Thinking of the tasting room I visited yesterday after work, I mean right after work with some nice Texans I met at Roth… visiting my friend Thomas at his new gig in Healdsburg, just off the square by less than a block. The room has more of a “old world”, and I hate that phrase, chic café-slash-deli-slash-lounge or lobby layeredness to it. We were seated by a lady at a counter along a wall, and Thomas started with his pouring… white varietals of course introducing us to the winery’s way and tonality. I better learned about the Texans, where they met, their upcoming wedding, what they do for a living and how often they get out here to CA. Then I had to lament, appreciate thoroughly that we met in the tasting room… that room, where I now write early the next day before start of operating hours, right here, always where. Intersections of stories and people, dreams and goals and… everything.
This morning, leaving sheets and pillow early to run. Tried going back to sleep but couldn’t… and thought, “What the … am I doing? You’re not writing, so get up! RUN.” I did. Was on pavement just after 05:40 I think and down San Miguel I went, to the Fulton flats along vineyard stretches reminding me of my wine story and the tasting room I’m to later be in, talking to more people and tasting through the wines… to Barnes Road where I cut into Vinter’s Inn territory and actually ran through vineyard rows, smelling those subtle forces of leaves, the dirt and morning air around the property. I want a vineyard, one day. I want my own tasting room… again, one day.
Today I’m not doing anything as I have. Everything, a new character from one writing about wine, sitting here at the polished wood table with a breakfast sandwich—much needed after burning over 900 calories on jaunt—and 4-shot mocha. This day, more than others before, I’m doing what I see self doing when 40 and after. Writing, only. That’s it. About wine and how wine has punctuated my pages with more life and experimentation, lawlessness and freedom. The Room tells me to write faster and not look for synonyms or new words but to be unfined, unfiltered as one of the pen… just writing what wine says, translating her voice from all shapes and new Rooms like yesterday with the Texans and Thomas. Opened the Barbera we tasted, that the soon-husband kindly ordered I let him buy for me. I accepted as graciously as I could without seeming at all eager or deserving. When I finally opened the bottle, after wife’s and my night out to one of our favorite Thai spots, the wine spoke with more eager and enveloping dialect that she did in Thomas’ Room. Wasn’t trying to analyze her composition or flavor direction much, just listen, turn pages with her… letting a new narrative leave ground.