Author’s note: I started this article in the fall of 2019, long before COVID was a thing. Luckily I was able to taste most every Sidecar in town before the shutdown. I don’t know when we’ll be able to visit some of the bars mentioned in this story, or whether any of them will even weather this storm. But the Sidecar will carry on, I’m sure, as it has since before Prohibition.

I step up onto a barstool, feel around for the hooks beneath the counter, and hang my bag. An array of colorful bottles, all different shapes and sizes, filled with tantalizing elixirs, tempts me. I ignore them. The bartender slides me a cocktail menu. I don’t need to look at it, though. I know exactly what I want. A Sidecar.

My fascination with Sidecars was born out of my Evelyn Waugh phase in 2007. I worked my way from Brideshead Revisited to Vile Bodies, which chronicles the lives of privileged twenty-somethings in London after the First World War. These bright young things, as they were known, were cheerfully destroying their lives with booze, drugs, fast cars, and gambling. One of the drinks these socialites sipped was the Sidecar. Intrigued, I looked it up, and thus began my mission to explore this historic cocktail.

The Sidecar is a deceptively simple drink. The Prohibition-era recipe allegedly called for equal parts brandy, Cointreau, and lemon juice. Most modern bartenders don’t make it this way, as this recipe is essentially undrinkable. Instead, they tweak the ratios to create a lovely, smooth, palatable beverage. At least, that’s what one strives for. Whether that’s what you get is another story entirely.

So, what should a Sidecar taste like? The dense, almost unctuous orange from the Cointreau marries well with the brandy base, and just a splash of lemon is needed to brighten things up. I found that people were a little too heavy-handed with the lemon, resulting in a rather cloying drink.

Sadly for my initial foray, I was sidetracked by a love interest at the time, and the grand mission fell by the wayside. It wasn’t until years later that I recalled my old friend, the Sidecar, when these two articles from Punch landed in my inbox. According to In Search of the Ultimate Sidecar and What Should a Sidecar Really Taste Like? , I am a Sidecar unicorn. Is this a badge of honor, or of shame? I prefer honor.

Inspired by these articles to reinvigorate the campaign, I set out to try all the Sidecars in Ithaca in order to identify the best one.

I approached this task semi-scientifically. I defined what I would accept as a reasonable rendition of a Sidecar: a cocktail served up, with a brandy base, Cointreau, and lemon juice. There is some controversy over whether it should have a sugared rim. I like the sugared rim myself, though apparently this is not true to the original. Josie at the Rook presented hers in a delightful half rim – a cascade of sugar draped over part of the glass. A delicious work of beauty. (Shown above.)

The Sidecar is not a long drink, and definitely, definitely, does not contain soda. Soda, I tell you. No. So: To be considered, the Sidecar needed to be served neat, in a martini glass, and composed of some combination of brandy, Cointreau, and lemon juice. At least one place did not have brandy and so used cognac, which is also acceptable according to the original recipe.

I drank some pretty vile Sidecars, and some pretty tasty ones. And after having drunk every Sidecar in downtown Ithaca, I can say that only one place makes one that I came back to time and time again: The Rook.

So, if you want a Sidecar that tastes like a Sidecar, the one at the Rook is a solid choice. Eminently sippable and delicious, you will enjoy this drink even though (or because) it is a relic of bygone times. Runners up: The Strand at the Hilton Canopy (Luke), and Nowhere Special (James).

Years ago, when I first got into cocktails, I tried making my own. I had no idea what I was doing, and they were terrible. Undrinkable. I had no clue about balance, not to mention the basic building blocks of a cocktail. So, I took a class. I learned that the classic definition of a cocktail is spirit, sugar, bitters, and water. Those components can be interpreted at the discretion of the cocktail artist. With this information in hand, I built up my booze collection and tried my hand again. This time, the results were much better.

One the drinks I created is a riff on an Old Fashioned. It uses a bourbon base and blends in notes of fall: walnuts, apple, maple. The result is a a warm, well-rounded drink, with sweetness from the maple balanced by walnut bitters. As I said, this was years ago, and a friend of mine recently encouraged me to share this, already, so may I present what I call the Hayride, or Fall in a Glass:

2 oz Mackenzie Bourbon from Fingerlakes Distilling
1/2 oz Maplejack Liqueur (or 1/2 teaspoon pure maple syrup)
1/2 oz Pommeau from South Hill Cider (or any apple brandy)
2-3 dashes black walnut bitters

Place into a beaker containing ice and stir until cold. 
Serve in a Nick & Nora glass or martini glass.

When I tell people I traveled to Patagonia and walked among penguins, they respond with exclamations of wonder and delight. “Oh, penguins, how cute!” they say. I thought so too, at first. But I can tell you now that penguins are not cute. They are vicious. I am now legitimately terrified of any bird larger than a duck. True story.

The trip began on a cold, wintry day in January 2016. My husband and I left the northern hemisphere in the wee hours of the morning, when it was pitch black and freezing cold. Many hours later, we arrived in Buenos Aires at 3 am local time, where it was already 70 degrees out. Multiple layers were shed. After a few hangry hours waiting around at the airport, we continued south to Ushuaia. I say hangry because at first no fooderies were open, and then when they did open, I had no money to buy anything. The ATM in the terminal wouldn’t allow me to withdraw any money, and I came to learn that it was extremely difficult to withdraw Argentine pesos anywhere. Many places also did not take Mastercard, which was my only debit/credit card at the time. This created a minor panic later in the trip when it became vital that we have cash, which we couldn’t get easily. But more on that later. In any case, it meant I was hungry and unpleasant that morning.

Many more hours later (and after a forgettable but serviceable meal on the airplane), we arrived in Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. And thus began Dave’s obsession with everything southernmost. The southernmost horse in the world. The southernmost dog. The southernmost cocktail. And so on. Until I took his camera and threw it on the ground and stomped on it and screamed, “No more pictures of southernmost things!” and stomped off. That didn’t actually happen, but I may have considered it.

After a couple days hanging out in Ushuaia, getting used to being in the southern hemisphere, and doing touristy things like visiting the southernmost museum of the world, as one does, we embarked on the next part of our journey. We set sail on the Stella Australis for an expedition around Cape Horn through the Beagle Channel, stopping to visit glaciers and penguins on our way to Punta Arenas, Chile. Now, I’ve commented on this before (see Bordeaux), but trips often don’t go as you planned in your head. For one thing, I didn’t plan on being attacked by a penguin.

 Nor did I plan on waking up at 5:45 in the morning the first day of our excursion to Chile, but if you want to visit Cape Horn, rise and shine you must. And so we mustered at 5:45 am along with 148 other equally cranky shipmates, dressed top to toe in raingear and waterproof footwear.

After braving blistering rain and choppy waters in a Zodiac we explored Cape Horn. By explore, I mean we climbed a lot of steps and walked up to this sort of monument thing that marks it as Cape Horn (see above). This was harder than it sounds due to the wind and rain, and the sensation that you might, in fact, be blown off this tiny patch of land onto the ends of the earth itself and never seen nor heard from again. But we made the trek there and back, reboarded the Zodiacs, and recuperated with some fortifying beverages back on the ship. All before breakfast!

 That whole experience gave me a newfound appreciation for our early explorers. We were there in January, summertime for that part of the globe, when the weather and seas might be expected to be a little more calm. So I can only imagine what it must be like at other times of the year, in vessels that were probably less seaworthy than our stalwart cruise ship. Just a speculation.

Anyway, the journey continued around the archipelago to the glaciers. I saw a lot of glaciers on this trip. I got to walk on a glacier. I got to drink whiskey with ice from a glacier. I got to go inside a glacier cave. I was lucky enough to watch a glacier calve. I never want to see a glacier again. I took a lot of pictures of the glaciers, as one would, and I learned that while glaciers look impressive from far away, up close they look not unlike the great piles of snow that the snowplow leaves at the edges of parking lots in winter. I could have just visited a parking lot in winter, taken some photos, and saved myself a lot of money. Still, glaciers are pretty impressive. Above is the Aguila Glacier in Chile as seen from the boat, and below as we walked towards it. More on glaciers later.

And finally, the Great Penguin Attack of 2016! Our last stop before arriving in Punta Arenas was Magdalena Island, the island of penguins. This is a tiny island populated by a colony of Magellanic penguins and a small group of park rangers who care for them. One of these rangers saved me from sure death or at least maiming or possibly a small flesh wound that day. One can walk around the island (it is very small) along a path defined by a string fence a couple feet above the ground, which allows the penguins to wander freely from their nesting area down to the sea. It was one of these wandering penguins who attacked me.

First, he attacked the guy in front of me, pecking at his ankles, which I thought was funny, so I took some pictures. Then the penguin turned his attention to me, and it quickly became not so funny. Penguins have sharp beaks. I stood still because I didn’t want to antagonize him further by running, and the bird kept pecking away at my leg. I screamed in panic and fear and a ranger came over and shooed the bird away. My nerves were too fragile to continue the tour of the island – every penguin was now a mortal enemy, training their eyes and beaks on my tender calves. So, we retreated to the safety of the boat.

The result of the Great Penguin Attack that I now give birds a wide berth. Especially geese. Geese are terrifying. And I plan to avoid any potential encounters with penguins as best I can. It’s a pattern with me, being attacked by birds. A pigeon flew into my head in New York City recently, so I’m not exaggerating this tendency for birds to see me as a target. Anyway, this is just the first part of our trip. I’ll be posting the other parts sometime soon(ish).

While incarcerated under quarantine, I’ve been participating in a series of wine seminars put on by Skurnik Wines & Spirits of New York City. They’re a well-known importer and distributor of wines in the US, and one of my favorite local wine shops has been featuring their weekly Zoom seminars. Each Saturday afternoon features a winemaker and one of their signature wines. The first week, I sipped a delicious single-estate Riesling made by a delightful older German fellow; the second week a Champagne made by a delicious-looking young French guy; and this Saturday, two Grüner Veltiners – one from Austria and one from California. The Austrian was Leo Alzinger Jr from Weingut Alzinger in the Wachau, and the Calfornian Graham Tatomer from Tatomer Wines in Santa Barbara. I had no idea Santa Barbara produced cool-weather wines such as riesling and Grüner, but so they do! Apparently the area immediately along the coast is cool enough to suit those varietals, while inland is better suited to the chardonnay and pinot noir California is known for.

Grüner Veltliner, a light-bodied white wine best suited to cooler climes, is not all that well-known; I first tried it on a trip to Vienna the summer of 2005 with my ex. This was one of several stops across Northeastern Europe, as we made our way towards Russia and the Trans-Siberian Railway. In Vienna, I convinced my husband we needed to visit the heuriger on the outskirts of the city. To reach them, one just takes the tram to the very end of the line, and then wanders around the Austrian countryside in search of wine.

Heuriger are wine taverns that serve only locally produced wines, and often ones grown on site. They are very casual; you’ll find picnic tables scattered outside under the trees, and you typically order wine by the viertel, or quarter liter, and there’s usually meats, cheese, veggies, and other light snacks served buffet style to accompany your wine. And, the wine is usually Grüner Veltliner. Eminently quaffable, especially when chilled, it’s the perfect antidote on a hot summer’s day.

My husband and I had a delightful time wandering from heurige to heurige that day 15 years ago, meandering down dusty paths in the Viennese countryside, becoming more inebriated as we went. As we were blissfully traipsing back to the tram station, we spotted a horse standing under a tree behind a wooden fence. There was a hand-written sign on the fence, telling passersby to please not futtern the horse. I could decipher everything but the verb. This being pre-smartphone, and lacking a German-English dictionary, we couldn’t just look it up. We pet the horse, who seemed very friendly, then realized maybe we were disobeying the sign, and made our way onwards. Later I learned that the author of the sign wanted us not to feed the horse, which is good, because we didn’t.

Anyway, I highly recommend spending a sunny afternoon drinking wine at a heurige, and I also recommend Grüner Veltliner. It’s often overlooked, as I mentioned, because it’s so light-bodied, and lacks the heft of a chardonnay or the layers of fruit in a riesling. But they’re delicate and sometimes minerally; one of the ones I tasted yesterday had a distinct yeastiness to it, like fresh-baked bread.

The wind caught my umbrella and whipped it inside out. Cursing, I turned towards the wind to push it back into place. Holding my phone in one hand, I huddled under an awning and carefully balanced my umbrella on my shoulder so I could free up the other hand to consult the map. My finger smeared water uselessly across the face of my phone. I squinted at it, trying to enlarge the map to see the street names. I need to walk towards 6th Ave. Which direction is 6th Ave. I peered around, the rain dripping into my eyes, blurring the street signs. I sighed in frustration.

My jeans were soaked from the knees down, and even my sleeves were starting to get damp inside my coat. Why was I doing this again? Why was I in the middle of a downpour somewhere in Manhattan, alone, soaked, cold, and miserable? Oh. Because of a boy. Right. The one I’d hoped would join me had demurred, and the one I now wanted to be with was 200 miles away. So this worked out well.

The plan had been simple. I had devised a weekend of fun things: the NYT Travel Show, the Brooklyn Podcast Festival, and a food writing workshop at the Brooklyn Brainery. I’d hoped this person would join me for a weekend o’ fun, or at least a drink, but he begged off, citing dry January. He didn’t respond to my suggestion to do something booze-free, so I set off alone, looking forward to whatever adventures awaited me. Ironically enough, days before I was to embark on this farce, I met someone else I really liked. So here I was, somewhere on 23rd St, trying to get back to 34th St, where I should have been, had I not been distracted by new boy and missed my train stop.

The day had started out gray and chilly, a drizzle spraying my face as I made my way up Lexington towards a cute breakfast place I’d found online. Consulting my phone from time to time to make sure I was on the right track, I turned onto a side street to get my bearings. I should have reached it by now, I figured. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a pigeon on the ground a few feet away. Flapping its wings, it took off in my direction. I ignored it until, with mounting disbelief, I realized we were on a collision course. WTF. I ducked, and in a blur of gray and white, the bird hit my left temple with a soft but substantial thud and flew off.

Dazed, I staggered towards the building to my left, clutching at my head. Had anyone seen? I glanced around. No one. I mean, birds have one job. Fly around, and you know, avoid things in the air as they do. Also, pigeons are surprisingly substantial, as it turns out. Squishy, but substantial. Imagine being hit in the head with a flying sack of flour. Like that. Maybe practice at home. Have a loved one throw some flour at you. Maybe provoke them first for authenticity.

Still reeling from the Great Pigeon Attack of 2020, I found the cute breakfast place and settled in. The rain was starting to pick up and I had a nice cup of tea, so I made an executive decision to skip the travel show and go straight to Brooklyn with a stop at the Lush store on the way. On the R train to 34th-Herald Square, I got to texting a friend about my new love interest and looked up in alarm as we were pulling out of 28th St. Sh*t. Well, I’ll just go one more stop and get on the train going in the other direction, I figured. Not so easy. There was no way to cross over the tracks at 23rd St, and all the stations aboveground were blocked. No trains were stopping at that station going the other way. Hence I found myself in the middle of a torrential downpour, in the middle of seemingly nowhere, drenched and annoyed.

I eventually made my way to the store, smelled all the things Lush, spent way too much money on deliciously-scented creams and scrubs, and made my way to Brooklyn and the podcast festival. I had researched the podcasts beforehand and only one caught my eye: Martinis and Murders. Two of my favorite things! I love true crime, and I love a decent beverage. Sold. I bought a VIP ticket so I could get in early and be assured a decent seat.

After futilely attempting to dry off at the hotel with a hair dryer, I took an Uber to the venue. No way was I was going to endure that hurricane-force wind and rain anymore. When I arrived, I was glad to see a cash bar and plenty of seats up front. I grabbed a seat in the second row (the first row seats were blocked by sound equipment) and procured an adult beverage. I started to feel normal. A young man in a leopard-esque print shirt approached me and introduced himself. We made small talk about where I was from, and he asked if I was a fan of the show. “Oh, yes, yes!” I nodded enthusiastically. He commented that his voice was failing, which was bit odd, but you know, maybe he was making conversation.

The lights dimmed, and the podcast hosts took their positions. One of them was the guy in the leopard shirt. So much for being a huge fan of the show. I was becoming more and more glad that the original boy wasn’t there. Nope, he wasn’t there to see me looking like a drowned rat who’d been hit in the head by a pigeon and didn’t even recognize the host of of the podcast she was such a great fan of. Smooth. Reeeeaaal smooth. That’s me.

The next day dawned sunny and bright; no sign of the gale-force winds and torrential rain from the day before. I got to the food writing workshop early, joining about ten other 30-something women to hone the craft of writing about food from the great Sarah Lohman. This was the highlight of the weekend, and I am glad I went.

After the workshop, the day was mine to spend as I pleased. Having skipped the travel show the day before, I decided to check it out. I heaved my overnight bag over my shoulder, and schlepped myself and all my stuff to Javits Center from Brooklyn. By this time, lugging an overnight bag around the city was getting old – along with it, I had my purse slung over the other shoulder, and my umbrella, which was too big to stuff into my bag, dangling around my wrist.

The travel show, of course, was huge, and I missed the sign for the coat check, so I gamely trudged around the gargantuan convention center for the better part of an hour. After picking up some brochures for the Azores, which I hope to visit next year, I left and made my way to the Cornell Club and the bus home, with a stop at Bryant Park for old times’ sake.

Exhausted, I was relieved to finally collapse and stow my luggage (I’d picked up a free tote bag at the travel show, and happily stowed my umbrella in it) on the bus, and I immediately settled in for a nice nap. The bus would drop me off on the Cornell campus four hours later, and there my new flame was to meet me. When the bus finally rolled up to the Statler, I gathered my things for the last time,  climbed the stairs to the hotel, and rounded the corner into the bar. And there, waiting for me, he was, beaming at me. “I ordered food,” he said, beckoning to the seat beside him. He ordered food ahead of time? A keeper, for sure.  I dropped my things and lowered myself onto the barstool. The trip was over, but I suspect a new adventure awaits.

Is the Aperol Spritz the equivalent to boxed mac & cheese in the world of spritzes?

Several months ago, an article appeared in the New York Times that lambasted one of my favorite summertime beverages, the Aperol Spritz. Although the author makes it clear she enjoys spritzes in general, and offers some alternatives to Aperol that are “more nuanced,” she seems to find the Aperol spritz a poor representative of the genre. Aperol is too saccharine and syrupy, she says. The bubbles typically used are cheap, sweet prosecco, she adds. And in a final coup, she compares it unfavorably to Capri Sun. One could positively hear the gasps echoing around the internets. The nerve. The nerve.

She makes valid points, to be sure. But (and I may destroy my foodie cred right here and now) I do like mac & cheese from a box on occasion. Sometimes, nothing but boxed mac & cheese, bright orange powder and all, will do. It has to be certain brand, but still. And sometimes, on a warm summer evening, an Aperol spritz, refreshingly bubbly and just a little bitter, is just the ticket.

Yes, there are more sophisticated (and more bitter) amari one can use instead of Aperol. And no, you don’t want to use expensive champagne. And the club soda is essential. But a nice dry sparkling wine, with just enough bitter orange Aperol to be refreshing, and a splash of club soda to cut the sweetness, does the trick just fine.

I decided to do some taste-tasting around Ithaca. I can tell you which ones I liked the best. The ones I liked least will remain unnamed, not least because I like the bars and bartenders who made them. An excellent version can be found at The Rook, and, not surprisingly, Pasta Vitto makes a very refreshing one (now that they finally have their liquor license).

When it comes to travel, I am a planner. The first I thing I do is research all the food and drink options, peruse websites, and scan menus and cocktail lists. I add all the spots I want to go to a virtual map, and try to visit as many as I can. Thus it was when my husband and I joined my friend Molly and her husband on a trip to Scotland in April. Due to a misunderstanding about the date Dave and I were to leave Scotland, we ended up spending far less time in Edinburgh than I would have liked. This, coupled with a bad cold I developed our first day there, meant that we went to very few of the places I had painstakingly researched months before. One of them was this place: 56 North, Scotland’s original gin bar, according to their website, and by all appearances, a veritable gin-lovers paradise.

I had never associated gin with Scotland; one usually thinks of, well, Scotch as the national tipple. But one of my favorite gins, Hendricks, hails from Scotland, and all this time I had no idea. Perusing the 56 North website, I discovered Scottish gins by the dozens. And gins from across the world. All of these broken down into categories: Scottish botanicals, Juniper Led, Classic Dry, Citrus, the list goes on. Tantalizingly close to our Airbnb, yet it was not to be. I’ll have to return to Edinburgh and try this place – I could easily spend hours there. Despite missing out on 56 North, I did get to try some tasty Scottish gins.

The night of the terrible cold, I allowed myself to be dragged out to dinner at a vegetarian restaurant in Edinburgh. I forget the name of it, but our server was very eloquent about the variety of gins and tonics on hand. Despite not feeling great, I knew I had to try a few – I mean, I can’t be the Peregrine Foodie and not try the local offerings. After determining what types of gin we liked, he made recommendations for each of us. For me, he recommended Brockman’s, which he described as fruity. I was skeptical, as fruity usually corresponds to sweet, and I’m not a fan of hugely sweet things. I’ll usually try anything once, though, and besides, how bad could it be? It’s gin, after all. Then he asked about tonic.

This is when I learned something new. In Scotland (and perhaps other places, I don’t know), gin and tonic is served separately. The gin is served over ice, and the tonic is served in its own little bottle. You can add as much or as little as you like. And as an added bonus you can save some tonic for the next G&T, and save on tonic! Win-win. Or, gin-gin? Too much? Anyway. He suggested a tonic I’d never heard of called 1724, where the quinine is plucked at precisely 1724 meters above sea level at a special location in Peru. It was good stuff, and I should have bought some to take home, because it’s hard to find in the US. And the places I did find wouldn’t ship it to New York, for some reason. And the ones that would charged a ton for shipping. But I’ll keep on it and get my hands on some somehow.

The Brockman’s did indeed have a delicate fruity note, but not overwhelming, and not sweet, as I feared. Another gin of Scotland that I found quite tasty is Edinburgh gin. Citrusy, floral, and lightly junipery, it made a delicious G&T. 

The tail end of our trip landed us in Fort Augustus for an evening, and the group ended up at Bothy Restaurant and Bar. The bar had a healthy collection of gin, of course, and I made it a goal to try as many as I could. A dangerous endeavor, to be sure, but I am always up for a challenge. The downside to trying a bunch of gins and tonics without writing anything down is that you forget which ones you liked and why. So unfortunately I can’t give any details on the ones I tried. I do know I had a good time trying them, though. And I met some nice people at the bar. I will strive to do better next time. And there will be a next time!

I have an announcement to make, my dear readers (all eight of you). I am embarking on a new project, which I’m calling (for now) the FLX Wine and Food Exploration Project. I’ll come up with a better, more snappy name for it later, but that’s what I’m working with for now. Over the next few months, I’ll be educating myself on the Finger Lakes region, its climate, geology, soil, and other characteristics that make our locale so well-suited to producing excellent wine. Eventually I think I’ll spin it off into a new blog, but for now I’ll post my adventures here.

For examples, yesterday I just learned that AVA stands for American Viticulture Area, and that the Finger Lakes region is one of them. Yes indeed. I was vaguely aware of this before, but now I know know. You know? I mean, I read it, I put it in my brain, and now I can tell other people this marvelous fact. That’s what I plan to do with other equally (and possibly more) important pieces of knowledge about the Finger Lakes wine and food scene.

I’ve been longing to visit Bordeaux ever since I learned of the place and its wine as an undergrad in Cornell’s famed Wines course. As I soaked up the samples of Bordeaux wine, I absorbed images of picturesque French villages, complete with cobblestone streets, bougainvillea spilling over balconies, and vineyards (of course, vineyards).

So, when nearly 30 years later my best friend, a winemaker in the Finger Lakes, breathlessly told me she’d been asked to represent NYS wines at a trade show in none other than Bordeaux, I had no choice really. “You have to come!” she pleaded.

“But I just got back from Scotland!” I protested. “I can’t just jet off to Bordeaux!” But it was clear I had to go. So, I shuffled some money around, found someone to cover my shifts at the hospital, and bought a steerage class ticket to Bordeaux.

I researched all the things to do in and around Bordeaux. I love speakeasies, and oddly enough, Bordeaux seemed to have these in abundance. We could take a train to a nearby village and rent bikes and explore the narrow roads that wove around the vineyards! We could laze the afternoon away sipping wine in a Bordelaise wine bar! We could while away sunny afternoons wandering adorable French villages, snapping pictures, and…drinking wine.

Reality was different. We visited no speakeasies (they’re not really my friend’s jam). We did not rent any bikes. The sun was elusive, and we spent two afternoons during torrential rain drinking wine and watching “Sneaky Pete” on Amazon Prime in our Airbnb. We did, however, take a train to St. Emilion, where we visited an underground church; and after exhausting all that that village had to offer culturally, we did in fact laze away that afternoon drinking wine in a wine bar.

I drank hardly any red wines. I discovered a new favorite, the crisp, slatey whites of the Entre-deux-Mers region of Bordeaux, so named because the ancient Romans apparently did not realize that the two bodies of water bordering the region to the north and south were actually two rivers, now known as the Garonne and the Dordogne, rather than two seas. Nevertheless, tasty wine is produced there.

So, Bordeaux wasn’t what I imagined all those years ago, but is any place ever what you imagine? If it were, there’d hardly any point in going.

I clung to the side of the motorboat for dear life as it buzzed across the Ionian, bumping and slamming us through the waves. Occasionally an errant wave would spray me, salt water splashing my face and rolling onto my lips. I didn’t mind. I was here, in Greece, on the sea, headed to a villa my husband and I had rented for the week.