I was on a mission. There’s no other way to describe it. Nothing was going to get in the way of me reaching my objective. Not even Chris, the classically handsome tasting room host who was currently pouring me the second wine of my flight, while smirking at me with dubious amusement.
“I remember there was this other winery right down the street,” I told him. “I think it was run by a couple of original hippies, and the people who worked there were very hippie-esque. As you drive in it had like a castle gate, with an archway, if memory serves.”
Chris’s smirk widened ever so slightly, although I could tell he was trying to fight the urge. Our conversation had been going on this way for the last few minutes. The more details I provided, the more his face betrayed how much my hazy memory entertained him. The conversation certainly wasn’t something I expected to be having. It was, after all, only about ninety minutes earlier that I decided I wanted to taste at one of the “new-to-us” wineries my former fiancée and I had visited on our last trip alone to the Santa Ynez Valley − except I couldn’t remember what it was called. An important detail, yes, but sadly it was only one of the many ways my memory failed me that afternoon.
When I left Pea Soup Andersen’s Inn, my first stop of the day had already been decided upon − Foley Estates Vineyard and Winery − and I made it there without issue. I remembered its name, and more importantly (with a little support from Siri) how to get there, so it was easy. Take right out of the parking lot onto Highway 246 and straight on until the first pour. It had been over eighteen months since my last visit to Foley, but I found the vineyard just as I had left it: serene and stunning.
The parking lot was rather full when I arrived, and a few people milled about near the front entrance, but I didn’t really give it much thought. I walked around the grounds taking pictures for a few minutes, before finally heading inside. It was like wandering from the stillness of an empty field directly into the stadium hosting the Super Bowl. The moment I opened the door a wall of frenetic energy and the thunderous hum of conversation hit me like a shockwave. Hosts and hostesses zipped from behind the winery’s three bars to large caches of wine boxes and bags, which had been strategically placed around the tasting room. Customers lingered in lines and clusters waiting for… something. I couldn’t tell exactly what. I had only seen Foley this busy once before, on my last visit during my former fiancée’s birthday celebration, but that had been on a Saturday afternoon in August, not in the early afternoon of a Friday in February. It didn’t make any sense to me until I wandered up to the counter and, after a few attempts, managed to get the attention of one the frazzled hosts.
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
“Wine release weekend,” he told me with a halfhearted grin, then a sigh.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it like this,” I said, looking around the room again.
“This is only the beginning. These are the early birds trying to get a jump on the crowds.”
“Wow,” I said, raising my brow in a nonverbal attempt to let him know that I felt his pain. He eyed me for a moment.
“I take it you’re here to taste?”
“If that’s cool,” I told him, not wanting to add to his fray.
“Sure,” he said, but I sensed he didn’t really mean it. “I’ll be right back.” As the host darted off to finish whatever it was he was doing before I interrupted him, I remembered something, and glanced around the room once more, this time wondering (maybe even hoping) whether Kristen might be there as well. During our conversation at The Hitching Post the night before she had said she was in town for a wine release event, the very thing in which I found myself entangled, and it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that this was the one she was talking about. Then I had another thought; would seeing her here be weird or inadvertently intrusive? She hadn’t texted me after asking for my number, and I questioned if she was waiting the prerequisite two days, or just waiting. I was oddly relieved when I didn’t find her face in the crowd, and then was just as soon disappointed.
My tasting at Foley Estates was truncated to say the least. I blew through most of my flight of five wines in record time, trying valiantly to savor each of them, but there was just too much going on in the tasting room to completely immerse myself in the experience. I planned on leaving as soon as I finished, but as I took my first sip of the final wine, I got to thinking. It was hard not to − I was, yet again, sitting in a room that my former fiancée and I had visited numerous times, the last being during her destination birthday weekend almost a year and a half before. It had been such a fun and momentous few days, her friends and family joining us in her favorite wine region to celebrate, but now, in my mind, it also marked the beginning of the end for us. Only a few weeks later we would move in together, and that turned out to be the death knell for our relationship. As soon as the thoughts crossed my mind I felt familiar pangs of sadness and regret, but just as quickly remembered the pact I’d made with myself the day before. I tried to refocus on the happy times we had spent at Lincourt Vineyards, but no matter how hard I concentrated, another thought kept interfering, one that hadn’t even occurred to me a moment before yet was just as devastating − Foley Estates had been the last winery in the Santa Ynez Valley we ever visited together. Desperately, I started grasping for other memories, trying to find one strong and bright enough to sufficiently supplant the dark one I was currently indulging, when suddenly, and quite inexplicably, I recalled the last “new-to-us” winery we ever visited in the area.
It was then my mission began.
My idea seemed well reasoned enough – I thought it might be a good way to take another step in the arduous process of moving on. For two days I had been confronted with painful recollections. They were indelibly burned into each place I had visited. But this other winery, one I recalled liking a lot, seemed like a good solution. It was the perfect place to easily overwrite past connotations with new memories – while tasting some good wine. Except for the life of me I couldn’t remember its name.
I thought hard, racking my brain for any piece of the puzzle that I could glean. While no names came to me, after just a few moments, I was sure I knew how to get there. Fortuitously, I recollected we had gone to another “new-to-us” winery just before the one I was trying to find. Its name was also escaping me, but I vividly recalled that its front entrance tried to approximate that of a castle. I also remembered that it was near where the 101 Freeway, Zaca Station Road, and State Route 154 all converge. Excitedly, and somewhat relieved, I took the last sip of my final taste and hit the road. I had spent less than twenty-five minutes at Foley Estates. It was a personal record.
I drove back through Buellton, past Pea Soup Andersen’s Inn and the Sideways Motel, where I caught the 101 North. I got off at the Los Olivos exit, and turned onto State Route 154, more pleased with myself than I probably should have been. I was certain I was on the right track. Yet the further I moved along the route, the more I started questioning that assumption. I knew the road I was looking for, the one both wineries were nestled along, was just off of the 101 Freeway. I could see it in my mind’s eye. And that, after the exit, you traveled along another major thoroughfare (which I believed was Route 154) for a very short distance before the road curved sharply to the right, just as you came to the winery with the castle gate. But I couldn’t find the curve. I assumed I just hadn’t gone far enough down Route 154, even though I was just shy of certain the winery was freeway adjacent. But by then I didn’t have much faith in my memory. I was beginning to suspect it was playing dirty tricks on me. After a few instances of excitedly glimpsing what I thought could be the curve, only to realize a few seconds later that my recognition was a deception, I was certain of it. My memory was being an asshole.
Once I reached Los Olivos, another of the area’s quaint small towns, I was absolutely sure I had no idea where I was going – although I wasn’t quite ready to accept it. Stubbornly I pushed on, but about halfway between Los Olivos and the town of Santa Ynez, I finally conceded defeat. I pulled into the first parking lot I came to, one belonging to Roblar Winery, and sat silently in my car for a moment, attempting to process the deep disappointment I was feeling.
If you had asked me at the time, I couldn’t have said why I became so fixated on finding the vineyard in question. All I knew was that I needed to get there. In my mind it was something akin to a safe haven. I had returned to the Santa Ynez Valley for a very pointed purpose, after all. It was a place I needed to get past, both physically and emotionally. Even before I departed on my journey, I understood that. I knew I wouldn’t be able to successfully venture beyond what, over the years, had become our spot unless I confronted it, and everything it had come to represent. I couldn’t simply speed by it on the freeway. That would be cheating, both the intent of the trip and myself. No, before I could move on I would need to face it. And that’s all I had done the day before, and the evening before that, with the difficulty level set to “Rocky Marciano.” It was understandable I was starting to fatigue, even if some real progress had been made. Looking back now, I think I knew there wasn’t another day like that in me. The winery I was hunting for was the equivalent of resetting the difficulty level to “Rocky and Bullwinkle.” And I think that was the reason I became so obsessed with my mission.
I wrenched my iPhone from its cradle on my dash, determined to find it one way or another. I opened Google Maps, zoomed into the image on the screen, and started scouring the area. I studied the names of all the nearby wineries, and scrutinized all the curves in Route 154 – looking for anything that might ring a bell. Nothing did, so I expanded my search to include a wider area. No results. I was beginning to get desperate, and the mere thought of abandoning the search made me redouble my efforts. I searched Google for “winery castle gate,” which yielded nothing useful. Then, “winery castle gate Santa Ynez Valley,” and something in the results got me thinking again. I remembered visiting the winery, talking with our hostess, and seeing the owner and meeting his wife. Somehow it all gave me the impression that each and every person on staff was a genuine hippy. Like they may have been at the first Woodstock, or spent ample amounts of time in Haight-Ashbury. So, I amended my Google search to “hippy winery castle gate Santa Ynez Valley.” I almost expected the results to be nothing but pictures of half-naked people with poor hygiene toasting glasses of their earthy wines towards the camera, or stomping grapes al la I Love Lucy in giant vats graffitied to look like they had burst into existence at a Grateful Dead concert. Sadly, it only provided results I had seen in the other searches, and lists touting the best vineyards in the area. So, with no other option, I opened one titled “Santa Ynez Valley Wineries: A Tasting Guide.” It provided even more possibilities, including a winery called The Brander Vineyard, which I had forgotten was also made up in the style of a castle, but none of them was the right one.
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to give up. I wasn’t going to allow myself to give up. So, like any sensible person would do in that situation, I decided I needed some encouragement. I needed to push past my doubts and bask in the glow of promise. So, I told myself I was going to find that winery. If it took me all day, by the time the sun got low in the sky, I would taste there. That through doubt and rout and soaring strain, nothing was going to stop me. Eventually, I psyched myself up to the point of madness – like a warrior ready to enter the field of battle – and before I knew it, I was intently striking my steering wheel, somewhat gently, with both hands. “You. Got. This!” I kept telling myself over and over and over again, in rhythm to the strikes. Looking back on it now, anybody who happened by the open window of my car that afternoon would have surely thought I’d lost my mind. It’s possibly a genuine miracle that mental health professionals in white coats with giant man-sized nets didn’t show up to cart me away. But I didn’t linger there long. Only a moment later I noticed my surroundings, and realized where I was parked. A few seconds more and I’d decided to venture inside. They might be able to help me with my mission, I reasoned, and by that point I really needed a drink.
I found the tasting room at Roblar Winery more than beautiful, not only because they had wine. The natural wood cladded building, appointed with enormous interior wood beams and a planked wooden ceiling, felt inviting the moment I walked through its door. It was warm and airy, and I was immediately taken with its giant indoor-outdoor stone fireplace, beautiful iron chandelier, and rustic trellis built from weathered logs. After taking a lap around so I could examine all the striking flourishes, I sauntered up to the main bar where I met Chris. He noticed me immediately and spun around, shifting his attention from the couple that was tasting on the opposite side of the bar.
“Hi!” he said with a smile, and loads of charisma.
“Hi!” I reciprocated.
“You here to taste?”
I nodded, and with the best sly smile I could summon said, “As many wines as you’ll let me.”
“Well,” he said, pulling a flight menu to my position and retrieving a glass from underneath the counter in what seemed like one continuous motion. “We have a Classic Tasting for twelve dollars, and a Reserve Tasting for fifteen.” I examined the flight menu for a moment.
“I guess I’ll do the Reserve.”
“You won’t regret it,” he told me as he started to dispense my first taste. It turned out to be a very generous pour. “Is this your first time here?”
“It is.”
“Well, welcome,” he said genuinely, as I took the first sip of my flight, a Sauvignon Blanc which I found fruity and refreshing, if not a bit too oaky for my tastes. As I sampled the wine Chris went on to tell me a little bit about it; it’s notes, where the grapes were grown, and how long it had been aged in oak. As he spoke, I debated the best way to broach the very pressing subject that was on my mind. It was already approaching late afternoon, and most of the wineries in the area would be closing in just a couple of hours, so I knew there was no time to lose. But should I just come right out with it? Or should I give him a brief primer to the whole peculiar affair?
When Chris finished his spiel, he waited for some kind of acknowledgement, so I nodded, and took another sip of wine. “That’s nice,” I told him; wanting more than anything to see if he could help me solve my mystery. But I also didn’t want to come off as some kind of raving lunatic. In all honesty, it was probably well past that point, but thankfully Chris had no idea. He waited for a moment, to see if I might have anything more to say about the wine, or possibly ask a question, before he glanced back to the couple on the other side of the counter.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, as he took a step in their direction. For me, it was one step too far.
“I’m looking for a winery,” I abruptly blurted – no preface, no primer, and absolutely no poise. Chris turned and eyed me curiously.
“You’re in a winery,” he told me after a beat. His words were laced with equal parts confusion, sarcasm, devilishness, and charm.
“Yes, I know that,” I responded in kind, trying to replace the sudden awkwardness with something else. I dialed up my sly smile for one more go around and said brightly, “And cheers to it!” before raising my glass and taking another sip. Chris laughed, but he was still eyeing me, trying to grasp the curious state of affairs in which he suddenly found himself. “But I’m looking for a specific winery.”
“I see,” Chris said. “What’s it called?”
“Well, there’s the rub, because I can’t remember. But I think it’s around here.” Chris smirked – the first in what would become a long line of them. I could see his doubt as plain as day.
“I’m gonna need a little bit more than that. There are a lot of wineries around here.”
I thought for a minute. “The barrel room is right off the main tasting room,” I told him, delivering the words as if I was giving an answer I was entirely unsure about. “They’re separated by long windows and a glass door.”
Chris reapplied his fading smirk, shook his head, and said, “That could be a lot of them. Do you remember anything else?”
“It had a stone tile floor, and a wine display running down the middle of the room.”
Chris shook his head again. I picked up my glass and downed the last sip of my first taste. “Sorry,” he said matter-of-factly as he poured me my second.
“I remember there was this other winery right down the street. I think it was run by a couple of original hippies, and the people who worked there were very hippie-esque. As you drive in it had like a castle gate, with an archway, if memory serves.”
Chris’s widening smirk made me feel entirely idiotic. I had been on the giving end of a look just like it so many times myself, I was sure I knew exactly what was on his mind. Summed up nicely, it would go a little something like this: “You know it’s not my job to play Name That (Tasting) Room with you, so you can track down one of our competitors? You do realize I’ve got other customers, right? Plus, you don’t even seem to know what you’re talking about!” Even though all the vineyards in the Santa Ynez Valley seem to have a very congenial relationship, and Chris appeared to be somewhat amused by my mystery, this was an entirely unusual situation. Chris knew it, and so did I.
“Maybe Billy knows,” Chris said enthusiastically.
“Billy?” I asked, knowing full well I had reached the end of Chris’s rope.
“Our tasting room manager. He’s right over there,” Chris told me, pointing to a thin man in his fifties who wore wire framed glasses and a bright pink shirt. Billy was standing behind a smaller tasting bar almost directly opposite me, pouring for a group of five.
“Okay… Thanks,” I told Chris dispiritedly, and started moving towards the other bar. He seemed relieved that I had found a new target for my inane questions. Once there, I waited quietly for Billy at the very end of the counter, where it opened to the rest of the tasting room. He was in the middle of what seemed like a lively conversation with each member of the group, and I didn’t want to interrupt. A few minutes went by before Billy finally acknowledged me.
“Can I help you?” he asked. He seemed annoyed with me before I even opened my mouth.
“Chris told me you might be able to help me find a winery I’m looking for,” I explained, trying to sound as friendly as possible.
“What’s it called?” he asked just as tersely as before. Thus began my explanation.
It was as entirely clumsy as it had been with Chris. Only a few seconds into it, and each of the five-member group, one by one, quieted and listened as I tried to provide Billy as many details as possible. They all, in their own way, seemed to be judging me. The woman to my immediate right, an attractive blonde in her mid-thirties, made faces that screamed incredulous disgust, as if to say, “How dare you interrupt us with this nonsense?” The similarly aged man at the other end of the bar started openly laughing when I began describing the hostess from the hippy-ish winery, and her dry straw-like salt and pepper hair. The fifty-something man who sat between them, at one point, quietly exclaimed, “Maybe find a different winery,” at which time the woman to his left burst out laughing. Unlike him, she didn’t even feel the need to try and hide it. I hated each and every one of them in time. Didn’t they know I was putting myself out there entirely for the sake of completing my supremely important mission, and that, at the very least, it should be respected? Yet these tipsy tourists, these naysaying ninnies, didn’t even show a modicum. But Billy, he didn’t make a sound. In the few minutes it took me to communicate all of the details I could remember, he was completely silent. Then, when I had gotten it all out, Billy looked me right in the eyes. “No idea,” was all he said before he shifted his attention back to his group. Frazzled, I thanked him, and started back towards the main bar and Chris. As I went I heard him say, “Sorry for the interruption,” before the whole group laughed boisterously. I guess there was no reason to hide their contempt any longer. I could only imagine the kind of look he gave them to illicit such a reaction. I hoped more than anything their wine was tainted with arsenic, or at the very least Ex-Lax.
“Did he know?” Chris asked when I reached him. I shook my head, and finished my second taste in one gulp. I didn’t feel like talking any more, and Chris seemed to pick up on it. “Sorry,” he said as he poured me my third. It was another generous serving.
Chris moved to the couple at the other side of the bar, and I sat quietly and enjoyed my wine. It was looking more and more like I would have to abandon my mission if I wanted to get in at least one more tasting before heading to Paso Robles (the second wine region I would be visiting), but I certainly didn’t like it. The fact of it saddened me. I hated giving up, but there was really nothing else I could do. When I finished my third taste Chris poured me my fourth, and then my fifth, each time being very liberal with his portioning, before moving onto some other customer at the giant pentagonal bar, which now accommodated an additional couple, and two attractive twenty-somethings, with whom Chris flirted.
It was halfway through my fifth taste, as I swirled the Cabernet Sauvignon over my tongue, that a moment of otherworldly total recall hit me like an intercontinental ballistic missile. Suddenly, without provocation, I remembered pulling up to the hippy winery with my former fiancée, and upon seeing the recreation of a castle gate, I sarcastically uttered, “Must be a Renaissance Faire,” with a heightened inflection on the second syllable – Ren-ai–ssance. It was a callback to the television show How I Met Your Mother, a sitcom we both enjoyed, and it’s protagonist Ted Mosby, who always pronounced the word in the same overly cerebral manner. That’s when I finally remembered; the hippy winery was called Mosby Winery and Vineyards.
I yanked my phone out of my pocket as quickly as I could, pulled up Google Maps, and typed in “Mosby Winery.” It came up immediately, and I was more than disappointed to learn that I was nowhere near it. Mosby was closer to Foley Estates, where I had started my day, than where I was currently tasting. It wasn’t right off the 101 Freeway on State Route 154 as I had thought, but rather right off the freeway on Santa Rosa Road. If I had just gone one exit south, instead of two exits north, I would have found it. Santa Rosa Road clearly had the sharp curve I had been searching for, and as I followed the road west, away from the 101 and past Mosby, I eventually came to Lafond Winery & Vineyards. It had taken me the better part of the afternoon, but I finally found it!
I downed what little wine was left in my glass, and was about to leave when I realized I hadn’t paid for my tasting. Immediately I got Chris’s attention, and after waiting for him to reach a stopping point in his conversation with the attractive twenty-somethings, which felt like it took about a year, he headed towards me. “Taking anything with you?” he asked when he reached me.
“No,” I said briskly. “Thanks.” Chris sensed my haste, and gave me an inquisitive look.
“I figured it out,” I told him excitedly. “Lafond.”
Chris thought to himself for a moment, and then nodded. “And the one run by hippies?”
“Mosby,” I said with a grin, hoping it expressed the profound degree to which I was pleased with myself. It was, at last, well deserved.
“Yeah,” was all Chris said, as if he’d known it all along. I handed him my credit card, and while I waited for him to ring me up (the cash register was near the twenty-somethings) I made the snap decision to revisit Billy and his group of nonbelievers. Upon arriving back at the tiny bar, I wasted no time in excitedly announcing, “I know what it’s called,” interrupting one of them mid-sentence. After a brief pause for effect, I made the ultimate reveal like a game show host, deepening my voice a few registers. “Lafond Winery & Vineyards,” I proclaimed, and might have even approximated the sound of crowds going wild with my breath, but I can’t quite remember. Then, without further explanation, I turned and headed back towards Chris.
Before I got three full steps away, however, I backtracked, and returned to them. “By the way,” I said in a hushed tone, “There’s a guy from the health department outside. I think he’s about to shut you down. Something about rat feces in the vino.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw the snobbish thirty-something blonde return the sip she had just taken to her wine glass. Then, feeling as if justice had been served, holding my head so high I was certain it was scraping against the vaulted ceiling, I left. Well, that last part might be an exaggeration, but it would have felt so good.
On my way out I stopped back at the main bar to sign my credit card slip, leaving Chris a nice tip. “For your effort,” I told him in a tone approaching acerbic, as I handed him back the receipt, before disappearing into the crisp February afternoon.
I followed State Route 154 back the way I had come, and was heading south on the 101 Freeway just as the clock in my dashboard changed from 3:59 to 4 P.M. I got off at the Santa Rosa Road exit, made a right and then a left, and by ten after four I was passing Mosby Winery and Vineyards. I slowed as I drove by, and sure enough it’s front entrance looked decidedly like a castle gate. There was no archway, but everything else was just as I’d described. Just shy of ten minutes later, I pulled into Lafond Winery & Vineyards. If I’d had access Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” I would have blared it on my car stereo.
The tasting room was almost completely empty when I walked inside. Two girlfriends, both in their late fifties, were each in the process of paying for a few bottles, and they loudly chatted with each other and their hostess, Mirella, as she rang up their transactions. I couldn’t have been more pleased to notice, as I approached them, that all the details I had communicated when describing Lafond, to both Chris and Billy, were one hundred percent correct. The barrel room was separated from the tasting room by a glass door, and long glass windows. The floor was covered with stone tiles, and an enormous wine display ran down the center of the room. I felt somewhat vindicated, even if I had failed to remember the winery’s name. But names, somehow or another, always turn out to be my Kryptonite, and this instance was no different. Yet I put my investigative skills to the test, and came out on top. Lois Lane would have been proud.
Mirella greeted me with a warm smile when I reached her. “You here for a tasting?” she asked, as each of the ladies grabbed a bag containing their respective wine purchases, and turned to leave.
“Bye Mirella,” one of them said.
“Thanks,” said the other, and as they headed for the exit, their conversation continued. It seemed to grow in volume the closer they got to the door, broken by the occasional eruption of laughter. Only after they passed outside did it get weaker, finally disappearing altogether when the door shut behind them. It left the tasting room in an almost eerie silence.
“Hello,” Mirella said to me when they were finally gone, and the room was quiet. “This your first visit to Lafond?”
“Second,” I told her, “But it’s been quite an ordeal finding you today.” Mirella tilted her head inquisitively.
“Why’s that?” she asked, grabbing a glass from a box underneath the counter.
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“You’re here for a tasting, right?”
“Yeah,” I confirmed. Mirella shrugged and gestured as if to say, “Well, then we’ve got time.”
“Okay,” I relented. “If you want to know.” She nodded sincerely, so I dove right in.
I told Mirella all about my mission. As I sampled the Riesling, I told her about my faulty memory, and the curve in the road. As I sampled the Chardonnay, I told her about the hippies, the nonbelievers, and about Chris and Billy. The wine felt like my trophy, and it tasted better than anything I had sampled over the course of my visit to the Santa Ynez Valley, for obvious if not always actual reasons. But telling Mirella about my quest felt like a victory lap. She listened intently as I told her everything, about the ups and downs of it all, and somehow her interest made the whole experience even more rewarding. Eventually some of the luster wore off when my story ultimately begged Mirella’s question, “Why is it such a big deal that you taste here today?” So by the time I was sampling the Pinot Noir, I was opening up about my former fiancée, and telling Mirella a bit of our sad, convoluted tale. The entire time Mirella and I talked, I was keenly aware that the winery would be shutting for the day in just a short time, because her colleague darted from one end of the tasting room to the other, diligently performing the pre-closing checklist. And it was around the time I got to the Syrah, about the time my narrative came to its logical end, that I noticed five o’clock was almost upon us.
“So what’s the damage,” I asked Mirella. “I think it’s about that time.”
“I guess it is,” she said. “And the tasting’s on me. I think you paid for it in other ways this time.” I thanked her sincerely, and when she wasn’t looking I pulled a crisp ten-dollar bill from my wallet. I placed it underneath the base of my wine glass, but I wasn’t as stealthy as I wanted to be, because Mirella noticed it right away.
“You don’t have to do that,” she insisted.
“I know, but I want to.”
Mirella thanked me, and than added, “So how long are you in town for?”
“I’m heading up to Paso Robles after I grab some dinner.”
“Really?” she said, genuinely interested again. “But you live in L.A., right?”
“Yeah,” I told her, “But I’m at the very start of a cross-country road-trip adventure.” I could tell Mirella wanted to know more, and I was about to oblige, when I noticed her colleague standing behind the counter, and Mirella. It was the first time I’d seen her completely still since I’d arrived, and it was obvious she was waiting for me to leave, so she could head home. It was then I decided to make my exit.
“But I guess that’s another story for another day, because I’d better get a move on if I want to get to Paso before midnight.”
“Yeah, it’s getting late,” Mirella concurred, noticing her coworker.
“You both have a great night,” I said moving for the door. “Thanks again!”
“You too,” said Mirella. “See you next time.”
“Count on it,” I added, as the door closed behind me.
I was positively famished by the time I finished my tasting at Lafond. It was understandable; I’d skipped lunch, but had done so with a plan in mind. Before I left Pea Soup Andersen’s Inn that morning, I’d decided that, on my way out of town, I would stuff myself silly at the restaurant right next door, an establishment that predates the motel by a full four years. It was a place my former fiancée introduced me to, one that we never failed to visit during one of our trips to the Santa Ynez Valley, and I’d decided this trip would be no different.
Opened in 1924 by husband and wife immigrants Anton and Juliette (him from Denmark, her from France), Pea Soup Andersen’s has become a popular destination for weary travelers on their way between Southern California and the Bay Area. In addition to the thriving restaurant and motel, the property also includes a Danish bakery and an enormous gift shop, which over the years has become a kind of roadside attraction in and of itself. However, their main draw is the delectable pea soup. The restaurant, which started as a cafe whose biggest selling point was its use of electricity (a rarity at the time in the rural town of Buellton), took on new life three months after opening its doors when Juliette’s pea soup, handed down from an old family recipe, was put on the menu. In no time at all, the soup became the cafe’s most popular offering, and eventually warranted a name change from Andersen’s Electric Cafe to its current moniker in 1947. It is said that they serve north of five hundred gallons of the stuff in a single day, and I was headed there now to see if I could relieve them of at least one.
Walking into Pea Soup Andersen’s always feels to me like I’m revisiting a restaurant where I dined with my family as a kid, except I grew up in New York, and didn’t come to California until I was in my twenties. There’s just something about it and its blending of a traditional Danish timber frame, an alpine ski lodge, and a Howard Johnson’s restaurant from the 1960’s that gives me the sense that I might have untapped memories of the place that exist outside of time and space. I can’t really explain it; other to say that it’s always eerily familiar while at the same time being strangely comforting. As I passed through the gift shop that evening, on my way to the dining room by way of the hostess stand, I was greeted by the same familiar feeling.
“Just you?” the hostess asked me frankly, as soon as I moved through the doorway that separates the restaurant from the gift shop.
“Yeah,” I told her, a bit miffed by her the phrasing of her question. Without a word she grabbed a menu and ventured into the dining room, expecting me to follow. I silently obeyed, and as we passed by the large three-sided square counter, which sits at almost dead center of the restaurant, she asked, “How about here?”
“No, I’d prefer a booth,” I told her, so she walked me into the far back corner of the dining room, a stone’s throw from the restrooms, and assigned me one of the small two-person booths that occupy the area.
“Your server, Michael, will be right with you,” she told me before escaping in a dash back towards the hostess stand.
“Thanks,” I called after her, and took a seat. Michael showed up a moment later and took my order. I didn’t even have to open the menu to know what I wanted: The Traveller’s Special – all you can eat pea soup with a basket of assorted breads and choice of beverage. Since I transitioned from being a full-blown vegan, to a less regimented vegetarian, about a year earlier, I chose the vanilla milkshake for the first time in almost three years.
As Michael went to retrieve my order, I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket in hopes of finding a room for my planned two nights in Paso Robles. Spontaneity was still my mantra, and I was proud to say I was delivering like a champ. First I pulled up Hotel Tonight, an app that was recommended by two different colleagues, which hotel chains use to try and sell off surplus rooms at the end of each day for discounted rates. Even with the app, the prices were still too high for my liking. It didn’t surprise me for a Friday and Saturday night in another of California’s popular wine regions, even for February. So I pulled up the Hotels.com app, and was just about to begin my search when Michael returned to my small booth with a big bowl of salty green goodness, and a basket of bread. After that I lost all focus.
Halfway through my first bowl of pea soup, my milkshake showed up, but I was careful only to take a sip. You see, there is a trick to Pea Soup Andersen’s, and I had learned it over the course of many meals, and through expert coaching from my former fiancée. It boils down to two things, really. Not too much bread and not too much to drink until you’ve had your fill of the soup. Since this meal was acting as both a late lunch and early dinner, my stomach was primed and empty, so I put my game face on, got a good grip on my spoon, and dug in.
About thirty minutes later, after welcoming five bowls of soup, half a basket of bread and a vanilla milkshake into my stomach, I settled into the booth at Pea Soup Andersen’s looking like a mix between a Roman Empire-era hedonist, and a beached whale. I felt overly stuffed, but marvelously satisfied. A few minutes after that I found the energy to pick up my phone again, and surprisingly, following just a brief search, I came across the Paso Robles Wine Country Inn, a modest independently run motel on the northern edge of town that, for the price, had great ratings on Hotels.com. That combination of ratings and price would become analogous to finding the Holy Grail over the coming months. I quickly booked a room for two nights, and settled back into the booth yet again, not quite ready stand.
Dusk was nearing its end when I finally walked out of Pea Soup Andersen’s at a quarter past six, and I could tell it was going to be an especially chilly night. I got in my car, cued up Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere, and hit the road in fantastic spirits, still basking in the successes of the day. Shortly after getting on the 101 north, though, an entirely unexpected headspace started to overwhelm me.
It started with an almost imperceptible sinking feeling, but grew significantly and swiftly from there. Soon I was wondering if it was too late to head to San Francisco, instead of Paso Robles, because, as I incorrectly reasoned, there would be more fun things for me to do in a big city. Then I started trying to figure out a scenario where I could easily cancel my non-refundable hotel booking, and for a while even considered ditching the reservation altogether, eating the costs. It wasn’t until about halfway through my ninety-minute drive, as I was nearing Pismo Beach, that I fully realized what was going on: I wanted to avoid Paso Robles. Once I understood what was happening, the reason why fell became painfully clear. I was nervous that all the happy memories she and I had made there would be waiting for me like landmines, as was the case all over the Santa Ynez Valley. For two days my recollections of her had hung like shadows over every place I had visited, whether the effect was readily apparent or not, and I guess I knew, at least subconsciously at first, that Paso Robles would be no different. After forty-eight hours of confronting such things, I simply needed a break. I needed some time to forget about it all, and just be. My inclination to head out on the town the night before, to try and live completely in the moment, had been the right impulse. Yet somehow even that, at least in part, became about us. My foolish fixation with that afternoon’s mission should have made it all glaringly apparent, but for whatever reason I didn’t see it. Not until it was too late. So I pulled into the Wine Valley Inn that night feeling an overpowering sense of dread.
After checking into the hotel, and unloading my car (a process that was already turning into a monumental pain in the ass) I hooked my iPad into the hotel’s television, and put on the final season of Breaking Bad for the umpteenth time. I knew it had a better chance than anything else of clearing my head, and about the time Jessie found the Ricin cigarette Walt had planted in his Roomba, I finally drifted off.
I woke up feeling anxious. I wasn’t surprised by it, but it did make me angry. I hated being in the position I was in, and I was mad at myself for adhering so strictly to the strategy I’d devised for coming to terms with my failed relationship. My plan had backfired in a way that bordered on tragicomic, and it was the kind of thing I would have loved if it were on television or in a book, not coming at me live and in person. So, as I prepared breakfast, I started formulating an approach that would help ensure my time in Paso Robles was at least partially constructive.
I started thinking about the lessons I’d learned over the past two days, and knew, more than anything, that I needed to get out of my head. I’ve said before that living in the moment is not a skill I’m always particularly good at, but that’s only the half of it, or maybe only a third. I am, concisely put, a permanent resident of my own mind. I am always inside my head. I am constantly thinking about things that have happened, could happen, or are happening. I deconstruct them, replay them, and sometimes even revise them, imagining the better ways in which they could have gone. And I have a phenomenal memory, so I tend to recall everything. Every word and inflection, every action and reaction, it all becomes part of my inner man-ologue. Sometimes it results in social anxiety, and when I’m using it for creative ends, sometimes it leads to good jokes, fun stories or interesting characters, but no matter what the outcome, it’s always there. It’s something I’ve dealt with my whole life, both the positive and negative, and I knew that for as much of my time in Paso Robles as possible, I would need to be liberated from it. So, I started thinking about the things that help me escape that place. Immediately my go-to things came to mind – great conversation, hiking, biking, and even writing – but there was one thing I kept coming back to, one thing that I don’t do often enough: dancing.
Yeah, yeah… I know it sounds kind of hokey, but it couldn’t be truer. When I dance, I am able to completely forget myself. There’s just something about being lost in the moment with a melody and beat that I find transcendent. Many of my friends will attest to this fact, especially my friends from college. I remember about seven years ago, serving as a groomsman at my friend Matt’s wedding, I danced through the entire reception, only stopping to get another drink, take a picture, or use the restroom. I was single at the time, so during some songs I was dancing with a friend, during others an entire group had become my dancing partners, but during many I was out on the dance floor busting a move all by myself. I didn’t care, because the euphoria it brought me was just too good to pass up. At some point during the blur of that amazing night Matt’s friend Sabrina, who was also the wedding photographer, walked up to me and told me, “Watching you dance is like watching pure happiness.” To this day it’s one of the greatest compliments anyone has ever paid me, and it couldn’t have been more accurate. That’s why that morning, standing on the unnaturally cold floor of my closet sized bathroom at the Paso Robles Wine Valley Inn, I made a couple of important decisions. The first was that I would go to a few wineries as planned that day, and when and if the exercise got too difficult, or if the allure wore off, I would head back to the hotel to rest, because that night, I was going dancing.
After breakfast and my ritual daily cleanse, I started my day at Tobin James Cellars. It is hands down my favorite winery in the region. I’m sure there are more than a few wine purists who would send their noses soaring north at my choice, mostly because of the atmosphere of the tasting room, but I adore the place. I was promptly taken with it the first time I walked through the door, before I’d even tasted the wine. My former fiancée and I were headed up to the Bay Area for a baby shower for one of her friends, and decided to spend the afternoon in Paso Robles, a place I had never visited. Tobin James was our first stop, and upon seeing its enormous, and enormously beautiful, Brunswick mahogany bar (which is just one of three beautiful bars in its tasting room – an antique that began its life in 1860’s Blue Eye, Missouri), I fell in love. The wine could have been shit, and my infatuation would have most certainly held true, but I found I liked the vino a lot as well. From that day on Tobin James has been my ceremonial first destination whenever I visit the area.
Located on the site of what was once called “10-Mile Stop,” an old stagecoach building that marked the midway between Paso Robles and Shandon (the building still exists – it’s been updated as a three-suite guest house that can be reserved by wine club members), the tasting room, which opened in 1994, is like taking a step backwards in time. The moment you open the door, it screams Old West saloon. From the three wooden bars which are surrounded by brass foot rails, to its maroon wallpaper with border flourishes that imitate tasseled curtains, you feel like at any moment a gunfight might break out, someone might fire up the tack piano, or a scantily clad woman might show up to “keep you company.” And I’ve never seen the place any less than hopping. With energy like that it’s hard not to have a good time.
It was approaching noon when I wandered inside, and as expected, the tasting room was already packed. I made my way through the crowd, past the Brunswick mahogany bar, and the exquisitely carved bar at the front of the tasting room, to the one at the back. It was the least crowded, and there were a few spots where I could cozy up and have a surface for my glass, as opposed to standing two people deep at either of the others. There I met Linda, and after the requisite niceties, she poured me my first taste, a Sauvignon Blanc that was crisp and bright, with a nice hint of Kiwi. It was too busy for us for have a real conversation, but every time she would refill my glass, we would chat for a few minutes. In between her pours I began wondering about what I usually wonder about when visiting the tasting room at Tobin James: whether or not the eponymous winemaker is a descendent of the notorious outlaw.
At eighteen years old, Tobin James was working in a wine shop in Cincinnati, Ohio, where he dreamed of becoming a winemaker. One day at work, a chance encounter with Gary Eberle, who in the mid-1960s had been a defensive tackle for Penn State, would provide him the first opportunity towards that goal. Gary, who had since started his own successful winery in Paso Robles, invited Tobin out to California when he learned of his ambitions. Not long afterwards, Tobin turned up, and Gary gave him a job. Eventually, Tobin worked his way up to Assistant Winemaker, and when the vineyard unexpectedly ended up with a six-ton surplus of grapes, Tobin saw his chance. He asked Gary if he could use the grapes to make a wine of his own, and was told, “Sure kid, knock yourself out.” Tobin ended up producing an award winning Zinfandel, the 1985 “Blue Moon.” With success under his belt, Tobin became the founding winemaker for Peachy Canyon Winery, working for a man named Doug Beckett. Their deal included the caveat that Tobin could make wine under his own name while employed at Peachy Canyon, which was offered for tastings and sold at a local wine store. From there, over the next eight years, Tobin built his winery, piece by piece, from the ground up.
On the other hand, Jesse James was born in Missouri, and spent much of his life causing trouble throughout the Midwest. He did, however, end up in what was then known as El Paso de Robles, after a failed bank robbery in Kentucky in 1868. There his uncle, Drury James (one of the three men who founded Paso Robles), hesitantly invited Jesse, who was nursing two gunshot wounds, and his brother Frank, into his modest cabin. They would remain there on and off for about a year, but at one point Jesse would take refuge in a cave just outside of town. Now here’s where it gets interesting, because that cave is also the place where a horse thief named Peachy once sought shelter, and it sits on the property that is now home to Peachy Canyon Winery, where Tobin James once worked. It’s also where the winery gets its name.
Not long after my first trip to Paso Robles I learned about Jesse’s connection to the town, so I started wondering, “Were the two men related?” Tobin’s wine club is called, “The James Gang,” after all, so it seemed like more than just a crazy coincidence. Then I learned of Tobin’s connection to Cincinnati, and it started to seem less likely, but that was before l found out about the cave. After that I didn’t know what to think, other than if not true, Tobin, with his Old West themed tasting room, was certainly trying to capitalize on the confusion. So that’s what I ponder now, every time I visit Tobin James Winery. I suppose I could ask, but for some reason I never do. Maybe the history buff in me likes the illusion that I’m standing in an Old West tavern that was opened by a descendant of Jesse James.
About an hour later, after wondering about the lineage of the winemaker for a sufficient amount of time, and tasting almost every wine that was open for sampling, I decided it was time to go. Linda had been very kind to me, and given the fact that tastings at Tobin James are free, unlike every other winery I’ve ever visited, her willingness to sate my curios palette had been extra generous. In the end, though, I walked out with two bottles; the exquisite 2016 Tempranillo Rosé called “Paradise”, and the 2014 Petite Syrah called “Black Magic,” a fruit bomb that went on for miles and miles. I didn’t really have room for them in my car, but I knew I could enjoy at least one before the day was through. As my former fiancée liked to point out, it never feels right leaving Tobin James empty-handed. After the free tasting, you feel almost obligated to buy something. It’s a strategy that seems to pay dividends, at least from our perspective.
Once outside, I took a seat on the comfortable patio that sits just a few steps from the tasting room’s entrance, and ate the bagged lunch I packed for myself. When I was done, I headed the five miles down State Route 146 to Eberle Winery (yes, that one), and then Eos Estate, which are practically right next door to each other. They were the last two vineyards she and I ever visited together, on New Year’s Eve day 2016, and the last two stops in my “moving on” manifesto. I considered going to wineries I’d never been to before, but figured I’d made it this far, why not see my plan all the way through to the bitter end. Except at both places, unlike at Tobin James, there wasn’t anything to distract me from the larger context, so each tasting was quick and to the point. I made sure to get on the road before my mind had the chance to get the best of me. Afterwards, I went back to the hotel, and took a nice long nap.
At around nine that night, after eating dinner and getting ready, I broke out the bottle of Rosé that had been chilling in the motel mini-fridge, filled one of the tiny hotel-provided plastic cups almost to the top, and turned on some mindless television. About an hour later, after too much Ridiculousness and more than half a bottle of wine, I walked out into the chilly night, on my way to downtown Paso Robles. After some Internet research earlier in the evening, I’d learned that there was only one place in the entire town where I could get my dancing fix that Saturday night: Pappy McGregor’s Irish Pub. It was a short two miles away, so I decided to hoof it. I figured the walking would do me good, and get me limber for a night of some hardcore dancing.
It didn’t take me long to reach the square that marks the epicenter of Paso Robles, also known as Downtown City Park. My former fiancée and I ushered in 2017 here, enjoying the beer, bands and enormous bonfire that had been part of the city’s New Year’s Eve celebration. It turned out to be our last hurrah. Even though I had been willing to keep working at it, she didn’t agree, and that night I knew it. Whereas everyone around us seemed to be excited, ready to welcome the new beginning midnight would bring, I was dreading it. I knew everything was about to change. Two weeks later I moved out, effectively ending whatever relationship we had left by that point. So entering the square that night, just shy of fifteen months later, was more than a little painful.
I approached Pappy McGregor’s and saw, like a handful of other spots on the square, it was starting to come alive. I bitterly paid the five-dollar cover charge (which seemed excessive for such a small town, but since it was my only option I coughed it up), and went inside. Upon entering, I realized the impression I had gotten was entirely false. The place was already packed. So I fought my way to the front of one of the bars, ordered a beer, and moved to the adjacent dance floor, promptly taking up position as a wallflower. Even though both the music and energy level were more than good, I had gotten immediately self-conscious. So I drank my beer, and when it was gone I got another. As I drank, slowly the mood started to take hold, but I didn’t start moving until I was halfway through my second Stella, primed by the alcohol and Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me.” It was only very slightly at first, but Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” further coerced me, and the one-two punch of Pharrell’s “Happy” and Mark Ronson’s “Uptown Funk” finally sent me over the edge. After that I didn’t stop dancing for over two hours, and it wasn’t long before the intended benefit took hold. Soon she fell away, as did all the upheaval of the last few years, leaving me alone with nothing but the beat, the melody, and my purely intuitive reactions to them in time. On occasion complete strangers would join me, both individuals and groups, and every once in a while I would say “hello” to one or more of my new dance partners, but I didn’t really talk to anyone. Talking wasn’t why I was there. Dancing was my only objective, and I was very serious about it. After the game of emotional chicken I’d been playing for the last forty-eight hours, nothing could have felt better.
It was nearing 2 A.M when I stumbled back out onto the street again. I was a little tipsy, very tired, but feeling almost euphoric. The cold night air felt amazing on my skin, and heightened my dulled senses in the most invigorating way imaginable. Before I left the pub, I’d planned on taking a Lyft back to my motel, but when I got outside the night seemed to call to me. So I listened, and set back out the way I had come. The peace and quiet was a fitting antithesis to my night of loud music, and it brought me down perfectly, and gently. I was so centered by the time I crawled into bed it felt like I was floating asleep.
The next morning after breakfast, and shortly before being confronted with the displeasure of my motel’s proprietors (I thought checkout was at noon – it was really at eleven), I decided that instead of heading directly for San Francisco, like I had planned, that I would spend the day exploring some of my favorite spots along the Pacific Coast Highway near San Simeon. It seemed foolish to ignore its proximity, since it’s one of my most beloved places on earth, even though it would require a bit of backtracking getting in and out of the area. That winter’s rains, which resulted in the Mud Creek landslide and the destruction of Pfeiffer Canyon Bridge, had closed a long stretch of the PCH, from just north of San Simeon to Big Sur. It meant I would have to return to Paso Robles before heading to the Bay Area, instead of just heading north up the Coast Highway. But I decided that was a small price to pay to experience the serenity I always found there.
I loaded my car for what seemed like the millionth time (discovering an even better arrangement in the process, one that I would employ for the rest of the trip), and got on the road before the motel’s owners dirty looks turned really ugly. I headed west, down State Highway 46 into the Santa Lucia Range, which lies between Paso Robles and San Simeon. Herds of cattle grazed along the rolling hills to either side of me, and as always, I got lost in the beauty of the scenery, and of the day. When I reached what appeared to be the mountain’s crest, I pulled off the highway, into one of the many scenic viewing areas along the road. I got out of my car, and as I walked towards the edge of the overlook, I stared out into the vastness of a panorama that seemed to go on forever. It was absolutely breathtaking. I could smell the ocean air, and almost taste the freedom that lay ahead. It was then, searching for the horizon line, which hung somewhere far out over the Pacific, sandwiched between the blues of sky and sea, that I realized the true start of my journey was finally at hand. I had looked backwards long enough. Now it was time to embrace the entire country of possibilities still to come.
Dislocated 