At about 8 o’clock I walked out of my room at Pea Soup Andersen’s Inn, and made my way down Highway 246 on foot, the same stroll that Jack and Miles take in Sideways.  It was a cool night, and the crisp night air on my face felt exhilarating.  As I went, walking along the side of the road, I’d see headlights approaching on the highway in front of me, and then just a few seconds later a car would go whizzing by.  The energy of it all made me feel so alive.

I arrived at The Hitching Post in less than fifteen minutes, and found the place positively hopping.  I wasn’t expecting quite such a crowd on a Thursday night, but as I made my way inside the old west-inspired restaurant, with it’s mix of wood beams, wood-paneling, and bunching carpets, I found a flurry of activity.  I headed to the bar and picked the seat at the far end, closet to the dining room, where I always liked to sit.  From it I could see everything and everyone in the Hitching Post’s watering area.  I ordered a glass of their house-made Bien Nacido Pinot Noir, which is spectacular, and as I sipped my wine, I waited patiently for the night to unfold.

Halfway through my glass of Bien Nacido I heard it.  “Tighter than a nun’s asshole, but good concentration.  Nice fruit.”  It’s the line Miles speaks to the bartender just down the bar from where I was currently sitting.  It’s been true every time I’ve been at The Hitching Post.  Eventually someone is going to start quoting lines from Sideways, even if I am that someone.  But this time I wasn’t.  This time it came from a blonde woman who was sitting just across the curve in the bar, almost in the exact spot where Miles and Jack sit in the movie.  She was there with her friends, or I assumed they were her friends – two other women, and two guys.  All of them looked to be in their early or mid-thirties.

“Sideways!” the girl’s brunette friend called out loudly, and then laughed.

“I’m sorry, but Jack is sexy,” the third woman, whose sandy brown hair was coiffed in a pixie cut, said drunkenly, as if continuing a discussion that had started at some earlier occasion.  The guys, who talked amongst themselves, seemed oblivious.

“You’re disturbed,” the blonde woman who had quoted the line snapped back playfully.  “Jack is a pig.”

“That’s why she likes him,” said the brunette, and they all laughed boisterously.

“He’s not a pig,” the woman with the pixie cut countered with a sigh and knowing grin.  “He’s just misunderstood.”

“Yeah,” said the blonde woman, as she spotted me watching their interaction from across the counter.  Then, looking right at me, she said, “Have you ever seen Sideways?”  It felt as if I had been caught eavesdropping, and in fact, I had.  I knew my cheeks were turning red because I could feel the heat emanating from my face.

I nodded guiltily.  “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”

“Is Jack a pig?” she asked me bluntly.  She didn’t seem to care one iota that I had been listening in on their conversation.  I thought for a moment.

“You understand literature, movies, wine…” I quoted, “but you don’t understand my plight.”  The blonde woman and the woman with the pixie cut immediately burst out laughing.

“Yeah, you’ve definitely seen it,” the blonde woman said.  “Well played,” she continued with another quote.

“Ah, you know it.  You know it.” I said, doing the same, utilizing the same uncomfortable gesture with my arms as Miles does in the movie.  She laughed again.

“I don’t get it,” the brunette said.

“It’s what Jack said to Miles in the movie,” the woman with the pixie cut explained to her.  She looked just as confused after the explanation.

With that, the three of them went back to their conversation, and I went back to my Bien Nacido, staring at the glass on the bar in front of me awkwardly.  The exchange had left me feeling uncomfortable, probably because it had ended so abruptly, after beginning in such a clumsy manner.  So I consciously tried not to pay attention to them.  I watched the television, but couldn’t hear the sound.  I turned in my chair and watched the wait staff dart back and forth behind where I sat like pinballs.  When that didn’t work I played with my phone, but all the while I felt compelled to listen to what those three ladies were talking about.  It seemed like a good conversation to be a part of, and nothing else there was nearly as captivating.  It got harder the more time passed, especially after I ordered, and then came to the end, of my second glass of Bien Nacido.  I was ready to take my last sip of wine and walk back to my hotel when I heard, “Hey Miles!” from across the bar.  I looked up.  It was the blonde woman again.

“Where’s Jack?” she continued when she had my attention.  I acted a tad affronted by her insinuation.

“How do you know I am Miles?’ I asked firmly, but lightheartedly, with a slight grin.

“Oh, come on.  Let’s be honest with ourselves,” she said assuredly.  “I’ve seen you over there with that wine.  Jack doesn’t have his way with it like you do.”  I couldn’t help but laugh, which seemed to act as an invitation.  She picked up her glass and moved a few barstools down, positioning herself in the seat just beyond the curve in the bar from where I was seated.  By this time her friends were talking with the guys in their group, and didn’t seem to notice.  As soon as she reached me she offered me her hand.  “I’m Kristen,” she said.  I took it, and gave it a subtle, kittenish dip.

“It’s nice to meet you.  I’m Scott.”

“Okay, Miles.  It’s nice to meet you, too.”  She smiled at me.  Up until then I hadn’t noticed her striking hazel eyes. “So is there a Jack, or are you here sans sidekick?”

“No, I’m flying solo.”

“And why is that?  Did he meet a cute wine chick?”

“Jack’s still back at home.  I’m on my own this trip.”

“And why’s that?” Kristen asked.

“Because he got an acting gig.  Another commercial.  To be honest with you, he’s kind of a shitty friend,” I responded, referencing the minutiae of Sideways again, knowing she would appreciate it.

Kristen eyed me for a moment, then leaned in, and with a playful, intrigued whisper, she said, “You don’t want to tell me?”  She paused for effect, leaned back in her seat, and then went on.  “I understand.  So what brings you to Solvang this weekend.”

That’s when I made the hasty decision to step out onto the slippery slope.  “I’m on a trip,” I answered, and we were off.

Kristen had a confidence about her, a way of bantering that brought down all of my walls.  I liked talking to her immediately.  She was clever in her words, and for some reason that made me want to open up, more so than I normally would to a perfect stranger.  When she explained that she was a teacher from Santa Cruz, and that she and her friends were visiting the area for a wine release party that weekend, I told her a little bit about myself – namely what I was doing in town and what I did for a living – but I left out most of the instigative details.  When she told me about growing up in the Bay Area, I told her about growing up in upstate New York.  My answers would be inevitably met with more of Kristen’s questions, which would then spark some of my own, and before I knew it she and I were knee deep in a really good conversation.  I mean really good.  Then, towards the end of my third glass of Bien Nacido, Kristen, like a spear finding its target, got to the heart of matters.

“So why are you travelling alone?” she asked me.  Her tone was frank and to the point.

“I’m going to be gone for awhile.  I don’t know anyone with that much vacation time.”  I was trying to throw her off the scent with my wit.  It didn’t work as I had intended.  If anything, it strengthened her resolve.

“Why are you on a cross-country trip?”

“Adventure,” I told her coyly, with my best version of a devilish smile.

“Okay,” she relented.  Her hazel eyes exuded kindness, but there was something else familiar in them.  “I just thought you might want to talk about it.  I could be way off base here, and if I am I apologize, but we’ve all been there, Miles.”  I just stared at her.  Did she really know why I was on my journey?  Was I that transparent?  She must have read me like a book again, because she added, “I think you say more than you think you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I needed to get out of town for awhile and clear my head.  It’s been a weird couple of years.  I’m starting the process of starting over.”   I recognized everything she we saying, because she was repeating it verbatim – I had said every word to her during the course of our conversation.  I didn’t like how she was confronting me with them.  “Have you asked yourself why I’m here with two couples?” she went on after I failed to make a sound.  “I’m literally a fifth wheel.”  She smiled as she said it, but for the first time I recognized what I’d seen in her beautiful hazel eyes – it was heartbreak.

I glanced over at her friends, and found pixie cut leaning against one of the guys, practically sitting on his lap, her head nestled drunkenly on his shoulder.  The other two looked to be in the midst of a growing disagreement.

“I didn’t realize they were couples,” I said sheepishly.

“Look at them,” she told me with a nod in their direction.  She smiled again − a big, gentle smile – but this time I could plainly see she was using it as a mask.  “I’m the odd girl out. My boyfriend was supposed to come down with all of us tonight, but something came up at work.”  Tears welled in her hazel eyes.  It crushed me.  I knew that feeling all too well.  “He said he might be here tomorrow night,” she went on, “but maybe not.”

I felt guiltily.  Why, I don’t know.  Maybe it was because I had no idea what to say to her.  Maybe it was because I felt responsible for her tears, even though I knew that was stupid.  No matter the reason, I decided to open up to her, and against my better judgment, I started telling her about us.  At first I was just using my experiences as an example, telling her that all relationships have rough patches, but that in time things get better.  So she started telling me about them.  How they had met at a dinner party three and a half years earlier, how he had taken her to France for her birthday a little over a year before to explore the wine country there, and how they had been steadily growing apart for the past six months or so.  How, as of late, something always seemed to come up at work.  Then she started asking me questions, as if my relationship might be analogous to hers, and that’s when it really started pouring out of me.  She quickly followed suit, filling in the details and widening the canvas of my understanding.  Finally, after about an hour, after we each had voiced as much of our personal sad stories as we could stand, along with drinking almost two more glasses of wine each, Kristen looked at me, her hazel eyes now red from crying, and asked quietly, “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

“I’m working on it,” I said.  “It’s getting easier.  Today was a good day.  Tomorrow might be for shit, but I think I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.”  Kristen didn’t say anything.  She looked straight ahead, lost in thought.  “Are you still in love with him?” I asked.

Her sad eyes met mine.  “Yeah, but I don’t think it matters anymore.”

“It gets easier,” I said, attempting to console her once more, again at a loss for words.  “I’m sure you know that, but I’m also sure it doesn’t feel that way right now.  Take it from a guy who was weeping at his favorite vineyard this morning, but who felt like he could conquer the world as he left the hotel tonight, it’ll get easier eventually.”  Kristen searched for words for a moment, and took a breath to respond when her pixie-cut-wearing friend wandered between us drunkenly.

“Ken just got an Uber.  It’ll be here in a few minutes.  We’ll be outside.”  Then she stumbled past us, and the other three followed her, heading out of the bar.

“Well, I guess we’re leaving,” she said, somewhat annoyed.

“I’m game if you want to stay.  I’m always up for another glass of wine.”

“No,” Kristen said.  “It’s probably better if I go.”

“Okay.”  I couldn’t help but sound disappointed.

“I wish I could,” Kristen told me sweetly, and got up from her barstool.  “It was great to meet you.”

“Yeah,” I told her.  “Likewise.”

“Good talk.  Thanks for listening.”

“Anytime.”  I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t find the words.  I had no idea what I wanted to convey.  Kristen took a step towards me, pulled her arms open, and we shared an awkward hug.

“’Night,” she said.

“Goodnight,” I reciprocated, and with a final glance she moved past me and towards the exit.  I turned and watched her as she went, suddenly feeling very alone.

With no better course of action, I ordered another glass of wine.  I wasn’t quite ready to head back to the hotel, not after everything that had happened.  When there was a fresh glass of Bien Nacido sitting on the bar in front of me, I happily reached for it.  As I did I sensed someone approaching from behind.  I momentarily abandoned the wine, and turned to find Kristen, holding out her iPhone towards me.

“What’s you number?” she asked, handing me the phone, a new contact card ready to go on the screen.

I was a bit shocked to find her there, but happily I obliged.  “Would it be inappropriate to ask for yours?” I wondered aloud, handing Kristen back her phone.

“I think so,” she told me furtively.  “But I’ll text you,” and before I knew what was happening, she was gone again.

Not long after, I finished my last sip of wine, settled my tab, and stumbled outside to begin the three-quarter mile walk back to my hotel.  I spent the entire journey down Highway 246 replaying the events of the night in my mind, the frigid February air making everything seem extra surreal.  When I reached my room at Pea Soup Andersen’s Inn, I didn’t waste any time pouring myself into bed.  I was asleep within minutes.

The next morning I woke to a splitting headache.  I laid motionless for the better part of ten minutes, trying not to think about how crappy I felt.  When I finally found the energy, I sat up.  I held the position for a few moments before I picked up the half-filled gallon of spring water I had sitting on the nightstand beside me, and filled the roughly shot glass-sized plastic cup the hotel had provided me.  It was a routine I had been repeating throughout the night.  I chugged down the water in two gulps, then repeated the process a few more times, and after I got my fill, I sat at the edge of the bed for a few minutes before finally getting to my feet.

It took me forever to wake up.  It was nearing ten by the time I left my room to gather breakfast, and I only ventured out because, if I hadn’t, I would’ve missed the hotel’s buffet entirely.  I brought my selections back to the room, and watched the clock as I ate.  Checkout was by noon, and didn’t think there was a snowball’s chance in hell I was going to make it.  But once I started guzzling my barrel-sized cup of coffee, I could feel the consciousness building inside of me.

I was out of the shower and dressed by twenty to twelve, and had the car packed by ten after.  I tried a slightly new packing arrangement from the one I had finally settled on in L.A., and it was the best yet.  I had even more space to push my seat back, and the visibility out the back window was almost entirely unblocked.

As I went through my room one last time, checking it for anything I might have missed, I was suddenly struck by an idea.  It came out of nowhere, but felt big and profound, as if I was having an epiphany.  Excitedly, I darted out to my car, and started unloading bags.  When I could reach the one I was looking for, I yanked it from its spot.  I unzipped one compartment, then the one opposite it, until I found the item I needed.

After loading everything into my car again, I went back into my room, and pulled the Lincourt Wine Club membership card, the one I had gotten with her, out of my wallet.  I held it in my hand for a moment, just staring at it, thinking about so many things, but mostly about us.  In that second that stupid little piece of plastic felt like a link to so much of my past.  I was also acutely aware that what I was considering was something that couldn’t be taken back.  Then I wondered what, exactly, I was holding onto so tightly.  When I was sure it was what I wanted to do, I picked up the pair of scissors from the dresser, and placed the card between the blades.  The first cut was the hardest.  I guess because it meant I was finally accepting the fact that we’d never go there together again.  But before I knew it, I had cut the black and white membership card into at least a dozen tiny pieces.  Then, for some strange reason, I felt compelled to arrange them into a smiley face on the dresser, next to the television and the five-dollar bill I had left the cleaning person.  It felt good.  It also felt the tiniest bit subversive, and that made me extra happy.

As I walked out of the room, and locked the door behind me, I suddenly wondered what the housekeeper would think of it.  The thought made me laugh out loud.

After I checked out, I got into my car and pulled up directions to Foley Estates Vineyard and Winery, my first stop of the day.  I was already running behind, and couldn’t afford to waste any more time.  I knew the moment was more than ripe for a little adventure, and more than anything I didn’t want to be late to the harvest.  Not again.