Sonoma
It's 4:15am and the alarm clock jolts me awake—do you still call it an alarm clock when it's a phone?—and I'm up and moving before my brain even starts working again. We have a flight to catch.
We've gotten in the habit of taking these early morning flights. It's exhausting but it gets you where you're going with the day still ahead of you. Within 15 minutes we're out the door, Clyde fed a super early breakfast and the key left for the dog sitter. We have our system down. Road, economy lot, shuttle, airport security, gate, get Starbucks if there's time.
When I was younger I didn't consider traveling to be that important to me—traveling seemed scary. And it is, when you're traveling alone or not used to it. But I'm lucky enough to have found people to travel with, and they've made it a lot easier. Over the last five years, we've been to Hawaii, the Bahamas (twice!), Greece, Belize, New York City, and Jamaica—plus the other places I've gone for work or to visit friends. Boston, San Antonio, Georgia.
Traveling has become something that gives me some of my biggest moments of joy. I use that word "joy" deliberately—it's that feeling I get when I'm experiencing something big and new, whether it's walking through Times Square at night with the lights blaring and noise all around me, or seeing a dolphin fin slide through the water right in front of my kayak, or laying underneath the Milky Way on a boat in the Aegean. (That sounds so fancy/pretentious, doesn't it? "In the Aegean.") I think experiences really are the best way to spend your money. And I'm lucky enough to have the freedom and money to travel right now, so I'm doing it.
This time we're going to Sonoma, a quick weekend trip to visit some wineries. I haven't been to California since my high school band trip to Los Angeles to be in the Rose Bowl Parade. I'm excited. I love wine.
We catch up with everybody else at SFO, get our rental car, and start heading north towards our Airbnb. On the way we cross the Golden Gate Bridge, and I get that joyful burst in my chest watching it rise up before me as we drive through San Francisco traffic. Another "must see" landmark to cross off my list. Before long, we start to see vineyards stretching out over hills on both sides of the road, rows and rows of grape vines just starting to spread along their trellis wires.
We stop in a town called Petaluma for lunch at The Food Bar, where I have a grilled cheese on flaky, biscuit-like bread and where they give each of us exactly 3 potato chips. The drinks are in Ball jars with handles and the tables are made of thick, polished wood, like a true farm-to-table hipster joint, and yet there's something about it that seems slightly off. I'm not sure whether it's the grizzled nature of the guy working the counter or the dinginess of the bakery display window or the excessively large and overly-syruped latte Amanda got, but it feels a bit like pretend.
Next door is The Petaluma Pie Company, where I get a mini butterscotch banana pie with salted caramel and a sticker to put in my travel journal. Everyone else saves their pie for when we get to the Airbnb, but I eat half of mine in the car—which ends up being a good thing because Michael accidentally drops the rest on the ground as we're unpacking the car.
Our house is in the redwoods, back on a narrow, winding road with houses packed in the trees and the Russian River roaring nearby. It reminds me of the parts of Tennessee that are littered with vacation homes and cabins. The driveway is set between ditches, trees stretching high overhead. Everything feels close. To get in we have to first figure out the lockbox system, then find the real keys in the garage, then figure out which doors they unlock. We get through one door and realize it leads to a bedroom that isn't connected to the rest of the house—everyone turns around and backs out. Finally we find the padlock at a gate and get through to the front door. It's like a puzzle. Amanda calls it the "Zen house" for the Asian elements throughout—a yin and yang symbol built into the fence, a buddha on the back patio, Japanese prints on the walls, a geisha doll on the desk. It's nice but feels like a temporary house, a house you rent out to vacationers. Makes sense, because it is. Things are a bit gerry-rigged—electrical wires duct-taped, a new floor installed over the old so that it half covers the electrical outlets. Past vacationers have left spices and olive oil and worchester sauce.
Finding friends to travel with can be tricky. You have to find people who are a good match—who like to do the same things you do, who enjoy the same vacation pace, who know when to let everybody just do their own thing. Our group has traveled together enough to figure out the right rhythms, and the next 2.5 days go by fast. We visit seven wineries total:
Korbel: We really only go here because we had some time that first evening, and it was only 15 minutes away. This one wasn't anything special—pretty grounds, but a typical tasting room and nothing that impressed me wine-wise. I say that like I'm someone to impress. Maybe I am.
Benziger: This one was my favorite experience. It's a really cool biodynamic winery, where they've developed natural ways to keep everything running. Algae and fish in retention ponds filter water, bats and birds control bugs, a flock of sheep aerates the ground and controls overgrowth. While we're on the tour the sheep escape their pen, and our tour guide has to stop at the front desk to let people know. Later we see a vineyard worker trying to herd them around, yelling in the cell phone at his ear for more help because they're eating the grapes.
We taste wine from the barrel and visit the wine caves, and then while the boys sit out in the courtyard on a conference call, Amanda and Caroline and I get lunch at a nearby market and visit a chocolate shop.
MacRostie: Where Benzinger is family-run and organic, MacRostie is elegant and modern. A woman meets us in the parking lot with glasses of chardonnay and walks us to our table, where our "wine ambassador" brought us different wines and told us about the vineyard.
Aside: At the end of that first full day we visited Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve. It's quiet and grand and everything you'd expect it to be, with late afternoon sunlight passing through the giant, ancient trees.
Sonoma Coast Vineyards: We stopped here after visiting the coast Saturday morning. This was just a small tasting room, but I have fond memories of it because I got pleasantly drunk and spent the rest of the day that way. The wines were mostly chardonnays, plus some pinot noirs and a nice rose. That seemed to be the pattern for this region.
Iron Horse: This was probably my least favorite, though I'm not really sure why. It was an outdoor tasting right on the edge of the vineyard, and the wines were nice. I guess it's because there were lots of tables and lots of people, and the woman helping us was busy with other tables, so it didn't feel very personal. I had the pinot flight. Michael had the sparkling.
Graton Ridge Cellars: We only stopped here because we had a little time to kill and they had a bocce ball court—but the court was taken. So we sat at a picnic table and shared a bottle of rose.
Red Car: This one was great, possibly because I already knew I liked their rose and possibly because I was very happily drunk. The guy helping us (what are they called? not a waiter, not a sommelier) was fun and I bought a tank top that says "Red Car Rose."
You see how my recollections got a little less specific as time went on. But I had a wonderful time and it was a great weekend. Besides the wineries, we got to see the forest and the ocean, and we spent time with our friends drinking wine in the hot tub and eating entire batches of cookies right as they came out of the oven. We had a fancy dinner at the Farmhouse Inn—I ate duck and liked it. Wtf. I could write more about that but I'm losing my momentum right now.
Getting home became a little difficult, since we woke up Sunday to find our flight had been canceled and our airport changed, but it ended up being an adventure, too. We managed to get seats on the one AA flight that leaves from the tiny Sonoma airport, and though it meant we sat outside at the curb for almost two hours waiting for the ticket desk to open, we got home.
We've gotten in the habit of taking these early morning flights. It's exhausting but it gets you where you're going with the day still ahead of you. Within 15 minutes we're out the door, Clyde fed a super early breakfast and the key left for the dog sitter. We have our system down. Road, economy lot, shuttle, airport security, gate, get Starbucks if there's time.
When I was younger I didn't consider traveling to be that important to me—traveling seemed scary. And it is, when you're traveling alone or not used to it. But I'm lucky enough to have found people to travel with, and they've made it a lot easier. Over the last five years, we've been to Hawaii, the Bahamas (twice!), Greece, Belize, New York City, and Jamaica—plus the other places I've gone for work or to visit friends. Boston, San Antonio, Georgia.
Traveling has become something that gives me some of my biggest moments of joy. I use that word "joy" deliberately—it's that feeling I get when I'm experiencing something big and new, whether it's walking through Times Square at night with the lights blaring and noise all around me, or seeing a dolphin fin slide through the water right in front of my kayak, or laying underneath the Milky Way on a boat in the Aegean. (That sounds so fancy/pretentious, doesn't it? "In the Aegean.") I think experiences really are the best way to spend your money. And I'm lucky enough to have the freedom and money to travel right now, so I'm doing it.
This time we're going to Sonoma, a quick weekend trip to visit some wineries. I haven't been to California since my high school band trip to Los Angeles to be in the Rose Bowl Parade. I'm excited. I love wine.
We catch up with everybody else at SFO, get our rental car, and start heading north towards our Airbnb. On the way we cross the Golden Gate Bridge, and I get that joyful burst in my chest watching it rise up before me as we drive through San Francisco traffic. Another "must see" landmark to cross off my list. Before long, we start to see vineyards stretching out over hills on both sides of the road, rows and rows of grape vines just starting to spread along their trellis wires.
We stop in a town called Petaluma for lunch at The Food Bar, where I have a grilled cheese on flaky, biscuit-like bread and where they give each of us exactly 3 potato chips. The drinks are in Ball jars with handles and the tables are made of thick, polished wood, like a true farm-to-table hipster joint, and yet there's something about it that seems slightly off. I'm not sure whether it's the grizzled nature of the guy working the counter or the dinginess of the bakery display window or the excessively large and overly-syruped latte Amanda got, but it feels a bit like pretend.
Next door is The Petaluma Pie Company, where I get a mini butterscotch banana pie with salted caramel and a sticker to put in my travel journal. Everyone else saves their pie for when we get to the Airbnb, but I eat half of mine in the car—which ends up being a good thing because Michael accidentally drops the rest on the ground as we're unpacking the car.
Our house is in the redwoods, back on a narrow, winding road with houses packed in the trees and the Russian River roaring nearby. It reminds me of the parts of Tennessee that are littered with vacation homes and cabins. The driveway is set between ditches, trees stretching high overhead. Everything feels close. To get in we have to first figure out the lockbox system, then find the real keys in the garage, then figure out which doors they unlock. We get through one door and realize it leads to a bedroom that isn't connected to the rest of the house—everyone turns around and backs out. Finally we find the padlock at a gate and get through to the front door. It's like a puzzle. Amanda calls it the "Zen house" for the Asian elements throughout—a yin and yang symbol built into the fence, a buddha on the back patio, Japanese prints on the walls, a geisha doll on the desk. It's nice but feels like a temporary house, a house you rent out to vacationers. Makes sense, because it is. Things are a bit gerry-rigged—electrical wires duct-taped, a new floor installed over the old so that it half covers the electrical outlets. Past vacationers have left spices and olive oil and worchester sauce.
Finding friends to travel with can be tricky. You have to find people who are a good match—who like to do the same things you do, who enjoy the same vacation pace, who know when to let everybody just do their own thing. Our group has traveled together enough to figure out the right rhythms, and the next 2.5 days go by fast. We visit seven wineries total:
Korbel: We really only go here because we had some time that first evening, and it was only 15 minutes away. This one wasn't anything special—pretty grounds, but a typical tasting room and nothing that impressed me wine-wise. I say that like I'm someone to impress. Maybe I am.
Benziger: This one was my favorite experience. It's a really cool biodynamic winery, where they've developed natural ways to keep everything running. Algae and fish in retention ponds filter water, bats and birds control bugs, a flock of sheep aerates the ground and controls overgrowth. While we're on the tour the sheep escape their pen, and our tour guide has to stop at the front desk to let people know. Later we see a vineyard worker trying to herd them around, yelling in the cell phone at his ear for more help because they're eating the grapes.
We taste wine from the barrel and visit the wine caves, and then while the boys sit out in the courtyard on a conference call, Amanda and Caroline and I get lunch at a nearby market and visit a chocolate shop.
MacRostie: Where Benzinger is family-run and organic, MacRostie is elegant and modern. A woman meets us in the parking lot with glasses of chardonnay and walks us to our table, where our "wine ambassador" brought us different wines and told us about the vineyard.
Aside: At the end of that first full day we visited Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve. It's quiet and grand and everything you'd expect it to be, with late afternoon sunlight passing through the giant, ancient trees.
Sonoma Coast Vineyards: We stopped here after visiting the coast Saturday morning. This was just a small tasting room, but I have fond memories of it because I got pleasantly drunk and spent the rest of the day that way. The wines were mostly chardonnays, plus some pinot noirs and a nice rose. That seemed to be the pattern for this region.
Iron Horse: This was probably my least favorite, though I'm not really sure why. It was an outdoor tasting right on the edge of the vineyard, and the wines were nice. I guess it's because there were lots of tables and lots of people, and the woman helping us was busy with other tables, so it didn't feel very personal. I had the pinot flight. Michael had the sparkling.
Graton Ridge Cellars: We only stopped here because we had a little time to kill and they had a bocce ball court—but the court was taken. So we sat at a picnic table and shared a bottle of rose.
Red Car: This one was great, possibly because I already knew I liked their rose and possibly because I was very happily drunk. The guy helping us (what are they called? not a waiter, not a sommelier) was fun and I bought a tank top that says "Red Car Rose."
You see how my recollections got a little less specific as time went on. But I had a wonderful time and it was a great weekend. Besides the wineries, we got to see the forest and the ocean, and we spent time with our friends drinking wine in the hot tub and eating entire batches of cookies right as they came out of the oven. We had a fancy dinner at the Farmhouse Inn—I ate duck and liked it. Wtf. I could write more about that but I'm losing my momentum right now.
Getting home became a little difficult, since we woke up Sunday to find our flight had been canceled and our airport changed, but it ended up being an adventure, too. We managed to get seats on the one AA flight that leaves from the tiny Sonoma airport, and though it meant we sat outside at the curb for almost two hours waiting for the ticket desk to open, we got home.