The first leg of my journey to the conference began with a flight to Big Rushing Water, where my friend Philadelphia Guy and his fiancé Medieval Woman live. (No, Philadelphia Guy does not live in Philadelphia. It’s confusing. But he’s been a character on my blog – and in my life – for years now, and I can’t keep changing his pseudonym every time he moves.)
Anyhow, Philadelphia Guy and Medieval Woman picked up at the airport, brought me to their home, and then took me to an Indian restaurant. By the time Artist Friend joined us that evening, my dramamine had worn off, my stomach was full, and I was happily lounging about in my sweatpants, playing with the two rabbits who lived in the house.
Artist Friend had been driving for six hours, but he was eager to start the party as soon as he walked in. “I brought five little bottles of bourbon,” he said. “Let’s do some bourbon tasting.” He insisted that the bourbon be poured into glasses of ice.
Medieval Woman quit after about two sips and returned to her knitting. And I don’t drink at all. But Artist Friend threw his whole self into the tasting. He picked up a glass, took a sip, and then went off into a long lyrical description based on that one sip. “Ah, that one has an earthy taste. Fruity almost. The melting ice is unlocking the flavor. I can taste wheat, perhaps corn, maybe something a little bitter. The smell – ah, it’s almost the smell of leather. But then there’s a lingering, pleasant aftertaste of oak. It might be aged just a bit too long. I’m noticing a mellowness that I didn’t notice before.”
Then Philadelphia Guy took a sip. He gagged and said, “That one tastes like shit.”
It was great fun. They drank up the five little samples of bourbon, then switched to wine. Eventually, Philadelphia Guy and Medieval Woman went off to bed, with Medieval Woman promising to set an alarm and wake us up in time to catch the ferry. Then Artist Friend and I stayed up late talking, catching up on our lives and all that had happened since we’d seen each other last.
That's Artist Friend in the photo.
Anyhow, Philadelphia Guy and Medieval Woman picked up at the airport, brought me to their home, and then took me to an Indian restaurant. By the time Artist Friend joined us that evening, my dramamine had worn off, my stomach was full, and I was happily lounging about in my sweatpants, playing with the two rabbits who lived in the house.
Artist Friend had been driving for six hours, but he was eager to start the party as soon as he walked in. “I brought five little bottles of bourbon,” he said. “Let’s do some bourbon tasting.” He insisted that the bourbon be poured into glasses of ice.
Medieval Woman quit after about two sips and returned to her knitting. And I don’t drink at all. But Artist Friend threw his whole self into the tasting. He picked up a glass, took a sip, and then went off into a long lyrical description based on that one sip. “Ah, that one has an earthy taste. Fruity almost. The melting ice is unlocking the flavor. I can taste wheat, perhaps corn, maybe something a little bitter. The smell – ah, it’s almost the smell of leather. But then there’s a lingering, pleasant aftertaste of oak. It might be aged just a bit too long. I’m noticing a mellowness that I didn’t notice before.”
Then Philadelphia Guy took a sip. He gagged and said, “That one tastes like shit.”
It was great fun. They drank up the five little samples of bourbon, then switched to wine. Eventually, Philadelphia Guy and Medieval Woman went off to bed, with Medieval Woman promising to set an alarm and wake us up in time to catch the ferry. Then Artist Friend and I stayed up late talking, catching up on our lives and all that had happened since we’d seen each other last.
That's Artist Friend in the photo.
3 comments:
I love the stack of books in the corner of the photo. That seems so appropriate!
All those bourbons were excellent! I had a great time at this conference. It's Tuesday night and I still haven't recovered--tired and revved up at the same time. It was great fun seeing everybody again.
That sounds like fun!
L.
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