a calendar

Somehow, May arrives. With it come the wine festivals. The grapes are barely ready, the bottles have fresh labels (or no labels). The makers are exhausted and exhilarated, toting the boxes, packing the ice in great steel buckets, rehearsing the descriptions.

We arrive in handfuls. Familiar faces, kind words, sweet wishes and the pouring begins. I did this for three straight days last week, and felt both young and old at the same time. There is no macho undertone to drinking a lot here, it is simply a custom of glorious excess. I get swept up in it every time, feeling like I can be superman for a few hours, but of course I am not. I have learned to pace myself, picking certain tables first while I can taste every molecule, savoring and trotting my tongue around, finding what is there and holding it up to the light. And then the waves of people are swirling around, glasses stretched out in wild abandon and the makers are pouring like captains of ships, feet glued to the deck as the ocean tosses and turns.

I step outside of great halls for a breath of fresh air, and have that all-too-familiar fear of missing out, that East Village paranoia, coupled with calm words of caution, that I am only human, that I have my limits, and knowing them is a sign of wisdom. On a good day, I have lobiani tucked in my bag - a quick-fired torpedo of bread with a stripe of smoky red beans on the inside. It will soak it all up, and keep me going.

Back inside, the choices are impossible. To visit with friends and celebrate their latest masterpiece or taste something new and unknown. There is no good answer and like a fool, I try to accomplish both. I end up pickled, sagging in a folding chair sipping cold water by the end of the day.

The wine gives you such energy, like you are sucking down medicine made by Mother Nature herself. Live-giving nectar that makes you feel a million things at once, gets you talking loud and free, laughing hard, hands on shoulders, eyes meeting fiery eyes. This is the juice grown in rare air, fermented with sure hands, cooled and rested, carefully bottled after time has passed. This the result of rocks and rain, different every year. It is a calendar.

By the third day I have hit my limit, and most of the hours are spent introducing people to wine they may not know, drawing connections, as my world grows a little bit bigger and smaller in the exact same moment. But honestly, I just want to go home as everyone talks about what after-party to go to, where they will swill until the wee hours. I will go home now, trudging up the stairs heavier than heavy, and once inside they will look at me with big eyes, as I kick my shoes off and have a great cup of sweet black tea. I will retell every hilarious moment to them, my voice growing big in the living room, and they sit, beyond curious, knowing most of the people I mention but not all. I bring it all home with me, typically with a gifted bottle or two that sits triumphant on the counter, a trophy to my efforts, and foolishness.