I have been awake about 38 out of the past 48 hours crossing an ocean, landing by the North Sea, and winding up in the center of Europe while mucking around in Dutch, English, and a tramp’s French.
The reaction to Obama’s win has been polite and deeply reminiscent of a friend at a basketball game you’ve brought him to as you’re a fan: Happy your team won, not sure how the game is played.
En route we were given little plastic trays of edible foodstuffs left over from monkey test labs. That and a double gin, two shrieking baby boys, and I made it to Amsterdam.
Here, overlooking Lac Leman, on a hill in a vineyard where the vines twist and blacken in anticipation of winter, the poetry is in the soil. Across the lake, panoramic views of the French alps, with the highlight being the flat behemoth known as Mont Blanc. It sure ’nuff is white.
The day of writing the outline for the movie on wine–why I’m here–was punctuated by a lunch of astonishing raclette prepared using a home heating device and a dinner of crazy delicious beef from France. Vegetables? Are potatoes vegetables? I hope so: So earthy, so much flavor.
In the course of the evening, a magical person who makes wine glasses demonstrated how each glass captures the bio-energy of the liquid in it. He waved his hands around the glass and spoke of how he can taste graves in wine.
We did all but levitate.