So I've been in Vegas this past week and needless to say I've never been a big fan. The Hubs had a conference here and since he was kind enough to accompany me for mine and since we can now travel together again (see previous post, Sea of Change #44) I figured it would be a nice respite to the emptiness that is the Burg house.
TV!!! Since we moved to the Burg we never bothered to get another fool tube and now I know why: there's nothing worthwhile! Like now, for instance--it's Sunday morning and I'm waiting around so I can get our seat assignments for Southwest and I stumbled on something called Nashville and Cash, (or something like that) about two young lawyers--absolutely ridiculous. What fool said this shit is entertaining? Click. I kid you not, the only shows worthwhile are the real life crime shows. At least these are concerning plausable human beings, albeit horrific, but at least it's real.
Anyhell, speaking of violence, it's been many years since I visited Vegas and what I do remember is the filth, always the juxtaposition between the beautiful, clean hotel structures and the dirty streets. Not now. Streets are clean, porn sheets are all behind those glass newspaper doors. And although I haven't been out too much, except to the pool, the work parties that we've attended have been fun, in fact, I've spoken more to tech people than I did at my own wine conference. I suppose I've nothing to lose and most folks seemed eager to talk of something other than techie geek jargon. And for a few days it's all good. Until...
Reclining at the pool, minding my own business, hoping my fat ass isn't hanging out one side of my bikini and amid the cooling wet of the misters I hear: "Hon, what do you think we saw more of last night, boobs or vagina?" He responds most emphatically, "vagina" and the whole Vegas revisited is shattered. I start to lose it. Then her voice changes and she starts screaming something about "stinky feet" and I can only assume that she's now talking to a child on her cell. But the "stinky feet" reference gets me thinking about a southern Rhone wine I had and the lingering smell of puppy feet and now I don't know whether I should drown her in the shallow end or maybe leaving the pool area is best. I chose to leave. And I realize I'm in desperate need of wine.
I've abstained this trip--I had so much good and bad during the Wine Bloggers Conference 2011 that I thought it a wise idea to take a break. But now I'm finding myself desperately wanting a glass, and not just any glass of wine, but a wine that I've had before, something familiar, something that I know will make me warm and fuzzy, a wine to soothe the savage beast.
And now I'm overwhelmed--the need to hold the bottle in my hands, feel its weight, its smooth coolness. I know I'll remember if I purchased the bottle or if it was gifted and I'm comforted and now I'm yearning for the Burg, for my wine cabinet. The scents in my nostrils, (stinky puppy feet, a Burgundy barnyard stink, the garrigue of Provence, that sexy smokiness of a Spanish Tempranillo) traveling up to my brain and the realization that I know it and it's not the alcohol for me but the connection it provides: the vintage, and knowing the weather that year, I could imagine the vines at the moment of flowering, veraison, harvest, the people involved, and how the farmers and winemakers felt with a successful vintage, when they taste the finished wine and say, yes, we're ready to bottle. The feel of wet liquid on my lips, in my mouth, the swallow--and now I've become part of everything that went into the choreography that is this bottle, and I'm calmed.
Amid all the crap that we all see and hear on a daily basis, it's important to find that which calms, that which helps us, as human beings, create connections that make us feel a part of something larger than our individual lives. Oh, I can taste it...
I was always with you. I was.