Bragging? Maybe. Only a little.

I am so very, irrepressibly pleased with the newest development in my life: a job at a gorgeous winery in McLaren Vale.  For those of you tracking my progress, this means I have two jobs... both fantastic in their own ways... to keep me busy all summer.

The general theme of this blog has been not to name names or specify places (protect the innocent), so I'll follow suit here.  I will however, show off a picture from the winery's website, just to emphasize what I mean when I say 'gorgeous:'

It's such a great feeling to have a position for the right reasons, at an organization where the philosophy jives perfectly with passions I was already developing.  The winery is very keen on sustainable development, organic growth (of the business and the vineyards alike), and honest creation of quality.  And the wine is definitely quality.

The whole place resonates with a lovely purity of spirit and practice.  Sheep and cows graze in pastures alongside the vineyard, cover crops grow freely between rows of grapes, fish swim in the reservoirs that provide irrigation to the property, a pile of natural fertilizer sits in the sun with its earthy rich stink filling the air.  The winery dogs are as adorable and friendly as can be.  The winemaking philosophy is a modernized, hands-off approach: wild-yeast ferments, natural malo, aged oak regimens.  And there's a window in the cool, dark barrel shed that looks out across the vineyard, so it's impossible for workers in the cellar to forget that this product--which demands scientific attention and will be shipped to all points of the globe in glass bottles--this wine actually comes from a real place... right up there, where the sunlight is hitting the crest of the green hill.

Perhaps I'm obsessing a little bit, but perhaps that's as it should be.  I feel incredibly lucky to be included in this business and in this industry, and am thrilled to get to work.  I've been pooling my talents, honing the resources for a good long while now, and finally I'm in the position to use it for a good cause!  And there's more to learn!  Always ways to grow!

Then too, this position finally gets me on track towards a happy future that I've been blueprinting for some time now: working hard to cultivate, sustain, and promote a beautiful little piece of the world... (somewhere!)... hopefully one day adding in the blessing of my own beautiful family to raise, take care of, and proudly send into the world.  Its a profoundly fulfilling and edifying dream.  It's all about living in the now, for the betterment of what is to come.

I don't think it's totally crazy to think of wine as a savior against a robotic and soulless future.  Really now:  What better product than wine--with its hedonic peaks and scholarly valleys, its modern growth and ancient roots--to draw the everyday consumer into its nuances?  A lot of people want to get geeky and proud about wine knowledge, but I think wine lovers revel in yammering on about wine because it's fundamentally a glorious, unanswerable mystery.  Every vintage, every vineyard, every bottle offers a new opportunity to marvel at what nature has produced and man has harnessed for a moment.  How is it possible to drink wine without honoring the grapes, the vines, and the land from which it is born?   Nature--given her own way--never fails to awe those who are still, and quiet, and looking out across the landscape.  There's a beautiful, inexplicable flowing continuity of life bound up in the land, and wine invites us simply to bask in it.  

Or get nerdy about it, or pay too much for it, or share it with friends on the beach, or simply unwind.  What a gorgeous, happy life!

blue.

Do you miss me, or am I just imagining
that the rain keeps coming sweeping
from your heart across the sea
to streak my window
and make me melancholy sad?

I've been laughing so much lately
that desperate, cynical laugh
of someone who has been
too long out of touch with home.

We are not snails, it turns out,
so even if we turn our insides to mush,
carrying around our brittle shield,
we leave a slimy little trail
and everyone knows where we've gone
and they chase us with salt
and put an end to it all.

If we cannot slither back one day, we're goners.
And so the will says "Hold on!"

The Farm

Billy and I went this afternoon to see my Grandfather, George, who, rather unprompted, and much to my enjoyment, started in on old stories. He told us of the time back during the "war... the big one" when he was in flight school in rural Indiana, eighteen years old and geared up for an unprecedented weekend of leave from the base. He and his friends hadn't seen a town in months, and, anxious to get going, they happily submitted to the requirement for freedom. They had their wisdom teeth pulled Saturday morning. It was--he described--awful, performed under the thinnest veil of novocaine, but they made it to the partying anyway. The dentist who had performed the procedure hitch-hiked them to Indianapolis and they had a raucous good time. As my grandfather tells it, the ladies of Indianapolis enjoyed the Naval visit too.

After Grandfather's, we drove through the countryside up to Chardon, by way of the Amish cheese factory in Middlefield. I am a sucker for cheese curds. We turned west onto G.A.R. Highway, which has seen significant development in the past 15 years, and soon came upon the family property which was the location of many happy childhood summer days (for me and for my mother before me). The main house is currently inhabited by a renting family, and is wrapped up in Tyvek plastic, so we headed down to the "Pig Pen," a little cottage built in the 1950s or so by a great uncle.

The Pig Pen is overgrown with vines that curl off of a trellis that seems to grow from the ground itself, and I think it has always had a certain air of half-sleeping mystery. Each room smells distinctively of the house, slightly mousy and mothbally, with apples and wood giving it charm. Every surface is covered with dust and the grime of neglect. The renters say my Great Aunt Lyn (capitals required) will be there in a few weeks, but it seems like the house has stopped in time, no longer a place to stay. It has, as far back as I can remember, felt like a relic of the forgotten.

It was a beautiful summer evening, and streaks of light made the place magical, though it was a phantom image of itself, untouchable and unreal with its spirit fled. I think the house was intentionally designed to evoke a rustic frontier, with South American flare. It has bare wood slats for walls, a giant chimney-stove in the center of the main room, ancient Madonna-and-Child icons scattered among Aztec pottery and Mayan masks. Only there does it feel somehow congruous to put side by side colorful paintings from Southeast Alaskan tribes and busty sculptures from African villages.

In that museum of eclectic travels, lit by tin lanterns and glass-warped sunlight, I've always been entranced and terrified. The apple tree on the patio has been dying since I was eight. The frog pond is sicklied over with green, the same water that my brother accidentally tumbled into before he knew how to swim. But every once in awhile, a hardy frog skips across the surface...

We wandered next through Sally and Helen's bungalow, I on a specific, hopeful hunt for one of the wooden jigsaw puzzles Helen used to make as gifts. That little white house with its expansive living room and porch is more of an airy 1940s summer house, simple and geared toward the enjoyment of company and games. We found some interesting pictures, and an invitation to Sally and Willis' wedding in 1953. I was named after Sally. She and Helen were always kind to my mother... I wish I had known her. I imagine she was both glamorous and solidly Midwestern. Savvy on the subjects about which she knew, and sweet to everyone. But these are just my conjectures.

We walked as well down the field along the fence to where the path goes downhill to Skeeter's pond. The willow tree that used to stand on the island and trickle over the water like in a painting has died and disappeared. I was amazed, though, at how little has changed about the woods. We easily picked a path through the clearing--once the upper pasture--that took us over the creek where I used to hunt crayfish. From there we wound through the trees and back up to the hay field behind the barn.

The summer evening light goes on forever, and Ohio sunsets are pink-orange glories. I remember falling asleep in the tiny sunroom of the main house as light blue faded on the horizon and stars began to prick the muslin sky. The spinning wheel was there, and that ship's lantern that I've always missed. Somewhere I lost my teddy bear, and there we raised a kitten into a cat who sat by us during Ruth's awesome pancake breakfasts. We had bonfires in the field, and played bocce on long nights fueled by a pony keg. I did not even think to go in the main house on this visit. A different family lives there now, not even owners or stakeholders in our collective memory. The outer wall is covered with plastic construction wrap, and they are installing central heating in walls that were meant to frame a summer home. The tenant's girlfriend was rocking in a chair on the back porch.

En Amerique!

It's ironic. I left Cleveland in the dead of winter, thrilled to the core at the prospect of basking in the warm Australian sun. Two months later, Adelaide weather teetered towards the brink of chilly, and when I left on July 1 I had to scrape frost off my car to get to the airport. I've been salaciously dreaming about warm sunshine for weeks, and now I come back to Cleveland to get it!

Do not let anyone tell you otherwise; the flight across the Pacific is brutally long. I highly recommend Virgin Airlines for their attentive service (even in economy! Singapore Air, take note!) and fantastic in-flight entertainment. But even the full first seasons of Glee and Modern Family, plus a partial viewing of Chariots of Fire (not a great plane movie) cannot stifle the fact that Australia-America is a long time to be sitting vertical at 30,000 feet. I went into the flight with severe post-exam sleep deprivation, and by the time I crawled into bed at 2am last night, I had been awake or napping in that sleep-like haze that happens on planes for 30 solid hours.

It will be good to see friends and family. I'm mostly looking forward to a month of reflection. Adelaide has been rather unkind to me and my bank account. I think there have been some lessons along the way, but it's hard to see things when you're scrambling to keep them out of your face. Hopefully too, it should be a fun time. I'll be in Cleveland, Chicago, Milwaukee, New York, and Jacksonville. If you're somewhere along that road, drop me a line and let's try to catch up.

Home Soon

Last week I completed a 100-page report on the state of the U.S. on-premise wine market. Yesterday I handed in 15 pages worth of philosophizing on the economic morality of tort law. The day after tomorrow, I have a three hour accounting exam, which I pray to pass. Twenty hours after that, I sit for an exam covering the global wine industries. By conservative estimate, I have produced roughly 200 pages of academic writing since March. My grades are looking okay, but I wonder what all those hours in front of my computer really add up to. The degree is the goal.

The truth is, I've been using the stress of academics as an excuse not to take care of more important things. It's been a long time since I called home. I haven't spoken to my brother in a month. Facebook, that glorious stalker's tool, offers a daily news feed about old friends and schoolmates who are getting married, getting pets, getting coffee with one another.

It's not so exciting on this side of the world. Winter is upon us and the house has no central heating. The hot water bottle and I have become quite close. I look forward to being in the States in 10 short days... I can't spend the 4th of July abroad. And I think it will feel very good, very balancing, just to be a little nearer to the people I think of so often, across the span of time and ocean and latitude.

Grasshopper Salad

I've been meaning to change my sheets for a good week now. I guess there's no way of denying when the time is right.

Since Sunday, I've been bedridden with a high temperature, sore throat, general chills and aches and night sweats and flu-ish-ness. Today, for the first time in days, I actually had a desire for solid food. Mind you, I have managed to eat mashed potatoes (from a box) and chicken noodle soup (from a can), but it would be an insult to root vegetables and poultry to call either of those items "food."

For those of you to whom I have not already preached, I here profess I am a unabashed devotee of a gentleman named Michael Pollan, author of "The Omnivore's Dilemma" and "In Defense of Food." In both of these gripping non-fictions, Mr. Pollan details the life of our dinner, from the ground where it originated to the substances with which it is cooked. If you thought "Fast-food Nation" had a profound effect on your eating habits, try the "Omnivore's Dilemma" chapter on corn (never mind the bit about feed lots... anyone can be terrifying while detailing what happens to chickens destined for styrofoam and plastic wrapping). These books are not about denying us humans the pleasure of a hearty meal, but about developing a new awareness of what our food actually is. So much of the Western diet revolves around processed food, chock full of corn and soy by-products with chemical preservatives and flavor additives tossed in. Canned chemical compounds do not a hearty stew make. From all Mr. Pollan's research, a maxim emerges: "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly vegetables." He goes on to list the basic rules for determining what is food. Primarily, if your great-grandmother would not recognize it as food, you shouldn't eat it. And if you cannot pronounce the ingredients listed on a label, don't put it in your mouth. Stay out of the middle aisles of the grocery store... stick to the periphery where fresh food lives.

All that said, I've been doing a lot of shopping at the farmer's market, and I convinced my sick and ailing self that the best meal to speed me along my path to recovery would be a salad. I rifled through the fridge and came up with half a tomato, an avocado, some feta cheese, a carrot, and a bit of turkey. Looking good. I went for the romaine, pulled off a couple leaves to give them a rinse, and found there, nestled among the greenery, a dead grasshopper. Oh disgusting. But after my initial squeal and horror, I decided I liked the notion of eating lettuce so un-pesticided that a grasshopper could nestle in it. Content with my environmentalism, I pulled off one last leaf. There lay two more grasshoppers. Big ugly things. These were not crickets; they were the size of my thumb. One healthy little bug is icky, three is another thing entirely. I have never washed lettuce so vigorously or with such inclination towards using soap to aid the process.

At last I put my salad together, and convinced myself I still wanted to eat it... in bed, the throne on which I have been riding out these uncomfortable days. I got my bottle of soda water from the fridge, went to my room, set the salad down on the wine law book on the bed, opened the soda water. The soda water exploded. One quarter of a 1.5L bottle of soda water sprayed with abandon, as if the grasshoppers had spent their final hours dancing salsa with the carbonated beverages in the dark of the refrigerator. When I finally got the cap closed and assessed the damage to my bedroom, I was looking at a splattered wall, wet sheets and comforter, a doused cell phone and alarm clock, a bookshelf of hosed books, a puddle on the floor, and one very very soggy sweatshirt. I had precious little humor for the situation, so as I cursed and set off, I gave one good kick of my wet slippers. And my food caught on the laptop power cord. Which dragged hastily over the bed, flipped up the cover of the law book, and tipped my fresh salad over into the sheets. I'll let you imagine for yourself the first words I chose to describe the moment.

Some days are just made for boxed mashed potatoes.

(enter power tool noise here)

Good morning. My household has awoken to the piercing sound of the tilers. They've come to tile our front veranda. Rather, our landlord commissioned them to come rip out the existing tile and re-do it. Here's the warning we got 2 weeks ago from our disembodied landlord, whom we've never met in person and who has a habit of sending snarky emails:

"Hi [tenants],

A tiler will be coming to the house to re-tile the front verandah. I don't know exactly what date as it depends on his schedule but it will be any day as from now.

When the tiler is doing the tiling you will not be able to use the front verandah for a while - you'll have to use the side gate and enter the house through the back (keep the side gate open). When you leave the house you will have to keep the laundry door unlocked (but closed as if it appears locked) but certainly keep kitchen door locked.

When the tiler takes up the tiles there will be a lot of noise and when he's finished the work please do not walk on the tiles for a few days.

Regards,
[Landlord]"

Now we have jackhammers to replace our alarm clocks. Literally, jackhammers. We are in a state of agitation. Justified?

Nightly Noises Above

Did I mention we have a possum living in our ceiling? We do. His name is "Will Smith." (I'm not entirely sure why.)
Australian possums are much cuter than Floridian possums, so we're not too terribly concerned, though the landlord might take issue with a non-paying tenant.

Happy Easter!

I wish lots of chocolate and bunny love to everyone on this beautiful Easter Sunday. It's is a highly secularized holiday in Australia, notable for public holidays on both Friday and Monday. Shops have been closed since Thursday, and many people left town to enjoy the final warm weekend before cooler fall weather sets in. Yes, it does get cold here.

I went to an Episcopalian Eucharist this morning, just to soak in the meditative calm that is generally associated with churches on their most popular day of the year. No less than three babies were hurriedly carried, screaming, from the sanctuary. But the hymns were lovely and reminded me of home. I should start going to church more regularly.

The roomies and I were treated to brunch of lovely blintzes with strawberries, cooked by resident Chef Jeff, and the Easter bunny did leave behind chocolate eggs and hot cross buns. After the feeding, we trundled off to the beach in my gorgeous little car, and joined the throngs of Australians enjoying the sunny day. I laid back and promptly fell asleep.

Last night was a long and fun one. I was the female escort for my three Columbian friends at a salsa dance party downtown, and for reasons I cannot fully explain, I chose to wear strappy stilettos. By eleven, my feet were numb with pain, and pain isn't particularly conducive to quick, sultry dance steps. I managed to catch the heel of one shoe on the straps of another, and took a nasty fall smack on my knee. It's a lovely bruise to accompany the motorcycle gash. Just another battle wound, really. I tried to pretend I wasn't fazed, and thankfully my partner and friend just kept on twirling me like I was a rockstar. I do love dancing.

At some point rather late in the evening, I consented to dance with a burly Asian-slash-Australian-looking dude with long curly hair pulled back in a bush of a ponytail and giant biceps bursting forth from a tight sleeveless-tee. I don't know why it surprised me that manhandled me in a way that would have qualified as abuse in most Westernized countries. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he dances, and I suspect this guy makes crude demands of hapless young girls when he gets into more private settings. Note, he wasn't the uncomfortably sensual type, or one of those guys who "oops" touches you provocatively. He simply drove me forcefully past where I was able to follow his lead, and kept throwing me around, laughing as if it was good fun. It was like rape on the dance floor. In lieu of being vocally rude, which I probably should have been, all I could do was survive the song, desperately looking towards my Columbian men in hopes they would recognize my distress and step in. They were preoccupied with blondes.

Then, the real kicker, the brute dropped me! He shoved me into this treacherously low dip, and rather than feeling his mammoth arms scoop me back up to a standing position, I felt the smack of my horizontal body against the wood floor. It was surprisingly painless, but I did struggle to think of a more embarrassing moment as the crowd around me stopped dancing to ogle, giggle, and ask if I was alright. No one asked the thug if he was alright in the head. He wanted to keep dancing, and just kept on laughing maniacally as if it were all good fun to chuck a girl on the ground. I don't know if he actually meant to do it, but the dance continued as viciously as the first half, and I tried to pretend I didn't want to spit in his face. When the song ended I scrambled quickly back to the Columbians. For the rest of the night, I danced only with Manuel, who leads as if I'm a delicate and gorgeous thing to show off. He's the sort of partner that makes a girl look good. Somewhat more enjoyable than watching the disco ball as if it were the moon among stars and I reclining in a country field.

I suppose it takes all types to make the world go round, but maybe we as a humanity could do with fewer men who like to harm small animals for fun. Long live the bunnies. Long live the Christian ethic. Merry Easter to all.

Scrounging Among Beauty

It was a rough day of classes. Yesterday was the annual Norwood Food and Wine street festival, a massive confluence of gorgeous boys in big sunglasses, gorgeous girls in flowing long dresses, amazing aromas, and plenty of vino. Perhaps I indulged in more wine than food. This morning hurt. The sun was supernaturally bright.

By 7pm when I arrived home, my physical discomfort had been offset by a foul mental state. Too much coffee, not enough sleep, too many acorns of random thoughts being chased by squirrels in my head. Life's been moving pretty fast recently.

I realized that I could use a good run. Unfortunately, when I packed my boxes and bags back in January, I used the same sort of crap decision-making that led to today's hangover. For some reason, I put my tennis shoes (useful ~4 times a week) in one of the boxes entrusted to a freight shipping company, and put my sexy stilettos (useful ~2 times ever) in my carry-on luggage. I have no idea when/if I'll see those freight boxes again, and the freight company offices are temporarily snowbound in Boston, so can't even provide tracking information. For all I know, my sneakers are at this moment kicking the bottom of the Marianas Trench. Until I receive confirmation, though, I absolutely refuse to pay $150 out of my dwindling bank account for new treads.

So I put on flip flops (thongs!) and went strolling. It turns out that my heretofore unexplored neighborhood is gorgeous. Just south of the little web of streets where I live, the suburb becomes an upper-upper-middle class wonderland. Manicured gardens meander prettily around the terraced, clean architecture of tasteful two story homes set among shady green trees. Light plays through the leaves as the cool evening breeze bustles down streets named "Elm," "Cedar," "Hatherly." I stumbled upon the very house which, without a doubt, is the dream abode that's been floating outside of fixed reality in my mind for years. It exists! I wanted to go sell my soul to start mortgage payments this very instant.

The evening detox walk had a secondary motive. Tomorrow morning is "hard rubbish" day, which means the city garbage collectors will pick up any larger trash, construction materiel, old furniture, etc. For poor students, it is a good time to watch the curb. I still need a bedside table, after all. I've also been on the lookout for an old, paint-stripped window frame. I think it would make for a neat look on my mantle. So I was vaguely, surreptitiously eying trash piles. Slowing down just a bit, but not enough to make the other evening walkers think I'm the sort of person who looks through trash piles.

And then, in a pile of doors and rotting 2x4s I spotted a metal trellis. Maybe 6 inches wide by 8 feet high. Wire. Not too rusty or bent. It had potential. It would be perfect to hang on one of my very bare bedroom walls. I could clip photos to it! Postcards! I can't live without decor for long; I have a real need to get creative with my living space. It's been almost a full week in this room, and I have paltry little to show for it. This other man's trash was looking like an absolute treasure. But picking scrap metal out of a trash pile is not something I do often. And walking a mile home with it under my arm is awkward enough. Nevermind that I'm passing lawyers arriving home from their Mercedes-powered commutes and well-heeled young couples pushing their perfect babies in thousand dollar prams. There's a gorgeous sunset happening, and I'm lugging home an unwieldy wire checkerboard. I assured myself that my find was just as worthwhile, precious, and normal as the showbreed white dog leashed to a stunning young man in casual loafers. I considered explaining the situation. "It's for art," I would tell the guy. And he would be bowled over by my offbeat beauty, whisk me away to one of the nearby bistros for a bottle of wine and a chat about eclecticism. He would be cultured and wealthy, interested mostly in my mind, and he'd ask me to all sorts of swish cocktail events where I could show off my hot stilettos. Alas, he didn't even invite my banter with a double-take. I swear his dog snorted at me.

So I have some doing to do before I'm ready for that gorgeous house on Northgate Street. At least the wall of my comfy little bedroom looks cooler than it did this morning.