BORDEAUX

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This is as accurate and honest an account of my time in Bordeaux as memory, decency and legality permit. It was a place and time where the laws of man and nature were momentarily suspended to permit me a gulp of life direct from the mountain source.

From Berlin

These are the exact kind of spirited, lively and attractive Spanish people I am born to love! They are the poster Euros, the new generation. I can't believe I ended up in a sleeper car with 5 of them!

I wish they would shut the hell up and let me get some sleep!

Sensing my exhaustion, the girl opposite me chews her lip and her eyes roll back in her head as she searches for the right words. They inch out, one at a time. There's drama. I squirm over to the edge of my couchette in anticipation.

Hello. You...

(Yes, my lovely Spanish blossom?)

are...

(Yes..)

very...

...crazy!

´

Her friends burst into uproarious laughter. They imitate her. "You are very crazay!" She turns red. Another yells, "They!"

She sheepishly repeats, "They are very crazy!" She points at all of them individually and then collectively.

I bluff, "De Espana?"
She perks up. "Hablas tu Espanol?"
"Un poquito."
"Entonces, todos estamos loco!"

Yo lo conozco!"

This is a tremendously fun thing to say. Try.

...

What the hell is this dream? I'm having a nightmare about cleaning up dog poop in Pop's house and trying to stop a crazy man from breaking in during a thunderstorm. What is this, a projected nightmare? I am not interested in having anyone else's dreams for them.

...

At 1 AM, I am jostled awake by der Ticket Controller. I am struggling to figure out what his problem is with my train pass. I apologize for not speaking German five times in a row. It's the only sentence I've mastered. Eventually the Spanish girl translates the German into basic Spanish and I get it -I haven't written the day in on my train pass. I fish for my erasable pen, planning to undo this later but the exasperated controller shoves his pen in my hand. I cringe and lightly stencil in the date and hand it to him. He curses under his breath. More German. More Spanish.

I wrote the wrong day down for an overnight trip.

I look up at him with my best pauper expression and he tosses the pass on me and leaves the compartment shaking his head and saying something I don't understand at all.

I awake in Brussels and transfer trains. I rehearse with my French-English dictionary and try to formulate a sad story for the French controller to explain my mistake on the train pass. Hoping I won't lose a precious day off the pass. Of course this fails miserably.

I fall asleep again. Some time passes. Judging by my watch when I am again woken, this time elapsed is just seven minutes.

These people seem to think they can just push me out of my seat. I am putting on my best mean expression as they plead their case in French. Of course I comprehend nothing, except for that this cruel pair of sexagenarians are trying to do me wrong.

Reservations,"

the man ventures, gesturing at the seat I'm in. I've got him right where I want him. I produce my reservations with a flourish. It's there for the entire car to see. Seat sixty-four is MINE! With ice in my veins and frosty mist issuing out with every breath, I look him in the eyes and say,

Soixante quatre.

His wife takes my ticket and thrusts it before me. She points at the upper right corner. There's alot of numbers, including 64. There's also a lot of Z's, because it's in German. Her finger slides up the ticket and rests on the number 7. We are in car 6.

I don't know to say "I'm sorry" in French. I begin to say, "Es tut mir lied..." but then I slump, gather my bags and stagger down the car with All Eyez on Me.

Car 6 is full.

There is a businessman in my seat with his briefcase and documents all over the empty seat next to me.

I have a flashback to a David Treganowen story. I decide not to disturb him, and I wait for a seat to empty.

As we rumble from Brussels to Bordeaux, I overhear the businessman speaking in English. Fluently. Without an accent. About VinExpo. As soon as he hangs up his cell phone I strike up a conversation.

Hassan Abbas is a lawyer specializing in liquor control law in the middle east. He's retained by a Cognac company who wants to crack that market. He's a UCLA/USC graduate, speaks five-ish languages, lives in Antwerp. His family is from Sierra Leone-"They used to call it the London of Africa...great art, great literature. Carthage, you know." I nod, even though I don´t know.

Hassan has a well-rehearsed manner about him. He´s very easygoing and charming.

He lamented his failed marraiges in between smoothly striking up a conversation with every woman from 15 to 30. He then lamented his current marraige and predicted it would likely fail, because she lived in Moscow and he didn't want her to move to Antwerp, thus frustrating her and creating "tension."

That´s my problem, I always lose the fish in hand because I am thinking about the next catch."

His family´s been involved in the diamond trade in West Africa for quite some time and if I come to Antwerp, he'd gladly show me the whole process from raw diamond to finished product, but he's just got to make this important call and he hopes to see me at VinExpo...

F*** it's HOT

I'm not out of the air conditioned train more than 2 minutes and I'm already soggier than forgotten biscotti. It's got to be at least 98 with equal humidity. Zoroaster, take me now.

The travel agent is cute. In a quirky Amelie sort of way. It could be the bemused expression she's wearing when I ask her to find me a cheap hotel in Centreville Bordeaux on the first day of VinExpo. After several phone calls, she secures me a reservation for 32€ a night. I feel myself vomit a little bit into my mouth.

Thats 32 more Euros than it would cost me to sleep on the ground outside VinExpo...but OK. And the hotel is NO STARS? That's like a 360° dunk for degenerates.

After dynamically leaving my left baggage in Left Baggage I skid to a halt and change my shirt, shoes and socks - the holy trinity of sweatiness. I wonder momentarily if my paint-peeling melange of sweat, pheremones and trainreek will somehow impair my tasting sensory apparatus until I realize... my bus is leaving! I swing aboard the VinExpo shuttle in a dynamic way....with ONE MINUTE TO SPARE! Every moment is packed with thrills.

If the show is anywhere near as dynamic and ready for change as my hotel booking, then I'm in for a helluva ride.

At first, I'm dazzled. Bordeaux looks so...old, dude. Beautiful buildings made from calcaire and enough charming balconies to...um...warrant a charming balcony festival? As the bus cruises on, we get into nu-Bordeaux and it's modern and U to the GLY. It´s a relieving dose of reality.

The multilingual voiceover instructions are oddly interrupted by melismatic pop vocals.

Good news! This year VinExpo features a wellness area !

For a moment I am infused with a rush of paranoid heat. I feel like a fraud.

Welcome to the Drinkinest Place on Earth!

This is preposterous. There is actually a red carpet rolled out. Not only that, but they have beautiful French robot teenagers to take your jacket, scan your pass and wish you a good day in every language. I'm not 20 feet in the door before I'm asking for an icewine flight. So much for objective tasting.

I had forgotten what a trade show was like...


*Buyers
*...are there to get a mild buzz on while ostensibly making deals and finding new wines.
*Journalists
*...are there to get a massive drunk on and pretend to be reporting on something that might make compelling reading for a prison inmate.
*Vendors
*...are there because they have to be. Their goal is to find someone who will consider buying their wine before the random scavengers, reeling journalists and current buyers exhaust their sample supply while jabbering on about their exciting lives and "the industry."


Vendors are the most patient people in the world.

My tasting notes for Day 1 are non-existent. I shamelessly sampled my way to a mild buzz and loitered long after the exposition closed. This was because I didn't speak French, didn't want to go to my hotel, and knew not a soul in town. I managed to talk my way into a mini-flight of Hungarian Tokaj dessert wine, after which security "encouraged" me to leave.

Of course, sir. I'll just head straight out of here, right away. Don't worry about me.

HAHA! Sucker! In fact, I think I'll immediately detour to that Rhum oasis.

Cue Ominous Music

If I were to put my finger on the first major turning point of my trip, it would have to be this.

This tikified, thatched-roof outpost of absurdity was the very final frontier of drinking on the first day of VinExpo.

How did I know this?

Because I could see a man in a bright yellow cabana shirt gesturing wildly with a cigarette and shaking his shaggy mane around, then slumping. These were all cues that he was not staff.

I recognized that he and I were the only people left in the building who weren´t exhibitors, security or cleaning staff. We were THOSE people. The ones that keep you from getting home to your television.

As shameless and guiltfree as ever, I sat down on the stool adjacent and tuned in to this guy´s sales pitch. It was like listening to my innermost thoughts, but in a thick Russian accent and with more swearing. This man was my Russian clone brother from the future. In my desperate state, I knew that we had to align against the forces of sobriety and social discipline.

I picked up that the incredibly beautiful woman from Martinique wasn´t buying his explanation that he needed another shot of rhum because he wasn´t drunk enough. I interrupted.

Excuse me, I´d like to try some of your darkest rhum. Is there any that is black, like a pirate might covet?

I was greeted with a blank stare. The Russian said something that sounded like "PLATZ." Maybe he was from East Germany? I tried a different tack.

"So, do you have any rhum from Martinique? I´ve never had any from that...island. "

All of the rhums here are from Martinique.

Oh, well in that case, I´ll take the most expensive one. Or the best, if it´s not the most expensive.

For some reason, she looked at me warily, trying to guess my true intentions. I plowed on, sharpening the pitch, searching for a soft spot.

"Rhum´s the only alcohol I can drink, you see. Sadly, I´m allergic to vodka and whiskey"

At this the Russian said PLATZ again. He looked as if he´d just herniated something.

"Rhum is like a medicine to me. At the moment, I´m feeling REALLY sick. The rhum would probably help. He could use some rhum also." I gestured to the wincing Russian.

She sighed and poured us two short shots and began to pack up. The Russian smiled and popped up on his stool.

Tell me, do you like Bruce Springsteen?

I thought this was some sort of cheap American stock joke.

Sure, he´s the boss.

He is GREAAT. Born in the USA. My Hometown. You know these songs.

I didn´t know the second one.

Of course I do.

At this point, he began to recite all the lyrics to My Hometown. With feeling. He actually teared up. I was enrapt, and tried to nonchalantly reach for a bottle of rhum that was plucked away.

I tell the FRENCH, that Bruce Springsteen is GREEAT. But they don´t want to hear his songs. They sniff and complain, ´Uh...Born in the USA.´ They don´t want to hear about the USA. If they ever listened to the songs they would understand that he is talking about ANY TOWN. My hometown. In your hometown.

He begins to recite the lyrics again. Some of them get a third or fourth repetition, for effect.

In Russia, we have great admiration for Bruce Springsteen.

I nod.

We must find my bag. Where are you staying?

In a zero-star hotel.

I will stay there also.

No, you won´t.

Haha. I am not homo. I will get a room at this hotel.

If you say so.

We spend the next hour hunting all over creation for his bag. It´s been impounded by the police. Ivan Imenitov resigns himself to finding it the next day. Besides, he can change into his free VinItaly shirt tomorrow.

We catch a sickeningly pricey cab into Centreville and check into the hotel. There´s no rooms for Ivan and the desk clerk really hates him. He asks Ivan to wait outside while he tells me my room code and how to find the room in another building down the street. He´s a mousy Bordelais and he talks to me like a concerned school counselor.

Do you know that man? Is he with you?
Not really.

I don´t like him. His manners are very bad.

Ivan barks outside. He wants to know what´s taking so long.

Are you sure you know him?
Not really.
Is he a problem?
Not really.

You understand why I asked him to stand outside.

It makes perfect sense.
Okay, good."

We dump my things in a flat the size of my cubicle and set out to find "ONE BEER" which I would later learn is as likely to come out of Ivan´s mouth as a string of obscenities in Russian or the words "the," "and" or "it."

The Epicuriales is a special food festival that has been timed to coincide with VinExpo, which was timed to coincide with several other Bordeaux festivals, including the River Festival, the Music Festival and probably some others.

Set up in one of the major Places in Bordeaux, its a promenade of dozens of tented restaurants that have set up shop outside to take advantage of the huge influx of tourists and the awesome weather. Every major fashionable cuisine is represented here, from Brazilian to Sushi to Pub Food. Of course it´s all absurdly expensive. And drink prices that gouge worse than a streetfighter. We carry on through to a Bar/Brasserie thingy. Unsurprisingly there we find a similarly ill-concieved pricing structure. 5 Euros for 25cl of beer? Two thirds of a 12oz can. My face contorts and I groan, "PLATZ!"

Ivan laughs. We share a look of conspiratory mischief. For the next half hour, Ivan berates the bartender for poor manners, a subpar pour, exorbitant prices, poor selection of cigarettes, dreadful ambiance and whatever else he can think of. I put on a show of expressions, rotating between stern, bemused, disgusted, contemptuous and pity. I can´t do much else because the conversations is almost entirely in French.

After a string of tiny beers, we call it a night and head back to the flat. I know already that Ivan is staying here and I´m not too worried. If I die tonight, at least my tombstone will read:

Born November 15, 1979 in Knoxville, Tennessee.
Died June 19, 2005 in Bordeaux, France.
He was not a very good dancer, but it didn´t matter.

Ivan bursts into the flat ahead of me and climbs the spiral staircase that can´t be accessed until the door is closed. I said the place was Small. Upstairs he laughs uproariously. I follow him up and see why. This is the kind of room where people are murdered every night. Ivan turns to me with a demented look in his eyes.

We must get two girls in here. It will cost us maybe 40 Euros each. I will show you how to find Russian girls in any city.

No, Ivan.

Why not?

Look, I know the room is begging for prostitutes and bowie knives. Can we talk about it again in the morning?

BLYAD´!

Goodnight, Ivan.

Where do I sleep, Jason?

I don´t see any other beds. Please don´t touch me and please don´t kill me in my sleep.

Why do you say that????

Twenty Minutes Later

Jason, are you sleeping?

No, Ivan.

I am having paranoia. I think you and the desk man are going to kill me.

No, Ivan. I forgot that you were a paranoid. I´m sorry. It was a joke.

Because I think it is not normal for some person, an American, to let me stay with them. And the desk man acted crazy. And this is not a real hotel, this is an empty apartment.

I know, Ivan. Good night.

Day 2

Ivan Imenitov is singing in the shower.

IVAN:

Today we will go to a party after VinExpo. There is a Russian cognac man, he has foolish money. He is one of the people who became instantly rich. His company is Russian, based in Denmark, and produces French Cognac. He has flown in 250 people to come to VinExpo and to come to his party. We will go to this party tonight!

That sounds like fun. Do I need to be careful what I say around him?

blyad´

You always say that. What does it mean?

blyad´

...

My notes from day 2 of VinExpo are shameful.

Champagne, Tokaj, Eiswein, Vodka-ugh, Ukrainian Honey Pepper Vodka-...I feel like scum shamelessly flirting with the booth babes. Have I no dignity? This VinoLok system is revolutionary...

From there, all is lost until Ivan says "Oh f###! The bus to the party leaves in 10 minutes."

That´s enough to draw me out of my stuporous fog. "Where does the bus pick us up?"

"blyad′blyad′blyad′. Maybe concourse C. "

"That´s the exact opposite end of the ..."

Ivan´s taken off, but he´s running in the wrong direction. Ivan! This way.

We sprint through hundreds of seriously drunk (drunkenly serious) wine and spirits professionals. I practice my high-step and I throw in a shake or two to wrong-foot some Portugese exhibitors. I stutter-step and spin around an elderly woman in bright red with a papal crown of dyed blonde hair. The end-zone is in sight. Ivan screeches to a halt.

We have to get my bag. I must to leave in the morning. My wife will kill me.

I thought we were going to miss the bus.

We have 3 minutes. We go.

Where to?

After hunting for his bag for half an hour, we learn that the police released it back to VinExpo, which then put it in an overnight lockup so that we couldn´t get it until VE opened the next day. I´d resigned myself to missing the Cognac party and wondered if I could still find a way to the German Wine Institute´s Riesling Dinner. I knew it would be impossibly square, but it was a free meal and drinks and every German exhibitor spoke English.

Outside, the bus hadn´t even arrived yet. We mulled around with about 15 other people, mostly Russians, but also some Polish and Ukranian buyers and a group of four people from Indonesia who clearly had no other plans. The more time that passed, the less hope I had and the more easy Ivan´s manner became. He chatted in several languages with the others and I spent alot of time staring for the next hour and a half.

At last there was a whoop. Victor, the Cognac company´s director of international something, got in touch with the shuttle company. The bus had been parked on the wrong side of the block all this time.

There´s alot of vineyards in Bordeaux. In the same sense that there´s alot of pavement in LA. It´s not romantic. It´s not particularly picturesque. Its just EVERYWHERE. There´s practically nothing else grown. It makes me want a beer.

After 45 minutes, we approach the gates of the noble Chateau Pitray, which almost certainly was a guest house or wheel house or store room for a more serious estate at one time. It does little to inspire. What does inspire is the announcement that everyone has been entered in a lottery for a week´s vacation in Tahiti! CRACKADOOM!

Ivan and I scramble off the bus and across the lawn to a modest spread of caviar and cognac. Not a natural pair in my mind, but I´m not much of a cognac drinker. There´s some animals of unknown genetic stock roasting on spits and an extremely rotund Russian man in peppermint pinstripes who´s clearly the center of attention. His boisterous nature and mindless English aphorisms remind me of some of my favorite fraudulent wine industry moments. Where it´s on so thick all you can think about is that shower when you get home. Can´t get clean enough....

I am handed a glass of red Bordeaux and begin to power-munch on the caviar like a gourmand vulture. I feel a fat paw come down on my shoulder and spin me around and I´m face to face with the braying Russian. His teeth are really large and round, his eyes are empty and his hair teeters on top of his head like an opened book. He looks at me expectantly with a big grin. I respond by taking another bite of caviar on toast. He looks for my VinExpo badge, which I´d had the foresight to hide. I decide to take a big gulp of wine and see what his next move will be.

His eyes glow with a cold fire, his brow creases acutely.

Why are you drinking this....this...?

"Wine?" I have a habit of finishing people´s sentences for them.

You should be drinking cognac! This is not a wine party! This is a Cognac party! A Russian Caviar and Cognac party!

He says that last sentence loudest, looking around to make sure everyone knows the score.

He returns his glare to me. I can´t believe I´ve already crossed the Russian mafia. Don´t kill me, I´m only here to mooch.

Why do you not have cognac in your hand?

(Because it´s gross? Because your cognac is probably godawful? Out of contempt?
No, there must be a better answer.)

I try to indicate my remorse by putting the finished glass down on the table, with a sense of finality. As if to show him I won´t be drinking any more of this stupid red...stuff.)

Ivan slices between us and says, "It was PROPOSED to him. Slava, he was given the wine by your assistants."

Slava yanks the first aproned person he sees into the conversation.

You will not propose for anyone to drink wine. You will only propose that they drink Cognac!

The poor man looks like he would propose to change his pants.

Slava turns back to me with a maliciously gracious smile. He nods and says, "Have you tried Gal1iss Cognac?"

"Oh, not yet. I was going to try some before this man proposed to me..."

He grabs a bottle that looks like an oversized flask of whiskey. He pours me about 5 ounces and cups my hand around the glass.

"Enjoy!" Suddenly, he´s as sincere as a grandmother. I´m dizzy.

Slava takes off to gladhand another crowd. I immediately pour the cognac out under the caviar table and go back to snarfing. I haven´t got many opportunities to gorge on Russian Osetra Caviar, so I´m going to eat enough for ten years right now. If Slava asks, I´ll tell him the Cognac was so good that I found it to be the perfect pairing with the Osetra Caviar. Of course, I had to drink it all.

There´s a lull when the caviar dish has to be reloaded and I take this opportunity to look up. Ivan is talking to Victor. Alright. There´s the group of Indonesians talking to themselves. Think I´ll leave them to their fun.

Holy Crap! Where did those incredibly hot Russian girls come from?

Then I remember: On the invitation that Ivan showed me, there was mention of an Erotic Fantasy Show. My voice drops an octave and I completely forget about the German Bratwurst Summit that I´m missing.

One is even wearing a leopard print catsuit. It´s so egregiously tacky and yet remarkably adherent. There´s five of them, including a six foot blonde. I refill my empty cognac glass with Bordeaux and stroll over. I see one young guy there, just seconds ahead of me. He´s all smiles. They´re from St. Petersburg. The other young guy, Slava also, is from Moscow. He´s well acquainted with these girls. He often travels to St. Petersburg for business and visits their exotic fantasy club after his work is done. He´s a BIG fan.

Naturally, (Good) Slava and I hit it off. After 5 minutes of self-nullifying conversation at our dinner table, we silently agree to spend the rest of the night pursuing the dancers. Our pact is sealed with a handshake.

There is a stage near the tented dining area, where a blonde chanteuse has been singing songs for no one in particular, presumably for hours. Some of the songs hiccup into clarity, with a recognizable lyric or melody, before they return to generica. Then, as if by the grace of God, she leaves!

Onto the stage struts the six foot blonde. I turn to Slava and see him reflecting my lunatic´s grin. She begins to dance. It´s all slow leg kicks and stroking of her arms. It really shows off her unusual heighth. There comes a point where I am becoming entranced...the dance isn´t really as erotic as the flyer had led me to imagine. It´s really more a display of uninspired table dancing. The kind of bad dancing that happens before the inevitable grudging removal of clothes.

And then, out comes a giant saxophone. I kid you not. She begins to mock-sax it. She swings the horn around wildly, and gets down on riffs that don´t match the music at all. I begin to laugh hysterically. Slava looks at me with great concern.

SLAVA:What is wrong?
The saxophone is too much. Too funny.
Isn´t she beautiful?
Yes, very. It´s just the saxophone.

Her song ends and she retreats offstage. During the lull we strike up a conversation with Yohan, a geeky wine journalist from Indonesia. Yohan calls me dude. I like him already. More chat reveals that we´re all dudes to him, and I wonder what Western media was so formative for him. Ivan wanders over and it gives the atmosphere a sense of "Aw, here comes the old guy."

We´re enjoying our shallow puerility. He doesn´t even want to go look at the Erotic Fantaszganza, which has resumed with two shockingly attractive brunettes. Slava mutters some unkind ageist slight under his breath and I can´t help but cackle.

Later, Ivan corners me.

Jaaason. When you are on the ground with Slava. Why did you laugh?

Uh. "Oh, it was some joke."
"What did he say?"

This sucks. Why did I have to laugh at Ivan´s expense? I didn´t even agree.

"He made a joke about you not caring about the dancers because you are old."

I have a wife, I don´t care about these dancing girls! They are here for Slava only! What does he mean....

He had clearly rehearsed this, so I took this opportunity to tune him out. When he finished, I locked eyes with him and with solemnity and all due respect said,

"Ivan, I´m sorry. I wasn´t laughing at you. I was surprised by Slava even saying it. Surprise is one of the most powerful triggers for humor or laughter..."

Now it was Ivan´s turn to zone out.

When he defocused, I refilled my glass and returned to the grass in front of the stage, where Good Slava was sitting cross-legged by himself. He was a man in the throes of spiritual ecstacy. I dropped down next to him and got out my camera. He nodded madly and produced a digital video camera from his manpurse. For a while, we documented this surreality, allowing ourselves to become swept away in the sensory swirl of roasting meat, gauzy fur-trimmed nighties, vacant stares and Tom Jones covers.

SLAVA: "I think we should sit closer. So we can REALLY see them dance."

That makes me feel awkward. Already, we´re the only people who are sitting on the ground in front of the stage. Everyone else is at their dinner tables.

"So why are we doing this if not to see them? Let´s go!"

His story checked out. Up we crept. Now just five feet from the dancers, I felt like a naughty boyscout.

"We should sit on the edge of the stage!" Slava giggled robustly, if such a thing can be imagined.

Why don´t we climb onto the stage and dance with them? They want to be danced with! They want to be appreciated. Look. Nobody gives them attention. They don´t feel attractive. We should dance with them. Don´t you think? Let´s go sit on the edge of the stage. Let´s sit on that bench on the stage, quick! We should take our pants off now, don´t you think?

"Slava!"

His eyes and smile grew so wide they swallowed his face. He guffawed!

"Come on, Jason! We go!"
"I don´t know. Maybe..."

I´m gripped with stage-fright. I think it´s a bad idea, but I don´t want to let Good Slava down. Just then I´m saved by an announcement. Its time to toast Evil Slava. The dancers retreat from the stage and surround him. The singer begíns a sultry tune, liberally updating the lyrics to include several mentions of Slava, ie "We´ll always love you...Slava....Slava! You´re the man of my dreams...SLAVA!"

A crowd encircles Slava and begins chanting his name like he´s a warlord. Ivan joins us again and I telepathically inquire if I´m going to survive this night in hell.

Floating on air after his deification, Slava grabs the microphone from the singer and declares he´d like to do the lottery for the trip to Tahiti RIGHT NOW. Victor runs off and finds the sack of business cards and I begin to feel strange new sensations. There can´t be more than a hundred people here. So my chances are 1 in 100 to win an all-expense paid trip to Tahiti. That may be the closest I´ve ever been to winning anything outside of a hand of poker. No....once I won an Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade poster from a Waldenbooks. But this would top even that, to be sure.

Slava has the dancers crowd around him. One visibly steadies her stomach before placing a hand on his shoulder. With some to-do and bombast, he plunges a fist into the sack and produces a name, which he reads with trouble.

It´s not my name.

Sigh.

He reads the name again. Then Victor does. The singer warbles out a call for the lucky winner to come collect his prize.

Apparently, it´s not anyone´s name.

There´s a moment of hesitation. Slava and Ivan share a look that´s entirely foreign to me. They both head toward the stage and then stall. They look at me and push me toward the stage.

"Go accept the trip and give it to us!"

"Hell no!" One of those moments where you think and speak the same words concurrently.

The singer and Victor plead for the person to come forward. Everyone begins to straighten up, thinking they´ve just got a second shot at Tahiti. Slava takes the microphone and Good Slava and Ivan stop bickering. Everyone is rapt.

Slava smirks.

I think that this man is going to be very sorry that he has already left!

The crowd laughs. He´s got us in his pocket.

I think, that the trip to Tahiti should go to the talented performers from the Erotic Fantasy Show. I think that they should go to Tahiti and me too. What do you think?

The crowd is stunned. The girls begin bouncing up and down excitedly. It´s REALLY REALLY quiet. Somewhere, a match strikes in some lackey´s head and he cheers and applauds this most self-serving gesture. The rest of the Slava´s entourage pick up the cue and join in. The warchant begins again. We all exchange strings of obscenities over at our outpost, excepting Yohan, who woefully shakes his head and sighs, "Dude."

Renewed again, Slava grabs a glass of wine(!), holds it on top of his head (?) and drags some of the dancers onto the stage. In seconds, canned music is blasting and there´s a mini dance party going on. Slava, two of his business partners and a pair of nervous fantasy dancers are stumbling around to some pop tripe. Some people make a gesture; they dance a bit on the grass around the stage, but there´s not an ounce of passion or joy present. The dance party is dead before it began. I stroke my chin and contemplate if I could gain anything by injecting some deranged American party energy into the scene and conclude that I might imperil my life by doing so.

I am still lost in my fantasia, imagining myself cutting in on Big Slava and captivating one of the beauties with my arrythmic dancemania. My reverie is obliterated by a deafening wail- I look around, thinking there has been an accident with the roasting spits or maybe a dog has had its tail run over. No, instead, all eyes are on Slava. He´s roaring like a wolfman. He takes the wine glass that had been perched atop his head and throws it at the feet of the singer, presumably injuring her.

These frightened and awkward silences are becoming easier to handle with more practice.

Time for the fireworks! This is sure to be majestic, a poetic waxstamp with which to tidily package up the romantic memories of one special night with a powerdrunk Russian pimp.

After thirty minutes of watching Slava try to "coax" a fireworks display out of his help, we´re treated to a sputtering series of roman candles and artillery shells. At this point, I´m thinking that if I´m not staying in Chateau Pitiful with the Russian dancers, at least take me back to that opium den of a hotel room.

Ivan has an undeniable urge to be different and decides he is going to eat his roast meat if it´s the last thing he does. I have no idea why this is so important to him. So important, that in doing so, he makes us miss the final shuttle back to Bordeaux. I begin to look for a soft patch of grass unsoaked by cognac. Ivan, confident as ever, raises a fuss and the end result is that one of Slava´s team has to personally drive us back to our hotel. I pass out on the ride home, but Ivan learns that our chaffeur was formerly a famous chemist.

The day it all went pear shaped

I honestly didn´t...

...

We rise at 1pm, that is, after I´ve given Ivan 3 snooze alarms. We bypass eating and suit up and shuttle over to VinExpo.

I spend the majority of the early part of the day dropping by every single German stand with an abundance of v´s, z´s and sch´s. Since I´m not familiar with any of the wineries, I use this as my only criteria for quality and authenticity. Ivan gets bored and heads off to talk to booth babes. I´m really enjoying myself. Every exhibitor pulls out that extra hidden bottle for me, and I taste Rieslings the likes of which I´ve never had the pleasure before. At one point, a television reporters asks if he can interview me. Of course, I consent.

He asks me what is the impression of German wine in the US. No answer really springs to mind, so I adlib.

In the United States, German wine is enjoying a tremendous growth in critical esteem that has yet to be matched by its growth trend in overall sales volume. However, a massive education campaign is underway. People like me are working all over the United States to teach people that German wine is amongst the finest in the world!

I looked at him nervously, wondering if my pullquote had been too transparently bullsh**. Instead, he looked as if an angel had whispered the winning lottery numbers in his ear.

"That was great! Thank you!"

I think I just finished this guy´s day early.

Meanwhile, Ivan is across the hall talking to a DeutcheWelle cameraman. I run up and thrust the microphone into Ivan´s hand. He begins to interview the cameraman until at some point he says something too caustic and the cameraman collects his equipment and excuses himself.

Rant

Let me register my extreme contempt for the Port stand. As far as I´m concerned, no Port should ever be sold anywhere, ever again, if it in anyway benefits the people who ran this boondoggle.

DAY ONE - I am here for a Port and Chocolate pairing seminar. I´m greeted by the host, but I can´t recall her name. She´s British.

JASON: "I´m here for the Port tasting."
WOMAN: "I´m sorry, the Port tasting is closed. It´s too late."
J: "It says in the program that the tasting begins at 4pm. At the moment, its 3:56."
W: "I´m very sorry."
J: "Me too. Look, there´s an empty seat. How about I sit there?"
W: "No, you can´t."
J: "Why?"

She goes and talks to a tall man. She leaves and he approaches me.

MAN (TALL, FRENCH): You cannot stay here. It is closed.
JASON: Why do I have to talk to you now?
MAN: Come back tomorrow.
JASON: Fine.

DAY TWO -

JASON : "I´m here for the Port tasting."
MAN: (AVERAGE HEIGHTH, FRENCH ALSO) "I´m sorry. You can´t."
J: "I´m sorry, but I´m not leaving. "
M: "Sir, we need to get started."
J: "I´ll just sit down over here and you can bring me the Port during a break in the talk."
M: "No. We´re closed."
J: "But I am early and I was told to come back today."
M: "You need to come back tomorrow. We don´t have enough Desserts."
J: "I understand now. I´ll come back tomorrow."

DAY THREE - I am locking horns with the woman from Day One again.

JASON: "Hello again, I´m here for the Port tasting."
WOMAN: "I told you, it´s too late."
J: "What the devil are you talking about?"
W: "You need to be here 15 minutes early. I told you."
J: "You did no such thing. You left and that man over there grunted at me. "
W: "So."
J: "So I´m here for the Port tasting. This is my third attempt."
W: "If you had arrived 15 minutes early..."
J: "Where was I supposed to glean this information? It´s not in the program. It´s not posted anywhere in the entire exhibit of Portugese wine. "
W: "If you have come here twice already, somebody would have told you."
J: "I did come here twice already and nobody told me."
W: "I find that hard to believe"

YOUNG SLAVA: "Haay! Jason! What´s going on?"
JASON: "I am about to yell at these Port people."
YS: "HAHA! Why?"
J:"Give me a few minutes."

I return to the woman.

JASON: "Unfortunately, no one has told me to come here fifteen minutes early. In fact, I´ve only been greeted with rude and unhelpful people such as yourself."
WOMAN: "You would have been told."
J: "Sigh. No, nobody told me a thing, or else I would have been here 15 minutes early. Surely this is obvious if I have come here three days in a row."
W: "I find that hard to believe."
J: "So you don´t believe me?"
W: "I don´t believe that no one would have told you."
J: "But it is the truth."
W: "I find that very hard to believe indeed."
J: "See that man over there- he´s the one who didn´t tell me yesterday. And the one across the tables, he´s the one who didn´t tell me the other day when you sent him to talk to me."
W: "Well, I..."
J: "Ask them if you like."
W: "It sounds very unlikely to me..."
J: "So I´m a liar and you won´t allow me to attend your port tasting."

YOUNG SLAVA: "Jason!"
JASON: "I´m almost done, Slava."

WOMAN: "Look, we´ve got to get started. You´ll have to come back tomorrow."
JASON: "No, you´ll seat me today. This is an embarassment."
W: "I certainly am embarassed."
J: "I don´t believe you in the slightest. You are rude and insulting."
W: "I don´t think you should be insulted..."
J: "Too late. There won´t be a day four."
W: "What?"
J: "You heard me!"

With this, I walk away, finger pointing up indignantly.

I join Slava. He is beaming. He is holding a magnum of Riesling.

"Look at this wine! It was my favorite wine of VinExpo and they give me a whole bottle of it! Do you want it?"
"Oh Slava, that´s okay."
"Good! I will drink it anyway. I was just going over to..."

He motions down the path with the butt-end of the magnum and it cartwheels out of his hand. When it hits the ground, there´s a quick storm of green glass and everyone stares in shock. Slava looks up at me and his eyes widen. He laughs like a demon.

"I didn´t like it that much anyway. Let´s go."

Slava and I walk for ten seconds and a beautiful blonde walks the opposite direction. Slava wheels around and breaks away while in midsentence and I watch him waylay her. I´m forced to chuckle and I head over to the Spanish wines for a while.

And Lo...

I see him. My hero. I´m glad Ivan isn´t with me because he´d berate me for weeping like a little girl and then lecture me about the GREEATNESS of Russian thinkers, scientists, authors, musicians, artists, leaders, urban planners, farmers, chemists, engineers, cosmonauts, acrobats, swimmers, teachers, chefs, seamstresses, puppeteers, animal trainers, cosmetologists, philanderers and so on.

Russia´s uneventful history aside, I am frozen in the aisle, feeling nothing except my Blue Nun bag and my racing heart. Across the way I see Randall Grahm. Bonny Doon is sharing a booth with Vieux Telegraphe, so I sample some ´03 Chateauneuf du Pape while I´m waiting for him to free himself from the clutches of distributors. There´s a frighteningly high concentration of cornflower blue (clone blue) dress shirts encircling the booth. Let me guess the names...Chris, Bob, Mike, Bill...I bet I got at least one of them right.

Minutes pass. Lots. I´m still there an hour later, trying to feign interest in the Lebanese wines of the Vieux Telegraphe collective. Eventually I spy a strange blue bottle on display and inquire after it. There´s some confused and hushed discussion, then the answer comes out: It´s Arak, a traditional Lebanese anise liqueur. We don´t know why its here, its just a oddity we import, not at all important...

JASON: Open a bottle for me right now!

So I sit there sipping wretched Arak, vicariously having my soul leeched through Randall into the distributors. Eventually I admit defeat, vowing to return tomorrow.

Perhaps I can start another fight with that Port woman? I head over that direction only to be corralled by Ivan. He produces two cigars and proposes that we smoke them out by the Garonne, the river that runs through BDX.

"A capital idea, Ivan. Go pretend to feign interest in that Port man while I pour us a couple of glasses of the good stuff."

A minute later, we´re outside and spy a deck table to sit down at. Yohan pops up into our field of view.

Whoa. Yohan takes my hand and shakes it. Good to see you!
He turns to Ivan whose hands are full. Ivan offers the forearm of the hand he´s carrying his glass in. Yohan grabs it and shakes vigorously, splashing port all over himself.

"Dude!"
Ivan begins to snicker.
I shake my head in disbelief: What an idiot.

"Yohan, don´t worry about it. See you around later?"
He´s in shock but nods.

Ivan and I settle down with our snifters full of Vintage Port, cigars lit and trying to feel like we´re on top of something. The Garonne is a bacterial green and all the grass nearby is dead from the heat wave. We´re alone. Still...we have Port and Cigars.

"Ivan, I have a good idea. Are you tired?"
"No, Jason, what is..."
"We will go drink absinthe. Finish your cigar."
"No, I do not like absinthe, the taste, is bad."
"I don´t care about your taste, Ivan. Let´s go."

"This is SPEEACIAL."

Indeed. It´s the best absinthe I´ve ever had by miles. Kilometres. Leagues. Horse-lengths. Whatever.

I´m clear headed, energetic and completely fixated on getting more free absinthe and chatting up the booth babe, Suzanna. There´s a line for her attention, men from all corners of the globe just looking for an opportunity to force a pearlescent smile out of her. I let Ivan expend his husbandly libido on her while I convince the married proprietors to pour us shot after shot of 120° alcohol. They seem agreeable so I ask for the fire ritual and get it. At one point, Ivan has to shake me because I am staring at a glass, not having realized the fire extinguished minutes ago.

The proprietors are distracted and I help myself to a few more shots of absinthe. Time piles up and before long, they are ushering us away so they can close up with the rest of VinExpo. I coax a last shot out of them. Ivan and I are unquestionably demented.

We stumble around VinExpo laughing and leering. Ivan wants to be pictured in front of stupid exhibitor displays. We challenge every booth to pour us another glass of wine or spirit. When this fails....

The Blue Nun bag begins to fill up. I survey the empty concourse and it looks like a virginal paint by numbers picture. Every booth has a numerical value based on my 2 years plus of accumulated wine knowledge. This booth is good. Their wines are solid, I tell Ivan. I´ve had a few, and in general all major American publications rate them well. And these over here...this is a prestigious chateau. Them? Never heard of them. I don´t really know Italian wine.

I´m the picture of stealth. We nimbly prowl through the stands and cherrypick some ten bottles. At one point Ivan becomes alarmed.

Jaaason. I do not like to drink wine. It is too acid for me. We need some liquor.

I pop up from behind a gold lamé curtain.
How about this one, Ivan? It says it´s 125 years old.

blyad′

I´ll just take everything from this fridge for you. And maybe some Rhone and a California Cult Cab and some Late Harvest and maybe some Vintage Port... for me.

We´re tripping over ourselves in between booths, and I nearly collapse from the effort of feeding free pamphlets between the stolen bottles so they don´t clink so much. The doors burst open and we´re thrown out into the twilight and see the exclusive pavilions, with their fountains and gardens. I run for the first bottle of vintage rose champagne I see, but it´s been glued to the shelf. Next to it is a loose bottle of prestige cuvee, but it´s warm. I contemplate replacing it with a bottle of Gato Negro, just for laughs.

Ivan and I are drunk. We´re also drunk with excitement, tipping into the manicured gardens like actors in a commercial for hygeine products, or perhaps for an anti-histamine. Some Spanish guys walk by and notice our erratic behavior. One looks at me cockeyed and they ask to pose for pictures with me. I consent, and throw up the W. For Western Hemisphere, maybe.

At one point, Ivan is chugging aged Montrachet out of a comically large bottle and I notice there is someone photographing us with a telephoto lens from atop the convention center. I immediately unholster my camera and begin photographing this person and making unintelligible threats. If this man somehow survived that day, I´m probably banned from all future VinExpo events.

Ivan casts the Jeroboam aside and we meet to discuss our next move. Should we heist some champagne or vodka? Ivan wants to take some furniture. We get into a heated debate about the feasibility of furnishing an apartment out of VinExpo booths and clam up when a security guard and dog walk by. For a second, I am scared, because I think it is a wine-sniffing dog, and it´s going to smell all of the wine we´ve stolen.

In the Morning...

I can´t rouse Ivan. There were a bunch of teenagers in the flat last night, and I can´t remember how they got there. I think I went to bed at almost 6am. I leave a note with the entry code and directions on where to leave the key for me. I´m positive Ivan will get it wrong. Oh, and he´s not wearing pants. The flat is a warzone. There´s dirt, torn papers, dessert wine and cigarette butts on nearly every surface. Whose keys are these? White Rhone is a TERRIBLE breakfast drink. It tastes like wet rocks! Forget this crap, I´m only drinking Riesling from now on.

I´ve only got one objective for all of Day 4, and that is to kidnap Randall Grahm. I know he has a wife and child, but no one can really understand him like I do. NOBODY. Still drunk from the day before, I hastily scribble in my notebook:

Must Talk To Randall Grahm While I Still Can!

A car drives by and I catch a snatch of "I Can´t Dance" by Genesis. Why is it that in Berlin all I heard was Ying Yang Twins and Missy Elliot, but in Bordeaux all I hear is Boney M, Tom Jones and Phil Collins? What is wrong with this place?

This is all to give you a sense of how detached from reality I am at this point.

Luckily, I avoid any outbursts en route to VinExpo, and I make my way to the Bonny Doon/Vieux Telegraphe table, making sure to give wide berth to my victims from the night before.

AGAIN, Randall is swarmed. I contemplate settling for talking to that red-headed second-in-command guy I always see at Bonny Doon events, but I thought, NO. I won´t settle for the red-headed second-in-command. Not today, not ever.

Eventually I get Randall´s attention for about 15 minutes. He´s tired, distracted and I think he may detect a hint of wacko in my mannerisms. The conversation goes something like this.
(Mostly paraphrasing)

JASON: "Thanks for making some time for me, I know trade shows are hectic and you´re a busy man."
RANDALL: "Of course, it´s no problem. Actually, I was going to go to the bathroom. Would you mind waiting?"
J: "Why not at all! Take your time!"

Ten minutes later, I graciously wait as he checks in with RHSIC and the crew and then sits down across the table from me.

RANDALL: "So how can I help you?"
JASON: "Well...I don´t know. I think I was hoping for some advice. I consider you something of a kindred spirit in wine. To be more accurate, the only interesting person, or, the only interesting conversation I´ve ever had while working in wine."
R: "Of course."
J: "So I don´t know. I thought for a while that I wanted to work for you. Or perhaps take over your company. It was just delusion though. I think at the time I just wanted to return to Santa Cruz. I thought of it as a safe haven, because the real world was so draining."
R: "Yes...?"
J: "Of course this can be of no interest to you. Surely you set out to find yourself at some point in life. You told me when we last met that you moved to Germany and spent countless nights reading great books and drinking Riesling, because it was still fashionable then."
R: "Right, right."
J: "It´s not a case of the student following the teacher´s footsteps, but I´ve struck out from home also. I chose to leave my job and come to Europe and give myself an opportunity to see things done differently, to give myself other options, rather than to just sink into a silken rut, easy as that would have been."
R: "I think I understand now. So what do you want?"
J: "I think what it´s come to is the realization that I don´t know yet and I hope that somehow throwing myself at the world will somehow make it more obvious.
R: "Sure."
J: "What would you do if you were talented but directionless and ambitious for some unnamed greatness?"
R: "I would just try to make myself happy."
J: "Naturally."
R: "As soon as possible."
J: "Why do you say that?"
R: "I don´t really think that we´ll have much time to enjoy the world as it is before it changes drastically. So you should not postpone any enjoyment."
J: "This drastic change - are you talking about politics, environment, economy...?"
R: "All of that."
J: "How soon? Five years? Fifty years?"
R: "Definitely sooner than later."
J: "This is heavy."
R: "It´s just the way. As I age and face life, I find that simplicity is paramount. It´s the same with winemaking."
J: "I remember reading a few years ago that you were really hot on all these new technologies that allowed you to tweak your wines just so. Microbullage and things like that."
R: "Right. I was wrong. They were all distractions, new toys. I´m working to get my vineyards to be more natural. Moving towards organic and biodynamic grapes. Keeping my hands off."
J: "As a Berkeley resident, I salute you."
R: "I have a friend who has entirely biodynamic vineyards. He works with natural energy and focuses it in different parts of his property. The grapes and subsequently- the wine- that results is unlike anything else you´ll ever see.
J: "Really?"
R: "Yes, he uses the natural forces of nature to protect and manipulate his vineyards."
J: "He sounds like my roommate."
R: "Oh?"
J: "Long story. I´ve been running with a mad Russian."
R: "Really? I don´t know much about the Russians."
J: "I´ve been getting a crash course in Russia as a result."
R: "I´ve only been here in France for a few days."
J: "They´re not very interesting, the French."
R: "France is definately over. I don´t know who´s next. Maybe Russia. Or the Chinese."
J: *shrugs*
R: "So I can´t tell you what to do, Jason. You need to look hard for happiness and then be ready to accept it when you find it. You´re on your way."
J: "Thanks. I know you´ve got to go get back to work or your friends."
R: "Yes. Stay in touch."

He hands me a comedically oversized business card with his name written in small print in the center. I look up at him quizzically.

J: "This is comedically oversized."
R: "I know."
J: "This is my Blue Nun bag."
R: "Very nice. "

With that, we parted. It was near the end of the day and I´d gotten off to a late start anyway. I strolled outside and walked along the fancy promenade where just yesterday, Ivan and I had plundered and generally misbehaved.

For the first time in days, I´m not drunk. But it feels like I must be, because I´m positive I know that man. I stop and stare at him and the young woman he´s speaking to.

"I know you. You´re Roland Jacquard."
"Ah...yes?"
"You don´t remember me. That´s fine, I don´t matter. I´m Jason Lefler, I used to be with Cost Plus."
"Of course! How is Cost Plus? John Barton, Peter and Mark and that new woman Page."
"I don´t think we´ll need to talk about Page much longer."
"Cést vrai..."

He and Alexandra invite me out to join them at the Epicuriales with their friend Steph that night. I accept!

I met Roland at the Brazilian stand and we had overpriced Caipirinhas while we waited for Alex and Steph to show. Alex showed and then Steph swept in and we swiftly escaped Les Epicuriales and retreated to the alleys of Old Bordeaux for bottle after bottle of house white, mussels and shrimp. All the while, our planetary system of friends kept accreting more and more people until we were nearly twenty strong, necessitating a merging of tables.

Alex and Roland and I talked well into the evening, and I was delighted to discover they were both real people with real lives and opinions and were willing to share these with little prompting. At some point in the morning, Steph ferried the group to a Karaoke bar, where I worked it out to 50 Cent and I witnessed the Jacquard Maneuver, a series of slick dance moves perfected by former badboy lothario and current family man, R. Jacquard.

All in all, it was a very welcome and normalizing experience and I began to fantasize about all my business relationships working under a similar principle of easygoing celebration. Noticing the absence of self-consciousness, I began to mindlessly muse about how nullfying and rigid the American business relationship really was. Personally, I would prefer to watch George Sparks do the robot before buying any wine from him, but I think in America, this kind of behavior is considered a vulnerability. Busting out the robot is a power move, worth at least another 5%!o(MISSING)n the negotiated cost, if you ask me.

As I sit here and drunkenly consider who among my business contacts I would most like to see get loose on the dancefloor, I keep coming back to the same two names: Phil Fay of Southern Wine and Spirits of CA and Neil Doerr of Epic Wines. In my demented reveries, I imagine Phil favoring the fratboy ´stand and fan´ while Neil is less reserved. Mr. Doerr makes his reputation on the floors of South African and Argentine discotheques, exhibiting an acrobatic gyration only known as the Doerr Bop. I imagine it an unholy melange of the Wop and the Roger Rabbit.

Regardless, I am indebted to Alex and Roland. Their hospitality and overall goodness are like inspirations of pure mountain air among the fetid clouds of methane that suffused the rest of VinExpo. At some point during the night, I have an extended conversation with a Bordelais named Hugues who is thrilled that I am an American who thinks there may be something worthwhile to see outside of my borders. At great length, I´m able to seperate myself under the pretence that I needed to freakdance with Steph.

At the end of the night, I return to the flophouse alone, for the first time. I watch some French MTV and admire a Marilyn Manson claymation video. Bordeaux has cast a strange and ineffable spell on me, particularly Bordeaux at night. It´s rare and feels like the American Gothic South. It´s sweaty, dark and cinematically lit. Always abuzz with activity, swirling scents and people are out at all hours drinking, eating and celebrating. The romance of the city sinks so deep into my flesh that I can´t help but feel skeptical in self-defense. Not used to this. The city is hitting on all cylinders. I feel like I want to stay longer, but tomorrow is the last day of VinExpo... I need to prolong the magic somehow.

I go to sleep thinking of the words of one of Steph´s friends:

Jason, tu as raison...

The Final Act

I wake up and I´m still out of my head. AGAIN. All I can think about is a TV show I watched while falling asleep. What was that excellent devil-centered coffee clatch show? Produced by Chris Carter. It reminded me of Tales from the Crypt.

I stumble out of my hotel at some point in the early afternoon, if the position of the sun is anything to go by. I laugh aloud- I´m taken by the idea of Bordeaux as a Choose-Your-Own-Pleasure game. There´s so many delights here, it´s up to you to decide which you´d like to focus on.

OK=d´accord DACOOOOOOO....!

Cut loose from Russians, Frenchpeoples and other outside influence, I do my best to compress my last day of VinExpo into something resembling a professional survey. This fails, and I end up drinking at the Montes booth for a while and going through a tasting of Sauternes. The upside is that the ináugural vintage of Montes Purple Angel is devastating and Alpha M 200?? is similarly off the donkey. They´re truly wuvable wines and I figure that my old bosses are already hip to this, or awaiting their samples.

At the Sauternes table, I carefully assemble a hangover out of a dozen different sweet wines. All I could do was comment about the relative balance and purity of flavor. It´s transparent wine gibberish, but I´m proud that I didn´t bring up climate change conspiracies while talking to an export director.

For what it´s worth, among 2002 Sauternes, Ch. de Malle, Ch. La Clotte Cazalis, Ch. Coutet and Ch. Climens are all really sensational and the kind of wines I could bathe in. On the thicker side of Sauternes (dirty-south style), I enjoyed the Ch. Clos Haut Peyraguey and the d´Yquem 1996 that I hinted at until the export director sighed and fetched it from the fridge. NO SHAME!

This is all qualified by the fact that no wine is at its proper tasting temperature because Bordeaux is blazing well over 102°, reducing most wines to tart grape juice. Strangely, I discover a new pavillion on the last day of VinExpo, dominated by Bordeaux and Spanish wines. Since it is lacking air-conditioning, I give it a cursory tour, photo a preposterous publicity stunt involving the cardinals of Bordeaux, and retreat back to the climatised realm of absinthe and riesling.

I´m not saying that I took a bottle of absinthe on the last day of VinExpo.

Vowing not to be the last sucker at VE, I skip out before everything is finished up and check my email for the first time since I left Berlin.

There´s a promising note therein:


> Hey Jason,
> I hear you're going to bordeaux. I have a friend
> who's living there from the city. Let me ask if she
> can show you around. I am jealous of the
> jetset/backpacker life you are enjoying. Live it up
> for me. rocknroll baby!
> Gabe



hi gabe, i am in bordeaux. please send me your
friends info???

xo jason



Hey Jason,
my friend's name is Allyson, she's a recent grad, has been studying abroad, went to Lowell and UCSD. her number is (xx) xxxxxxxxx. She's a little busy these days b/c she's packing up to come back to the states, but said she's be glad to hang out and show you the area.

Gabe


It´s a lead.

After passing out in a park in Place Gambetta, I spend the next hour trying to find an unoccupied phone booth. Don´t the Bordelais have any phone lines at home? Get out of my way.

Hello Allyson. My name is Jason. You don´t know me- I´m a friend of Gabe´s. I am in Bordeaux today and he suggested we link up. I understand you´re very busy and leaving for the states soon. Maybe we can get a beer and you can hip me to the area. I hope this finds you well...

A few hours later, we´re meeting at Place St. Michel. It´s 7pm and still well over 90°. There´s a sweat-drenched circle of socialists publically debating something or other and some young North African girls throw empty soda cans at a cranky old lech. A half hour late, Allyson strolls across the plaza in ostentatious designer sunglasses and the shortest skirt I´ve seen with the exception of the Erotic Fantasy Dancers. I realize at that moment that I´ve been suppressing some American homesickness.

That night we go out to the Epicuriales and meet some of her other exchange student friends, some of who are enjoying their last day in Bordeaux and their last day with their Bordelais boyfriends. It´s heartwrenching. Allyson and I end up in some curious disco named Azteca, dancing until sunrise. Somehow, a strange werewolf of a man has gained entry, and spends most of the night barking at people, pretending to paw dirt over his mess, and being a wild-eyed cigar smoking foo. At several points, young women attempt to dance with him out of pity. At several points soon thereafter, these women scamper away after bearing witness to his bizarre animalistic incomprehension.

Over the next two days, we indulge in all manner of hedonistic revelry, from the free oysters at Fete de le Fleuve to a rave at Place Quinconces, from that bottle of absinthe that showed up mysteriously in my bag to a unique and memorable tour through new Bordeaux. I began to realize I wasn´t ready for this girl to leave for the States yet. In fact, I envisioned her as a partner in crime and laid awake each night, trying to come up with a convincing sales pitch. We could go to Paris, Berlin, London, Valencia, Marrakech...

On Monday the 27th, I woke at 11am and was very concerned. Allyson´s flight to the U.S. left tomorrow at 6am. We did some laundry and ate pastries. Allyson complained that my idea was crazy, irresponsible. That her family would freak out and it was an unnecessary delay to her getting on with her professional adult life. And then she called her mother. And then she called the travel agency. And then she called the director of her exchange program. And she told them all she wasn´t going back yet. And I called Ivan and told him that I was coming to Paris and I was bringing a friend, if that was okay....

---

Photos

The Names and Faces
of these bottles of wine and liquor have been obscured to protect whatever marginal professional reputation I still have.

VinExpo
They painted the red carpet out just for us!

VinExpo Map
Let´s see...I´m looking for booth...uh... Well, I know it´s in Concourse...uh... I think I´ll just walk until I find free samples.

Sweaty, Drunk and posing with a Millionaire
Living the dream! Drinking 1988 Chateau de Beaucastel with Marc Perrin. Not pictured: an exceedingly tolerant Hubert Fabre.

What does the future hold?
And who am I going to thump with this baguette? Somebody try me.

Rue Ste. Catherine
Bordeaux´s big shiny shopping street. My camera was set to the bluifying mode, apparently.

Bordeaux By Night
Can you smell the magic? At night, the streets of Bordeaux come alive with staring men and the smell of rotting fish. Fall in love all over again.

Epicuriales
The large outdoor food festival near Place de la Comedie and the Grand Theatre. This is a large and colorful projection on a nearby building. It´s party time in BDX, if you couldn´t tell.

Awaiting Destiny
Ivan and I await the bus that will magically ferry us to a magical Russian mobster´s magical cognac jammy jam. Magically two hours late.

Grizzapes
They´re all over the place. They stretch for miles in every direction an an entirely unromantic way. Later, they become wine.

Pose for Me
"Ivan, show me your ´Great Thinker´"
"What?"
"Pose like you are a great Russian thinker."
"What! I don´t understand. Bilats!"
"Yes, that´s it!"

Chateau Pitray
More like Chateau Pitiful. SNORT.

Roast Something
Pigs? Lamb? Terrier? Whatever it was, I sure didn´t eat any of it. Nope, just caviar and cognac for this obedient guest.

Gal1iss live performance
This woman sang brassy tunes all night. Initially she recieved no direct attention and forced applause. Then, she had sexy dancers and everyone was captivated by her brassy styings. Sing "Sex Bomb" again and again! Bravo!

We´ll Always Love Big Slava
What to do when you´ve paid untold thousands to fly an entourage to Bordeaux to emptily hail you as a demi-god? Dance with a glass atop your head, of course! You moron!

The Back of My Knee Tickles
What the...what´s this big hard lump? It just crunched! I think I´m going to make cognac caviar puree. Oh, good. It´s just a giant cybernetic beetle that wanted to get in my pants. Take a number, buddy.

The Works
Dazzling, in the same way that it dazzled me when my uncle Ernie had difficulty lighting a roman candle in the driveway on July 4th.

Why Yes...
I am a big time absinthe buyer from AMERICA. All I do is buy absinthe. The really BIG BOTTLES. I´ll try some of your absinthe, even if it is already 2pm...

The Personal Touch
That was good, but how about another shot? Could you light this one on fire, Most Honorable Confused French Liquoriste?

Hi Suzanna...
The only reason Ivan and I have taken over 30 pictures of you is because we are VERY SERIOUS ABSINTHE BUYERS who take all necessary precautions.

Nobody´s Looking
I think I´ll just go ahead and turn this absinthe stand into a self-service operation...

Thought Provoked
Ivan, I think that we´re beginning to distress the Liquoristes. As I see it, we have two options. Bound them and run away with Suzanna and the absinthe, or throw a flashpowder bomb and make our escape. What do you mean you already used the flashpowder bomb??

Absinthium Fields
Ivan with an undisclosed bottle from our deranged heist.

Nobody´s Innocent
What´s worse than me stealing this expensive wine is that later I mixed it all together in a beer can and drank it while walking down the street...

Ivan and his Really Big Bottle
"Get a picture of me drinking this big bottle of Montrachet!"
"OK."
"No! Wait until it is spilling out of my mouth!"
"OK."

My Fans
These two guys from Spain walked up to Ivan and I and asked if they could take a picture with me. Of course I obliged, and wished them the best of luck in their endeavors.

VinExposed!!!
This man was photographing me for nearly ten minutes from atop VinExpo, so I began to photograph him, just to show him that I also have a camera.

I Gotta Say It Was A Good Day
Saw the police dog, and he rolled right past me. Of course, how could the dog know I had all those bottles in my Blue Nun bag?

The Land of Plenty
"Ivan, that is a really expensive dessert wine you´re drinking straight from the bottle."
"Get a picture of me with it spilling out of my mouth!"
"Sigh. OK."

DeutscheWelle
Ivan commandeered this DW reporter´s equipment to interrogate him about something or another.

Stumped!
Well done, Ivan. You´ve baffled yet another nationality. Meanwhile, I was being interviewed by some other German TV network about Riesling. I TOLD THEM EVERYTHING!!!

Baren Miel
Oh baby. So it´s a liquor made from Honey, with Honey added. You don´t say. I think I should try another shot...that last one tasted a bit like straight Honey liquor.

The Fat Elvis
These are all abhorrently poor wines, but they look like a million bucks next to me.

The Jacquard Maneuver
I can´t prove it, but this is a picture of Roland Jacquard dancing at an underground karaoke bar with me. From now on, all my vendors will be required to bust a move. This means you, Dewart!

The Grand Popes of Bordeaux
These pompous idiots dressed up to give some sort of benediction on the last day of Bordeaux. Inspired, I took several rapid-fire paparazzi photos of them and pretended to transcribe their edicts in my notebook.

Jardin Publique
In the well-manicured Jardin Publique, your humble narrator observed not only the countenance of a sleeping babe, but also the ample derriere of his mother!

BorDoor
I like to think that this door was always here and it took some divination to find the right spot to bash down the wall. It´s like real life Legend of Zelda.

Cheese Cellar
This was the rankest, dampest, darkest place I had been since I left the Russian Cognac party.

Here We Go Again
I don´t know where this bottle of absinthe came from, I just know that it has to be completely finished before we leave for dinner!

Fete de la Fleuve OYSTERJAM2K5!
"Ally, what does that poster say?"
"It says that there will be 100,000 free oysters at the River Festival between 11 and 12 tomorrow."
"I like what I hear."
"There´s no way that can be true."

Round One, Fight!
It was all true...every last oyster! And I didn´t get sick.

Jammin Velo
Off to Paris...

Comments

[Peter]

further...
Jason, you are my hero. Go further LAD!

[Gabe]

stella' performance!

[Lil Ron]

Tell Suzanna to holla at me!

[Quasia]

Man you're having a fucking ball
I want to go with you next time trip.