There for two and a half days, we visited:

• Trefethen. We lingered over reserve flights in cushy leather loungers with the tasting room practically to ourselves, then received a complimentary and impromptu behind the scenes tour of everything.
• Peju. A quick stop that was kind of forgettable in truth with a congenial enough Steve Martin look-alike pouring.
• Domaine Chandon. Also a short but sweet visit involving a cheese platter with sausage and stone ground mustard that, in the words of @bayjb, swiftly devolved into an episode of When Animals Attack.
• Mumm. Hi, Mumm, I love you- I do. Alongside Trefethen, you’re my favorite and I would like to here and now thank you for replying to my tweet and for the “pour-friendliness” and, oh, for just everything.
• Domaine Carneros. Home of Tattinger’s Le Rêve (The Dream), also known as the most expensive wine I’ve ever purchased and would not have without the 30% “industry” discount they gave me- to you, I also say thank you!
• Cakebread. By appointment only, we lucked out at the last minute and were there first thing in the morning. Lacking a formal tasting room, we sipped our 10 am flights in the working barn where they began harvesting their 2010 vintage that day.
• Chateau Montelena. Way up in Calistoga and home of the infamous Bottle Shock, it’s worth the trip despite Chris Pine being nowhere to be found. I typically dislike Chardonnay, but quickly forked over $50 for a bottle of the sort that put Napa on the map.
• And indulged in lunch aboard the Napa Valley Wine Train. A whimsical ride up to St. Helena and back, during which there were mimosas, wine, and some seriously amazing food followed by Fancy and I hanging off the back of the train taking it all in.

Rather than launch into a flight-by-flight account of Napa Valley and its subsequent appellations, I’ve opted for the less verbose preferable route of simply showing a highlights reel (thank you for obliging me). I am, however, more than happy to provide recommendations or suggestions for where to stay, eat, and sip (both for the places we went and for the ones we intended but never made it to). And, if you’d like to see the brief picture captions, just click on the “i” in the right top corner. Cheers!

I must add that I loved the experience of learning about the grapes, the land, the winemaking process, and of course tasting, so much that I want to make it a yearly four-day sojourn.  Who’s coming with me?

*As in, a glass (or two) of wine and a cheese platter have become a daily institution in my household.

No "sweater weather" here!

Last week, my friend Fancy and I went to San Francisco and Wine Country (for those of you who follow me on twitter you’re likely all too aware and I apologize for being an asshole with all the Foursquare check ins!). A girls weekend to Our Lady of the Vine, albeit during the week.

We gave ourselves one day in San Francisco, which to our dismay quickly diminished into only half a day thanks to American Airlines’ four hour delay due to late boarding, pushing off from the gate, a fuel pump light that wouldn’t turn off, finding a new gate, waiting on a repair crew, waiting on repairs, deplaning, finding a new aircraft, and finally reboarding and waiting in line to take off.

In that time we managed to watch two episodes of The Office and the boarding video all the way through to the credits. Yeah, turns out there’s actually credits to that video of flowers and waterfalls set to sleepy music that they show before takeoff. Once we were finally underway, we settled in and realized that from the time we arrived at O’Hare (5:30 am) to the time we arrived in San Francisco (noon), we could have flown internationally. It certainly felt like we should be landing in Japan!

Aboard the cable car to Fisherman's Wharf.

After checking into our hotel (the surprisingly-lackluster-for-a-Kimpton Serrano Hotel with utter Sketchville a mere block away), we scrambled to get in line for the cable car (a feat in and of itself after a couple of wrong turns that landed us in The Tenderloin- we’re talking actual human feces in front of a boarded up storefront, half-naked cracked out women laughing as they shuffled down the street, and having to step over a man laying in the middle of a sidewalk) to make it to Fisherman’s Wharf for a late seafood lunch and boat tour of the bay.

We glimpsed the Pier 39 lazy ass sea lions; zippy dolphins along our boat; a shoreline view of the city; barge, sailboat, and kite board traffic; Alcatraz, and of course the Golden Gate. The bay was a bit rough and hella windy, but I still managed between my hair slapping me in the face every three seconds to chastise children whose parents neglected to inform them that throwing food overboard “for the fishes” was, at the less than observation-friendly speed we were traveling, basically just littering. Brats. The wind unfortunately carried away my sentiments.

Blue & Gold Fleet boat tour of the bay.

After the boat tour, we had planned to take the cable car back to our hotel, but short on time, we balked at the once again long line at the cable car turnaround and tried unsuccessfully to hop on a few blocks up.

Fancy Chinatown billboard.

For all our savvy, every cable car passed completely full both inside and out. So, we did what any torqued city dwellers would do. We said screw this noise and we walked. Strike that, we CLIMBED A VERITABLE MOUNTAIN. In a heat wave (so much for that cool bay weather- it was 90 freaking degrees!). With clam chowder and Sierra Nevada IPA sloshing around in our bellies. Stomach. Bloat.

Union Square at dusk.

We felt drunk. We looked drunk. And a few of those lucky souls passing by on the cable cars actually took PICTURES of us- we, the super smart girls who said to hell with you “San Francisco treat.” Ding ding, my ass.

Parched and panting, we dragged our sorry asses into a corner store and bought lukewarm water and a Pellegrino Limonata which we sucked down at an 8% incline. But then we found the Chinatown gate and strolled through Union Square, and all was right in the world again. An hour later, we arrived back at the hotel in a pile of sweat and blowsy hair and wound up a mortifying 35 minutes late for our dinner reservation.

Foreign Cinema's courtyard & movie screen.

But the people at Foreign Cinema in The Mission were understanding and kind and seated us right away at a great table. Both Fancy and I loved everything- from the food we were too full to really eat to the ambiance of the courtyard where they play old movies on a screen-lined wall to the friendly service and greeting. Definitely a unique restaurant concept with a caliber of food and service that make it more than just a “cute place” to go out to eat.

Remnants of sea bass, heirloom tomato, & garbanzo bean deliciousness.

The night we were there they were showing Monsoon Wedding and we lingered over our meal, then dessert. The restaurant staff was so accommodating that we were still there as the movie started over! I have to admit, being a slow eater and worn out from traveling, it was the perfect way to finish the day. I’ve never had a more relaxed meal at such a beautiful restaurant.

In the morning, we picked up our rental car, which was easier said than done (transportation did seem to be the bane of the trip). Our quick five block cab ride turned into a fiasco involving me having to remind the driver that we didn’t ask to be dropped off three blocks downhill from the address we’d given, then making him drive us around the block to the right address only to find out it had been relocated up the street another four blocks. Thank you Kimpton for providing the wrong address! Which reminds me- I have an angry email to write.

Tartine, aka porn for bread & pastry lovers everywhere.

The salve to this early morning drama took the form of pastry porn at Tartine. Oh my god Tartine. I want to make out with that place and can’t stop thinking about it…I’m head over heels absolutely smitten. I just…I…I have no words for how much I adore it. Needless to say, the Tartine cookbook is already on this girl’s Christmas list.

Croque Monsieur- I ate all but two bites!

I should note that our experience was all the more enjoyable because we went on a Tuesday at 11, thus managing to avoid the lines that plague its doors and small seating area.

With the majority of my Croque Monsieur devoured and the plate of my lemon tart literally scraped clean, and with a morning bun in my bag for later, we took to the road for Wine Country.

I leave you now with the promise of a similar post (tomorrow Thursday?) on our time in Napa and mayhaps a Very Special Edition of “Dressing for Dinner” later this week. But, most importantly, I leave you with Tartine’s LEMON TART, (i.e., a “tart” that even church going sorts can deem heavenly).

I actually debated getting the larger size, which is intended to serve 8.

Game On

I am officially in training. No, not for a marathon or a half-marathon or any other 3 or 5K run or walk thingamajig. And no, I’m not doing the 7 Day Shred or the Couch to 5K Challenge or whatever that’s called. Kudos to all of you who are by the way! Instead, the training I’m undergoing is of a very different nature.

I am officially in training for Napa Valley. In a matter of weeks, Graphic Designer Friend (who we’re just going to call Fancy from here on out because a) she’s fancy, and b) that’s what I call her anyway) and I are heading to San Francisco and the wine country. Which means, much of my free time these days involves reading about and, oh yeah, drinking wine.*

Each night for the next couple of weeks, I’ll be training my palette and raising my tolerance level. My end goal is to get used to imbibing wine on the regular (ideally 3 glasses in a sitting) without automatically RSVPing to a headache brunch in the morning.

This training is also necessary as my subconscious appears to be sincerely worried about my drinking abilities “in the field.” Namely, the other night I dreamed that owing to my surly drunkenness, Fancy and I ended up missing our Super Awesome Dinner Reservations at Foreign Cinema in San Fran, as well as Girl & the Fig and Mustard’s Grill in Napa and didn’t even realize it until the fourth day.

It should be noted that the terror with which I pointed this out to her was such that we both broke into a drunken snotfest of tears on the side of a dirt road where we kicked tree trunks and wailed into the folds of our wine-stained sundresses. Why we were on the side of a road and not in our rental or on the kickass Wine Train (!) is still a mystery, but suffice it to say, Napa had defeated us. Quelle nightmare!

Thus, my concern and need for training is obviously real. And we need to be on our game.

Our trip to wine country is singularly important. To us, it is a pilgrimage. Some people journey to the Holy Land, others to Mecca. Fancy and I? We’re sojourning to the cathedrals of Mumm and Trefethen, et. al. And, like good little believers, we’ll be prepared body and soul.

*This “drinking in my free time” thing is a short-term necessity and strictly professional. I promise, there is no need for you to plan an intervention. Unless, it’s with Dr. Drew. Then, be my guest. On a related note, Fancy informs me that there’s currently six bottles of wine and a case of “summer brews” chillaxing on her desk because somebody went to Cost Plus World Market on somebody’s lunch hour.

There is of course the typical and to be expected mourning that the “trip of a lifetime,” which went smashingly, is now over. And there is of course the realization that I actually miss my boyfriend now that we’re back in our 12-16 hour workday routines, wherein we’re often too worn out at the end of the day to do anything except retreat to our separate couches in our subsequent separate residences. Who knew that spending eight days in the “snug” (although we were upgraded!) quarters of a cruise ship stateroom would go so well or would in fact prove (though I can only speak for myself here) to be a catalyst for a greater sense of companionship- even if (comically) one breakfast conversation turned to the theoretical merits of one form of melon over another? Sigh…

While those reasons are each valid and currently coursing through my reflective mind each day, I am instead writing today to admit that one picture (out of over, holy Nikon, a whopping 1000) has given me pause and disappointment. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, and I only do so in an admission to you now because I feel too ashamed to admit it to those who know me offline. But, before I admit what about this picture has me feeling this way, I want to assure you- especially you kind and thoughtful readers who do in fact know me- that there is absolutely no need for you to argue against or try to soothe my poopy feelings. Please, sincerely please, feel no necessity to try to make me feel better or tell me I’m mistaken.

So, with all that said, the picture in question is one of my boyfriend and I on my birthday. That night was also a formal night, which means I was one happy birthday girl to be wearing a fancy dress. But, because the cruise et. al wound up costing double the amount of the bonus check that was intended to fund it, I opted not to buy a new dress. Instead, I wore the white and black BCBG dress that I’ve only been able to wear once before and years ago at that. Before we left for our vacation, I tried it on and found that it still- though barely- fit and that (hooray!) the strapless top actually fit even better (I would still classify them as “booblets” however). Unwittingly, I packed the dress in anticipation of the perfect trip and birthday.

When the time came to don the dress, I did so without any concern for how it would photograph. I wore the dress all night through an impeccable five course dinner ending in chocolate soufflé, through a champagne toast with the ship’s captain, through after dinner drinks while listening to the (Titanic-like) string quartet. I didn’t want to take my fancy dress off. I didn’t want my special day to end. We took a picture to capture the memory.

Looking at that picture now, the only one it turns out in which the two of us appear in full view in our formal night fanciness, it would appear as though taken (it wasn’t) with a wide angle lens. I’ve NEVER been someone who says “I look fat” or asks the like. In fact, I feel guilty saying anything negative about my body because it gets thrown back at me by people who weigh more. Notwithstanding all of that, it cannot be helped that the picture is…not good. So while I may refuse to say I’m fat even after gaining 12 pounds in the last year, I can’t deny that the picture and the dress I’m wearing in it do me no favors. I may not be fat, but I certainly look fat. And my heart sinks with the admission. There, I’ve said it.

The picture is embarrassing and I don’t want to share it with anyone. But I fully anticipate friends and family asking, “Where’s The Birthday picture? Where’s formal night?” Do I shrug and pretend it never existed? The truth is, I wanted my “30th Birthday Picture” to be the one I could always point to and say, “There…that’s me on my 30th and it was absolutely special.” Instead, The Picture nearly brings me to tears.

I realize that I sound ridiculous, I do. And I realize that after the picture was taken I went on to spend the next seven days taking many other pictures that turned out spectacularly. But the thing is, even though I wasn’t bothered at all by turning 30, I’m bothered by the picture that very clearly shows the decline of my figure since I was formerly photographed in the same dress at the same angle when I was 27. Three years: who knew that three years without change in eating patterns or lifestyle would produce such an effect? I’ve simply gotten older…and more “filled out” (I write with a scrunched nose).

Ultimately, I know I can’t let myself focus on this picture or how it makes me feel inside. I hope to expel all my yucky feelings here and have done with it. I know in all the other pictures I look happy and healthy and older but not fatter or uglier. And I know that none of my friends or family would, if I showed them, look at that picture and think, let alone say, “She’s really let herself go.”

So, the lesson here? Get a new dress and/or a new camera, but most importantly, a new perspective. Because what matters most is not the picture that didn’t turn out so well, but the fortunate memories created that it unfortunately neglected to capture.

The reality I’m facing is that I’m now 30 and I weigh more than I did when I was 27. I’m one dress size and pant size bigger. I guess you could say I’m more “womanly.” And, whereas I’ve managed to grow into and even celebrate my age, the time has come for me to grow into accepting my new shape as well.

My experiences leading up to 30 have been a bit…different.

A couple of years ago in a session with my therapist, at the end of a long term relationship, she asked me to think about where I wanted to find myself at 30. She asked me to make a new “list.” I haven’t thought much about it since, I’ve been busy working and living out the days between as I would have regardless. My inner compass always seems to guide me toward opportunities or people or places that I’m happy to find along the way.

So with or without that list, I’m excited to turn 30 tomorrow. Thirty feels “right,” feels like the age I’ve already been for years, feels like where I belong. And the list? I revisited it the other day and was amused by what I read. For the most part, I think it holds up.

1. Find a new job.
2. Get out of credit card debt.
3. Go to Paris.
4. Buy the Louis Vuitton Speedy 30 handbag.
5. Keep writing my blog.
6. Be a better friend.
7. Date again, and hopefully find someone to have a relationship with.

Taking stock against that list: I’m still with the same company although I’ve just been promoted, I’m $700 away from being out of credit card debt, I haven’t seen Paris but went to NYC three times, the D.R. twice more, am in Seattle right now (hellooo, Seattle!) and am about to board an 8-day cruise to see Alaska instead, I haven’t and no longer want to buy the LV bag, I still (sometimes and would like to make the time to more frequently) write here, I’ve worked hard at making new friends and maintaining both old and new friendships, and I began dating again and am with someone who makes me feel safe and loved whether or not marriage or babies are down the road for us or not. All in all, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of ending up where I wanted to be at 30.

Looking back at who I was when I began my twenties compared to who I am as I depart them, I’m still very much the same hopeful girl. Only now I’ve realized that you can’t really “plan” life, that sometimes life happens and it’s more about what you make of it than what you make of what you didn’t end up with for all your planning.

At 30, I’m not going to make a new list. I’m going to keep living much the way I have since I made the original one. But there’s one glaring omission that I’d like to add and hopefully “achieve” in my thirties.

I’m still battling the same insecurities as I was when I was 10 years old and it harms me in countless ways. I don’t necessarily show it or write it or talk about it, but it’s there inside my own thinking nearly every day. I may know my capabilities and strengths better 20 years later, but I’m still my own worst enemy. I’m the first person to criticize myself, deem myself “not good enough,” and take that disapproval out on myself. Still.

The eighth item I’d add to the list is “be kinder to myself.” I want to find happiness at 31 and 35 and 39 because I’m nice to myself, because I’ve learned to no longer rip myself to shreds over what are ultimately inconsequential things. I want to unfasten my negative inner monologue and accept and appreciate myself flaws and all. No small task, but it’s probably the most important one.

The thing is, I can always be a better person, a better friend and daughter and girlfriend and coworker and neighbor. I can always strive to be better than I am. But the person I already am is pretty damn good too. If I write it enough, maybe I’ll believe it. If I think it enough, maybe I’ll feel it.

I haven’t seen my therapist in three months, but I know she’d approve and be proud of my addition to the original list. I know she’d tell me I’ve figured “it” out, that I’ve learned a lot from my twenties, am on my way to many happinesses in my thirties, and that when sadness or hardship finds me again I’ll be better equipped to not only live through it but thrive.

I think she’d be right.

Salomon Exit Aero Hiking Shoe

Today I am wearing a really special pair of shoes. They’re not strappy sandals or brightly colored peep toes or even Tall Girl shoes. No. These shoes are a completely foreign concept…they’re comfortable and supportive and built for wear and tear. These shoes are what I plan to wear when I turn 30! next month, when I first step foot in Alaska!

Oh, by the way, I’m going to Alaska.

In a matter of weeks, my boyfriend and I are flying to Seattle to spend a day bumbling about (restaurant recommendations anyone?), then cruising the Inside Passage for a week. We’re going to Juneau, Hubbard Glacier, Sitka, Ketichikan, and then Victoria, B.C. We’re going to go whale watching and glacier hiking and mountain biking and ohmygodIcannotwait!

I’ve always wanted to go to Alaska, always wanted to smell the pine trees and the rain, always wanted to measure the blue streaks of the ice against the blue sky, always always always wanted to see a whale. A whale! I will literally cry if I see a whale. They’re miraculous to me. I don’t know why, but they are.

So, for my thirtieth birthday, I’ll be celebrating the best way I know how- doing one of the things I want to do in life now rather than waiting until “someday” or until I “retire.” I don’t want to wait because…well, what if? I want to do it all, see it all, now.

At 10, I went to Disney World. At 16, I backpacked Glacier National Park in Montana. At 27, I went to London and Derbyshire (and a part of me never left). Now, at 30, there’s Alaska- where I’ll wear these shoes to run and jump and hike and bike and…knock down all the old geezers who’ll be on the cruise with us (you better believe I’ll be the first one off that boat in each port- look out Mildred and Herb! I’m spry and swift like a cheetah!).

Alaska. Even just whispering its name feels like an adventure. A mere word, but it instantly brings to mind all that is still wild and beautiful and untamed…and seemingly so far away from my little world here in the Midwest where there are no such things as oceans or whales or glaciers. A world away, finally within reach in four weeks time.