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Pain in My Neck

For the past three days, I’ve had a very literal pain in my neck of mysterious origins. I’m not prone to random musculoskeletal pains, so I’ve been cranky about it, as well as contrite about all of the times that I’ve discounted Mr. P’s bodily creaks and twinges. I remember how he used to complain about upper-back pain on a near-daily basis for three months until I told him, “I don’t believe that your pain can be that bad, because anybody else with health insurance as good as yours would have been to see a doctor rather than endure the corporeal torment that you profess to be experiencing, my love.”

Mr. P now sees a chiropractor who has figured out a way to bill the insurance company for 30-minute massages, so he’s all set. “You should go to my chiropractor,” he says (which probably won’t happen because the one time that I went to get my back adjusted, I passed out on the floor like a sack of potatoes, stunning some poor Newbury Street chiropractor who probably thought he severed my brain stem.)

It hurts on the right side of my neck when I turn my head fully to the left, and it hurts on the right side of my neck when I turn my head fully to the right. As I sit at a computer all day long and really have no need to twist my neck to and fro, the pain mainly rears:

1- When I’m sleeping. Some nights, I slumber like a rock. Other night, I toss, turn, and wake up on my stomach with my arms and legs splayed like a weather vane.

2-When I drive. Since I compulsively check my blind spot, I am now experiencing searing neck pain every time I turn my head. Way to add injury to insult when I discover some loutish Jeep lurking in my rear quarter.

3-When I do yoga. Could this be how I injured myself in the first place? Ah, the irony of practicing these ancient gymnastics in a modern environment. I cannot stop the strive. I insist on deepening the spinal twist, on intensifying the backbend. I have but precious few minutes a week to practice yoga, and I make them count… until they don’t.

Posted in Existence.

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The Split End

For the past year, the long-distance relationship that I was trying to carry on just wasn’t working out. The distance wasn’t an issue at first… or, at least, infatuated, that is what I told myself. But all of the time that I spent traveling so that we could be together became a strain. The thought that I couldn’t just pop in for a quickie made me anxious and lonely. The only healthy, sane thing to do was to call its quits and find myself a new hairdresser.

Oh, it was hard. My ex-hairdresser Lauren was probably the love of my hair’s life; in addition to her cutting and coloring talent, she had a genuinely sweet personality and a knack for chatting about anything. Four years ago, she brought my hair back from the brink of chemical overdose and nursed it back to life in time for my wedding two years ago — the most important hair event of any women’s life. She gave me a fresh coat of blond four day’s prior to the big day. “So when’s the wedding?” she had asked. “Oh, on Saturday,” I said, and Lauren began cracking up. “Any other woman would be in here, freaking the eff out, but you’re so laid back about your hair!”

It’s true, I am shamefully laid back about my hair. I know that my hair hasn’t been a positive feature of mine since I was a six-year blond cherub, back before it began getting increasingly ashy until I dyed it black at age 14. And my real hair color hasn’t seen the light of day since…

Until last August. That was my last hair appointment with Lauren, though she didn’t know it at the time and I didn’t have the guts to tell her. But ever since I switched jobs and went from working in Boston to the suburbs, getting to Lauren’s salon in downtown Boston because an odyssey that involved leaving work early — for my HAIR — and consumed an entire weeknight. It seemed like the best thing to do was to break up with Lauren, and while I was at it, break up with expensive, time-consuming single-process color.

Oh, Lauren, baby. I miss you. I miss your hands running through my hair, teasing out my ashy brown roots with a lathered paint brush of ammonia and peroxide. I miss the tug of the hairbrush and the stinging heat of your blow dries. I miss regaling you with the tedious details of my life, and you smiling as if enthralled, as if you have never met someone who works in a cubicle and pounds keys for a living. I miss your dedication to my hair — always striving to making it as blond and healthy as it was when I was 6. You saved my hair from myself.

Posted in Existence.

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You Know, For Kids!

Today at work, I was doing Google investigation into how other educational entities typically present resources and materials to teachers when I stumbled over the CIA Kid’s Page (here). Just who are these educators who turn to cia.gov for curriculum pointers? I’m picturing male high school history teachers who coach football, not-so-subtly mock the class intellectuals, and secretly or openly yearn to torture terrorist operatives.

The CIA Kid’s Page also features cyber-safe content that allows children to satisfy their curiosity about just what the CIA does:

The CIA is an independent US government agency that provides national security “intelligence” to key US leaders so they can make important, informed decisions. CIA employees gather intelligence (or information) in a variety of ways, not just by “spying” like you see in the movies or on TV (though we do some of that, too).

Hey kids, the CIA also gets information by using “interrogation techniques” such as simulated drowning (or “waterboarding.”) It’s kind of like when your older brother dunks you at the swimming pool until you give him your candy.

The CIA also provides a handy assortment of lesson plans for teachers to use to guide their student’s exploration of the CIA website, including practicing how to gather and analyze information (here) by interrogating elderly family members with questions like “Where did you live? Where did you go with your friends? How did you communicate with your friends?” And if Granny claims that she can’t remember, remind her that you have ways of “helping” her to remember.

Posted in The 9 to 5.

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A (Mon)Day with Shiva Rea

Rock-star yoga teachers frequently go on tour; they hit all of the popular retreats, spas, and studios, bringing their personal strain of yoga (and their DVDs, books, and other branded merchandise) to the masses. I have never experienced real-time yoga with a bonafide celebrity teacher (although once I glimpsed Baron Baptiste mingling in his Cambridge studio surrounded by a sweaty flock of disciples who had just labored under his tutelage) because it’s so rare that teachers of this calibre actually make it into the city of Boston — usually they stop at the Kripalu Center in Western Massachusetts, and while a weekend of breath, bandhas, and beyond with Rodney Yee sounds tempting, I’d be too busy stressing out over the $500 tuition/accommodation fee to think about anything else.

Somerville Arts at the Armory

But on Monday, Boston (or rather Somerville, but close enough) was blessed by a visit from Shiva Rea, one of the most sought-after yoga teachers with near-universal appeal — she satisfies the younger yoginis who crave nonstop tripod headstands as well as the more mature practitioners who prefer to slowly sway their hips back and forth. Shiva Rea is also my absolute favorite yoga instructor with whom I faithfully practice at least 2-3 times per week — on DVD, of course. Rea’s multi-city “Temple of Rasa Yoga Experience” tour was indeed pricey –$55 for each of the two-hour long sessions, and then $25 for the 90-minute mat-less trance dance at night. I opted to take both of the two-hour long sessions, wincing that I was spending about two-month’s worth of my yoga budget in one day. But… it’s much better to waste money on an EXPERIENCE than a useless material good. (My consolation was that I didn’t have to take the day off of work or call out “sick.” Since my workplace gave us the choice of taking off Columbus Day or Veteran’s Day, I was one of the 10% who choose Veteran’s Day, and then I simply swapped Monday for Thursday.)

Monday morning was dismal and rainy as I made my way to Somerville’s Center for Arts, an armory recently converted into a non-profit community space. I joined a steady stream of mat-toting women in the registration line, stashed my stuff on the balcony, and then claimed a spot on the expansive floor in front of a flower-adorned stage. The floor slowly filled up with mostly women, mostly wearing Lululemon (Lululemmings, as I once heard them called), mostly appearing to be yoga teachers or teachers-in-training. I chatted lightly with the rare guy who was sitting to my left, liking that, relative to the rest of the crowd, he also seemed to be a yoga novice. Together, we counted how many of our present and past yoga teachers we saw (him 3, me 3).

Shiva came out on stage late; the drummer started a slow but enlivening beat and we began our movement. Shiva Rea is all about movement, uninhabited and free-form, doing whatever feels natural in the moment. I usually skip these parts on DVD, because I feel sort of silly frolicking around the study, but it felt pretty good to shake out my body on my mat in a crowded room. I was surprised by how many of Shiva’s “flow” sequences I recognized from her DVDs, and when we started the Agni Namaskar, which is centered around 108 push-ups, I felt pretty comfortable. Hell, it was actually much easier to complete the 9 rounds of 12 push-ups in the armory than it was in my living room. In between each round, we did some standing poses and arm balances. All in all, it was a very rigorous practice, and true to Shiva’s word, everyone collapsed pretty happily into Savasana (also true to her word, the session ran late, although it did not feel like 2 1/2 hours of yoga!) After we emerged from Savasana she lead a series of chants. I’m not a huge fan of chanting, although it does satisfy some primitive proclivity for the primal

Despite the fact I watch her DVDs religiously, I would not have been able to pick Shiva Rea out on a street. Not to sound mean, but she looked older in person, probably because her skin is beginning to succumb to the ravages of Californian sunshine. Her body was enviably toned and tiny (much tinier than her videos, incidentally). Her blond hair looked bleached rather than natural. All in all, she looked pretty damn good, and she sounded good, too., her marvelous voice perfectly blending serenity, power, and confidence.

Shiva Rea

The morning session over, I milled around the armory, sampling some free tea and inspecting the yogic wares of the vendors — clothing, Indian jewelry and statues, incense, etc. I was hesitant to go outside but amazingly the rain had stopped and the sun even peeked out from behind dark clouds. I walked to David Square, sat in a cafe and studied French, ran some errands, and then headed back to the armory with plenty of time for the afternoon session at 4pm.

I got a better spot at the 4pm session because I had moved my mat front and center right after the morning session. I was blessed with another conversant neighbor, a very mellow girl in her early 20s who is just finished her teacher certification in hatha yoga and who studied in France for a summer. “Parles-tu francais?” I asked slyly. “No,” she said. “I actually studied Sanskrit.”

The 4pm session featured a sitar player in addition to the drums (it’s amazing that these musicians can continuously play for hours on end). The afternoon practice focused on backbending and “heart-opening,” and was less vigorous than the morning… although it did not lack in challenges! Again, being well-versed in Shiva’s DVDs prepared me well for this radiant heart flow, and while I normally find this particular sequence too boring to do at home, on Monday I never wanted it to end. Every pose was heavenly; in downward dog, we’d peddle our feet to own own inspiration, in locust we’d move our arms and legs like abstract swimming, and then we’d get on the floor and roll to the right and then the left… and all this movement was so creative, dynamic, yet strangely restorative, without a twinge of self-consciousness, and without once thinking “I paid $55 to roll on a floor with 150 strangers for 2 hours.”

It was absolutely worth it, by the way, because I will now watch Shiva’s DVDs with absolute appreciation and renewed understanding for her practices. Plus, a moment burned in my memory: during the 4pm session, Shiva Rea gave me an assist! (An assist is hands-on help from the teacher or assistant to deepen or enhance a pose — a little different than an adjustment, which corrects the pose). We were in a Vasisthasana (side plank) variation (one leg in plank, the other leg bent in front) and we were bringing our free hands into the air with a tiny backbend when I felt a hand on my wrist gently pulling my arm longer and higher than it would have normally gone, and I heard Shiva’s voice behind my head as she spoke in the wireless mic headset, something about liberating or enlivening or empowering or devoting or something like that.

Posted in Existence.

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George Decides to Write a Book

I have no doubt that the impending release of George W. Bush’s memoir “Decision Points” was timed to immediately follow the midterm elections, when the Republicans would regain some of the political power that they lost mostly as a result of the disastrous outcomes of Bush’s eight-year reign as president. This would allow GWB to return to the public eye unscarred by the shrapnel of his imploding presidency. Surely the GOP regaining control of Congress is evidence that the American public is fickle, that whatever evil GWB wrought is easily forgotten, and that America may even be in the beginning throes of GWB nostalgia, to which I bay: TOO SOON. It’s all TOO SOON.
It’s fun to speculate that the “Decision Points” title is self-effacingly acknowledging this infamous Bushism: “I’m the decider, and I decide what’s best. And what’s best is for Don Rumsfeld to remain as the secretary of defense.” GWB prided himself on being “the decider.” What an utterly low point in American political discourse. Not only was Bush defending Rumsfeld against an unprecedented military revolt against Rumsfeld’s abysmal planning and lack of strategic competence, but GWB was rebutting the concerns of eight retired generals and admirals with despotic, cocky ineloquence. Lest we forget…
One of the main purposes of a Presidential memoir is to help define a legacy. As if GWB’s legacy needed help! I have no intention of ever reading “Decision Points,” but I can’t stop reading the pre-release book reviews, which conveniently pick out the juiciest bits from the 481-paged tome.
  • His response to hearing from Condi Rice that a third plane had crashed into the Pentagon: “My blood was boiling. We were going to find out who did this, and kick their ass (here).”
  • On personally giving the CIA permission to waterboard to Khalid Sheik Mohammed in 2003: “Damn right.” (GWB still contends that simulated drowning is not torture.) (Here.)
  • On Katrina: “The problem was not that I made the wrong decisions. It was that I took too long to decide (here).”  The decider took too long to decide!
  • On immigration: “The failure of immigration reform points out larger concerns about the direction of our politics. The blend of isolationism, protectionism, and nativism that affected the immigration debate also led Congress to block free trade agreements with Colombia, Panama, and South Korea. I recognize the genuine anxiety that people feel about foreign competition. But our economy, our security, and our culture would all be weakened by an attempt to wall ourselves off from the world. Americans should never fear competition. Our country has always thrived when we’ve engaged the world with confidence in our values and ourselves (here).” (Wait, what was that? An informed, nuanced statement filled with empathy and pride that I kinda agree with? Who wrote that?)
  • And this charming anecdote of a visit to Russia, when Putin showed him his black Labrador, Koni. “Bigger, stronger, and faster than Barney,” Putin bragged. GWB later recounted this to Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper, who said “You’re lucky he only showed you his dog (here).” Ha ha ha. As Maureen Dowd quipped, if GWB keeps this up, I might have to vote for him.

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Dans la boue

If the Cambridge Center of Adult Education kept transcripts, mine would look something like this:

French Level 2 (fall 2006)
French Level 3 (spring 2007)
summer hiatus
French Levels 1 & 2 (intensive) (fall 2007)
French Level 2 (spring 2008)
two-semester hiatus
French Level 3 (spring 2009)
three-semester hiatus

I am entirely aware that this makes me look like a lazy, pitiful, dumb, yet persistent French language learner. Obviously this weekly 90-minute class with about 15 minutes of homework wasn’t translating into any sort of proficiency in the French language, making it impossible for me to progress beyond Level 3. By the final class, I would be so lost that I’d either retreat to a lower, too-easy level or drop out entirely in frustration.

Obviously, languages cannot be learned solely in a classroom; I needed to make a concerted effort to inundate myself in French. So I started watching French movies, listening to French podcasts, and reading French newspapers. I began using hiking as a way of practicing French on my captive French husband — simple stuff like “Il y a beacoup de feuilles sur le chemin” (there are a lot of leaves on the trail), to which he replies “Yes, there are” (in English). I bought a French grammar book that contains pages of nothing but grammar drills, which I work through on the stationary bike. I subscribed to Bien-Dire, a magazine for French language learners that includes an audio CD. I tried cooking with a French cookbook, though I was stumped by the quantities for ingredients (30 g de buerre? 1/2 litre de lait?) I’ll make an effort to understand French, but when it comes to the metric system, I’m hopeless.

I could tell all of this effort was paying off when I boldly signed up for French Level 4 in September. What a difference it makes, to actually understand the teacher, to not dread being called to read aloud, to be able  to formulate questions in French without slipping into sheepish pidgin English. In fact, I’m one of the star pupils, with the native French teacher frequently asking me about “votre mari francais.”

Parles-tu francais avec votre mari francais?” she asked me last week.

Oui, mais il repond en anglais,” I answer, cooly, flippantly, making her laugh. I can scarcely believe that these French words are flowing so effortlessly out of my mouth and, even more amazingly, a French person admits to understanding me.

Of course, I have a long way to go. Everytime I listen to a Podcast, I am reminded how fast French people actually speak. Everytime I open Bien-Dire, I am overwhelmed by the sheer number of words that I must commit to memory if I ever hope to be considered fluent in French. And everytime I speak French to Mr. P, he invariably looks bewildered over a word:

J’ai marché dans la boue,” I’ll say as we walk through the forest. (‘I walked in the mud.’)

Dans la what?” he asks.

Boue. Boue. Boue,” I’ll say, varying my pronounciation a little each time.

He’ll just lost in thought and then say “Ah! Dans la boue.”

“That’s what I said!” I insist, because to my ears, it is.

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Voting the Government Down

So weary of the news: the “midterm elections” with its “reversal of power” in the “House of Representatives” to the “Republicans.” So sick of the anger of the Tea Party, of their message of “limited Constitutional authority” juxtaposed with their demands for anti-abortion laws and bans on gay marriage. So tired of media speculation on the mood of the American electorate, fueling the hysteria, the malcontent, the very real anxiety that may be indicative that the American Way of Life as a system just isn’t sustainable, that our once-great country can no longer provide for its citizens. So done with it all coming down to the shit-for-brain voters in Ohio.

You want no government, people? Go to Africa. Most of the African countries don’t have governments and it’s a fucking paradise.

I absconded from the hard news websites to the safety of celebrity “news”. But, I found myself similarly vexed. Who are these people? Demi Lovato? Justin Bieber? T.I.? Hiccup Girl? I can’t say what makes me feel more out of touch: the countrywide hypocritical demand for “no government” or this inscrutable news item about a male teen mom hugging another man and then making out with white trash.

Posted in In the News.

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Bunghole

I sat today with the intention of writing a fascinating (of course!) essay about how I ripped up the disused tomato plants from our garden tonight. About how I chucked dozens of rotted bodies of fruit, bloated by nighttime frost. About how I hacked at the twine that had bound the plants to the posts with a retractable blade, allowing the great vines to swoon to the ground. About how our mutually-beneficial relationship has ended. We are the tomato plants’ creator, protector, and ultimately the destroyer; with no great effort, we tug its defunct roots from the soil and crumple the vines into the Yard Waste bin.

My essay didn’t progress as planned. I lost my focus somewhere between answering emails, making dinner, and running various domestic errands. Aw, shit, I hate to evoke the prose of Woolf so cavalierly, but  “Women, then, have not had a dog’s chance of writing poetry. That is why I have laid so much stress on money and a room of one’s own.

Having failed at poetry for tonight, instead I bring you… Bunghole Liquors, of Peabody, Massachusetts. What a surrendipitous discovery, to be driving down the road and happen upon a typical nondescript package store called Bunghole Liquors. I forced Mr. P to pull over to take a picture, even though he could not comprehend why. “In dictionary English, a bunghole is the pouring hole in a liquor barrel,” I explained. “But doesn’t ‘bunghole’ just sound like it should mean something a helluva lot dirtier than that?”

I was a little disappointed when the Internet told me that the proprietors of Bunghole Liquors were fully cognizant of their establishment’s unsavory double entendre; their website boasts of the slogan “We’re not #1 butt we’re right up there” and offers a good selection of merchandise riffing on bunghole’s slang meaning. Which is rather coarse and low-class, if you ask me. The opposite of poetry.

Posted in Massachusetts.

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Zombie Pilgrim

This morning we ran the 6.66 mile Devil’s Chase run in Salem (here). Ever since I read the Crucible in high school, I’ve had a fascination with Salem — although I’ve never fully accepted Salem’s self-proclamation as “Witch City” and ownership of the Halloween holiday. I mean, the life lesson to be learned from the Salem witch trials is that none of the accused witches were really witches. Of course. Salem as a city is no more supernatural than Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. But it’s a good marketing technique, as evident by the nearly 1200 runners who signed up to run 6.66 miles at 8am on a late-October Sunday morning that fortuitously happened to be Halloween.

The race instructions said that costumes were encouraged and they’d have prizes for the best 15 costumes, but we somehow missed the memo that only devil costumes would be judged. Which is ridiculous, because how boring is it to see hundreds of runners wearing red shirts, tiny devil’s horn, and forked tails? Wouldn’t you rather see…

Zombie Pilgrim

…a zombie pilgrim?

Mr. P improvised with a can of green hairspray and the ridiculously orange tech shirt from the ING half-marathon:

Pumpkin Man

Even though I didn’t qualify for the costume contest, I created a stir as I ran through the streets of Salem. And whatever discomfort caused by running in a full-length skirt (with a pinned hemline), a collar, an apron, a bonnet, and highly toxic face paint was compensated by the hilarity that such a sight caused among the festive citizens of Salem, who consistently correctly identified me: “Look, it’s a pilgrim zombie!” One woman pointed at me and shrieked “It’s a witch! Hang the witch!” I must’ve had my picture taken two dozen times. I loved that everyone understood and appreciated what I was going for:

The Home Stretch

Thank goodness the morning chill kept me from sweating profusely, as I was highly paranoid that my face would melt into my eyes. My pace was very relaxed, and by the time I rounded towards the finish line (passing speedy Mr. P — who had long since finished — with his camera) I could even muster a smile, though beaming happiness isn’t very pilgrim zombie-esque.

Happiest Zombie Pilgrim Ever

At the finish line, I sampled some popcorn and helped Mr. P pillage the energy bars (for future use). Then, we took a turn in the photo booth.

And, just because I’m verklempt with seasonal exuberance, here are some gratuitous late-season foliage shots from Lynn Woods:

Boston from Lynn Woods

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Adventures in Adult Education: Italian Wine Tasting

Since last spring’s adult education class in charcuterie and champagne was so, uh, enlightening, this fall we committed ourselves to the study of wine. The formal study, I hasten to clarify. We signed up for The Wines of Italy at the Cambridge Center of Adult Education because Mr. P admits a dearth of knowledge about wines from regions east of Alsace; in fact, neither of us could name a single Italian wine outside of chianti and pinot grigio.

I imagined that the wine-tasting class would be overflowing with old bearded men making erudite comments about how a certain wine’s aroma is reminiscent of that Chateau Mouton Rothschild he sampled in London last year. So I was surprised when we entered the classroom (which was very much a classroom, with ramrod-straight back plastic chairs assembled around an old wooden table and a chalkboard full of Spanish conjugations) and found 5 rather dumpy women sitting around the table. The final count (including us) would be 7 women and 2 men. The instructor was in his mid-40s and was American, though he claimed Italian ancestry and had lived there for 7 years. We went around the room to introduce ourselves and name our favorite wine of the moment:

* The first two women appeared to be related, judging by their matching hollow eye sockets and fat Irish faces. They were young and smacked of townieness. One said vaguely she liked Californian wines and the other said “I like red, but I’m starting to get into whites.” I had already pegged them as “most likely to get trashed.”

* The next two women were also together, although they were obviously not related as one woman was from Italy “but I know nothing of wine.” They were older and dressed sorta funky, giving them the appearance of being rich, educated women who did outrageous things together like go to wine-tasting classes. The non-Italian woman claimed to like some Italian wine that I never heard of, giving her instant credence in my eyes.

* The next woman was a young (early 20s) woman of Asian descent who said she liked “champagne.” (Later in the class, the teacher went on a mini-tirade about how American refer to all sparkling wines as “champagne.”) She ate more of the tasteless tasting crackers than everyone else combined.

* Next was the only other man in the class, a late-20s ginger who was Brooks Brothers personified. He said that he was buying lots of “zinfidel,” which is respectable.

* Then it was Mr. P’s turn, and he explained that he was from France and hence drank mostly French wines. “I’m his wife, so I drink whatever he buys,” I said, earning a laugh and excusing me from having to name anything in particular. Whew.

* Lastly was a woman in her early 40s who appeared very successful and confident, and wanted to learn more about wine “because I know people in the industry,” she said. And I totally believe her.

To warm-up our taste buds, we began by sampling three mystery liquids. The first one looked liked water but had a familiar taste to it… what was it? I rolled it around my mouth, feeling the sides of my tongue tingling from the acidity of the liquid. I was lost, but everyone else knew what it was, replying in unison “Water with lemon!” So obvious once I hear it.

The second liquid looked liked diluted juice. We stuck our noses in the glasses and instantly I pegged it as cranberry juice. The sugar lit up the taste buds on the tip of our tongues, but I was wrong — it was grape juice. The third liquid was amber-colored and also familiar… beer? Was it flat beer? It was loaded with tannins, but it turned out to be black tea.

Obviously, I’m really bad at tasting things. I’m also highly suggestive; someone could say “this tastes like bananas!” and I would totally taste banana even if it “really” tasted like cherries. The teacher explained that it requires training to blindly pick out tastes and smells. We sniffed and tasted the first white wine, which was a dry sparkling white from Veneto, the region of Venice — “Apples and pears!” was the class’s unanimous pronouncement about its note.

“I think it tastes like white wine,” I whispered to Mr. P.

The second and third whites had less acidity. I enjoyed them both, and was sad to have to pour out my unfinished portion. I stole glances around the room to see how much everyone else was drinking. The two townies were definitely chug-a-lug, and didn’t seem too interested in the teacher’s nuanced explanations of the soil’s effect on grape vines, on pairing wines with salads, and on the bureaucratic governance of wines in Italy (which is similar to France — that is, pretty batshit tight). The woman from Italy and her friend were likewise enjoying every sip, only they were asking a ton of questions that got progressively more relaxed as the night wore on:

“This one tastes very thick and jammy in my mouth,” one said to the teacher as we tried a red from Abruzzo. “Does it taste jammy to you, or am I crazy?”

We learned there are over 200 kinds of grapes in Italy, as compared to 50 kinds of grapes in France. This is due to the numerous microclimates in Italy as well as regulations in France that caused the vineyards to abandon un-regulated grapes. We actually learned a lot about French wine, as the teacher consistently compared Italy to France, perhaps for our benefit, perhaps because the Italians have a complex about French wine?

After we tasted the sixth and final wine, a robust red from Tuscany, I was felt a bit tipsy despite probably having a combined total of one and half glasses over 2 hours. I think all the wine vapors had an effect on me. In any case, don’t think that wine tasting class is all fun and games — this is education! We learned about history, geography, botany, politics, and anthropology, and we were pleasantly buzzed while doing it.

Class #2 is next week… we’re studying hard…

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