I'll Believe in Anything: Napa

Seattle beacons as the taste for long distance driving sours.  A premonition; Taylor has obligations to the real world, and like that, visions of Interstate, Vodoo Donuts, the Needle... They become nothing more than hopeless pipe dreams, slipping through our hands like Spring sand through a sieve.

Two days left.  The constraints of academia and the weight on the mind are brooding, a storm cloud's looming overhead.  Let's get out of here.

Spring break was almost over and we hadn't done diddly-squat except surf and romp around Santa Cruz all week.  Not a total waste, but something of a hoe-hum time when everyone else was getting trashed and naked in Cancun or sacrificing body and soul to South Beach.  We had to do something.

Alone in the upstairs room, spliff in hand, BB and I devised with devilish smiles and maniacal laughter a solution to these spring break blues.  Earlier in the week we talked of driving to Eureka to proclaim, "Eureka!"  But the more we thought about it, the more it sounded stupid, and Eureka was way too far away, way up on the northern coast.  And then it dawned on us.  There was a valley.  A magical valley of slow living and healthy drinking where the wine sprung from the ground like oil in Texas and the sun set over rolling golden hills to the west.  It was less than a three hour drive away.  Napa.

And we did Napa right.

The first step is always the most important.  We step with class.  With tucked in button-downs and shoes that speak leather sophistication.  This isn't Santa Cruz anymore, Dorthy.  

Even Bernice was in a dress, and I can't say I remember any day since that I've seen her so, but by God, it happened.  All squished in that little pig-bull of an Explorer Sport, pressed tight with three in the back seat and some old familiar mix CD blowing tunes.

Driving east with the sun already sinking low behind us.  The city turns to country, sharp grey skyscrapers give way to warm rolling hills as traffic fades.  We leave any predispositions and concerns at the county line.

We passed the warm Welcome To Napa sign around six in the afternoon and found a cozy little ditch to park in over the bridge, on the outskirts of downtown.  Half the wine-tasting spots were closed or hosting some private party, and the rest were open until eight.  So we went down to a fun lookin' red brick bar called the Bounty Hunter on the other side of the bridge that we'd seen coming in.  Fun lookin' in the sense that there was a couple seated outside enjoying a whole grilled chicken with a beer can up its ass.  It garnered our interest, to say the very least. As we took it all in, we seemed to be missing something.  A familiar element whose particular absence was seeming to linger.

There's a curious lacking in our demographic, and like a social exhibit, we walk by child-filled moonbounces.  By private wine tasting parties.  By early evening dinners.  There's no one else our age. No one.  No twenty-year-olds.  No teenagers.  Just little kids, and old grown-ups, which is odd to me.  But what are you going to do, right?  Either got to dummy down, or live it up.  A moment's pause at a cigar shop then to purchase a few stogies.  

Sophistication?  Sophistication to a tee, mon frère. Ten bottles to go.

Walking over the bridge, it was discussed and agreed upon that we would each buy two bottles of wine tonight.  Why?  Why, because "It's fuckin' Napa," that's why.  It the catch-line of the evening.  Mike and Grant each bought bottles at the Bounty Hunter, a classy joint with an old stained-wood bar that wasn't so smooth, and when you put your hand to it you felt all the grooves and age and beer-spilled, fist-pounding moons it'd seen.  Bottles of wine adorned the walls like trophies in some Ivy League hall.

Bottle 1 is a voluptuous Cab purchased at our new favorite bar, where the chickens have beer cans shoved up their asses.   A Mexican beer of course, only the finest.  A brew worthy of a chickens rear end; Tecate.  Delectable.

Bottle 2 is a tart white purchased and consumed at that same Bounty Hunting bar.  We leave aglow with the inklings of intoxication.  The sun's long gone now as we navigate the embalming Napa night by clear star and street light.  

Next stop,

Bottle 3 is a bottle with Jenifree.  Wineologist by day, her tasting gallery typifies class.  She gives a Merlot, obviously, if only for diversification's sake.  Paul Giamatti's Sideways criticisms flash at the purchase, but by now we're past that.

Bottle 4 is greeted with a cordial invitation to all present company, Jenifree included.  We wait for her to close the shop, and she brings a few gems out from behind the bar.  I can now say with questioned certainty that the drink of the gods tastes better behind locked doors.  Thank you, Jenifree.

Doors still locked,

Bottle 5 is enjoyed with new friends.  Any hint of social discomfort is assuaged by the volume of fermented grapes in our system.  Life stories come pouring out as we discuss our options for the remainder of the night across the stained wood dining table now littered with bottles and gradually emptier glasses.  Jenifree tells us of a place that would be perfect for dinner, where the wine flows like the Euphrates, and good times and good food are sure to be had.

And back into the night.

Bottle 6 is purchased at El Rose, the restaurant of Jenifree's choosing.  She does not disappoint.  Never mind chickens with cans shoved up their behinds.  This was real food, so of course I get the ribs sandwich and another bottle.  

Bottle 7 is a nice white wine, I believe.  Or a red.  I don't know.  What I do know is that the taste is appetizing and the memory is continually growing fuzzy.  But spirits remain high and the laughter and conversation is at a fever pitch, so much so that the purchase of the next bottles slides by and into awaiting glasses.  

Bottle 8 is... ah yes, another dessert wine.  A rosé at El Rose as it were, and we stumble back onto Main Street, positively glowing from the night's events.  

We went back to the Bounty Hunter, but by that time they'd all but closed.  They did, however, sell us two bottles of wine for our efforts, and tell us that Joe's was still open around the corner.  We could drink our wine there.  But Jenifree was tired, and that was where she took her leave and smiled, "Goodnight!"

Bottle 9 is at Joe's with a pitcher of beer for good measure.  Everyone's already super drunk there anyways.  It's just about last call.  We flirt with the older ladies on the prowl, just for a spell before they're closing.  Maybe we're too drunk...

It was time to light those stogies. I'd never smoked cigars before, and no one told me not to inhale.  Suffice to say I was wrecked, so much more so than everybody else.  We were all lit, and stumbling back over the bridge and to the car.  Everybody leaned hard on the Explorer as I fumbled with the keys.

"No one's driving tonight," said Grant, and I agreed.  It was cold.  And we were tired. So I laid down over the center console in front, and the other four piled into the back and pulled the door down.  Five sweet, smiling sardines cradled away to a sway and a laugh that reeked red wine and still didn't feel the bite of spring nights in the North. We had one bottle left.

Bottle 10 is who the hell knows what. Who cares really?  It was enjoyed amongst old friends in close quarters.  The bottle's passing hands slower and slower, and some slow-tune mash of a mix CD rocked us soft to sleep.  We drift through the millions of far-off stars out the window in that the warm blackout.  

The morning wasn't so poetic.  The sun crept over the low hills early.  Sharp and straight into the car, and it was freezing.  My eyes opened and it wasn't even 7:00 yet.  The first thought to my mind wasn't a pretty one.  It was a head-splitting agony of one, and I opened the driver-side door to vom.  Blood red wine vomit with what looked familiarly like last night's dinner.  And if that one didn't, the second one sure as hell did.  What a waste.  Then I was so hungry, and it was driving time.  As in, we had to start driving pronto; but could we?  No one in the back was going to do it, so it was up to me.  


My legs were stiff.  My whole body, really.  And if it wasn't stiff, it hurt something god-awful, and my head still split like someone'd put an ax to it.  But hey, I was fresh off the vom, so we got some gas, I got a Gatorade, and we hit the road.  It wasn't ten minutes until everyone passed out again, and driving west towards the ocean had never been so rough.  Or so early or so hungover either.  In shotgun, BB would slip back into consciousness every now and again and keep me company for a few minutes before she dozed off once more.  We were in Santa Cruz at 10:00, dropping off the King Street kids first before sprinting home, so ready to fall asleep.  I made it to the living room where the sun hits the soft carpet, and you can smell the yard from the open back doors.  Lizzie pranced up through the long grass for a kiss before my eyes closed.