So you’re in California on vacation and want to see some wineries. I highly recommend you avoid Napa where fancy people go and head straight to the low-end of Sonoma County, where they have vineyards that only supply juice to Kendall Jackson for their jug wine. You pay a mid-priced, slightly-on-the-low-side amount for a wine tour given in an unmarked black van, led by a man named Jerry, who admittedly does know a great deal about wine. He explains to the tour attendees he is trained in his field, which could mean he’s a sommelier but likely just a recovering drunk with a lot of practice.
So you see a black van at the entrance to the La Quinta, but you aren’t super sure if it’s the wine tour or if you are intercepting a robbery in progress. People smile as you hop on because they are from Wisconsin and Milwaukee and apparently everyone there covers up their Midwest-depression by smiling and nodding saying “have you been here before” and “what’s your favorite type of wine.” You say “vodka” and suddenly no one is smiling.
So you head to a few small vineyards and begin to suck down the vintage pinot noir not really because you like it but more because you are gonna need a buzz so you can get through this tour with this woman named Diane. She’s excited! Slow your roll, woman! Eventually you land at a small family-owned vineyard where Peter tells you about the way the grapevines are grafted together onto old vines from France. Diane has already let the tastings go to her head and says “I REALLY LIKE THIS CHARDONNAAAAY” loudly and with an odd amount of emphasis on the “aaay.” Nobody likes chardonnay. But then again this isn’t Napa, it’s the trailer end of a working farm. So anything goes.
Later you end up at a small tasting room in a town with one stoplight and Diane orders a bottle of the sparkling rose, which you advise her costs $75 in case she didn’t know. Because you can tell she’s practical and you are here to help on this mid-priced average wine tour. “Oh my,” she says. Then she burps. You tried. Diane is going to have to learn from her own mistakes.
Later on you realize Diane’s husband is turning 60 so your husband, who drank too much wine, invites them both to dine with you at a small Italian restaurant. You look at him with that incredulous look that a wife looks at her husband when he invites Midwesterners to dinner that you just met on an average-priced wine tour. They order the seafood because “they don’t have much of that in Wisconsin.” They begin talking about religion, so you steer the conversation toward benign things. Do you golf? Do you travel? Are you into gardening? Is that sweater from Coldwater Creek?
Later that night you fall into bed in your hotel room that smells slightly of mildewed linens and wonder how many bottles you actually ordered to escape the tasting fees. You were distracted by the wind blowing through the vineyards which was actually coming from an oscillating fan but you were super tipsy and didn’t notice. You were wrapped up in the elegance/economy of it all.
Next week, you will receive a thank-you note from Diane (how did she get your address??) thanking you for a lovely time and three bottles of wine from some winery called “Deranged Crossing” which may not be wine but in fact may be liquid poison used for assisted suicide. You aren’t sure.
Mostly, though, Diane has invited you to come visit for Thanksgiving. That’s a souvenir that’s worth going to the lower end of Sonoma County for.
*This story is mostly true, with creative liberties taken
*Diane is not her real name
*You aren’t visiting them for Thanksgiving because it’s cold in Wisconsin
*She didn’t actually invite you anyway
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