The Dangers of Drinking Good Wine

10 months ago Invisidave and I were sitting down to a very good meal in our home town of Bellingham, WA. A damn good meal. The kind of meal that makes you roll your eyes back and say “Mmmmmm” loud enough that the other patrons in the restaurant start wondering if food is all you're having.


We had decided to go to D'Annas Italian Cafe as a treat. It's my personal favorite in town for down right beautiful Italian food done rich and right. We sat at the wooden table in the dimly lit cafe, surrounded by the sound of happy diners and clinking silverware. As always, we began the meal with a glass of Riesling. I am no wine afficienado, not even a wine fan really. You will never catch me rolling wine around a glass while sniffing and declaring I detect “subtle hints of resin and asphalt”. However, I do adore a good Riesling. To hell with your pairings and subtle scents, give me a Washington Riesling in a Mason jar and I am a happy woman. I am not the entomologist in his lab dissecting the butterfly on a slide to see what little part makes it a beautiful creature; I simply know I like butterflies. Especially when they taste like sugar and apples and get me drunk. You know. Metaphorically.


The glass of wine turned into a bottle, and we talked and relaxed into the atmosphere while getting slowly and pleasantly drunk. Then came the food. For me a plate of lightly seared Ahi tuna topped with a balsamic reduction on a bed of Italian rice, chewy thick handmade spinach noodles, and light sweet potato crisps. Dave went for duck breast medallions in a cherry sauce. For a while we attacked our food with enamored ferocity, pausing only to sigh with absolute contentment and laugh at a joke.


There's a special state of mind you enter after a truly excellent meal in some dimly lit place, full of wine and goodwill towards man. The world glows and anything seems possible.


“Dave”, I said “I think we should drive to South America in a van.”




And so it all began.




Shortly after, we were walking down Clayton Beach with our little Dobe Jax, passing another bottle of cheap wine back and forth, breathing in the salt sea air and enjoying the sunset on the water. We decided that in exactly one year, come Hell, high water, or anything in between, we would be leaving our beloved home town and becoming nomadic for a period of up to a year. Although we tucked the South America idea away for a later day, this trip will be around the United States, in a vaguely south, squiggly sort of line.



Now, fast forward, and here it is 10 months later, and it is actually happening. So here's our story, thanks for coming along for the ride!!