First, I need to address something. The concept of wine tasting enthralls me. Typically wine tasting groups (unaffiliated with a company) encompass anywhere from two to seven people. Unless tasters have money to hire an escort or limo, or desire to partake in bus services, someone has to drive. The notion amuses me. Halt at a winery, drink, get in car and drive to next winery. Halt, drink, drive, winery. The roads are frequently narrow and curl, twirl, and weave between vineyards and surrounding trees. As my friends and I much prefer spending our meager money on essential things, like our social lives – aka booze – instead of transportation, we always drive. This occasion we fortunately had a runner in our midst. He wasn’t drinking heavily until later, thus becoming the flawless driving candidate.
Six wineries and countless bottles later, the five of us (minus the semi-sober runner) staggered from yet another tasting room, the sun accosting our eyes and striking our faces. Winery owners embellish the ambience with plentiful gardens, serene walkways, exquisite flowers, and majestic watercourses.
We flounced in the smoldering glow of the day toward an oversized boar statue stationed in the walkway’s heart. One of my friends reported she desired to jump on the boar’s back and requested we take a picture. We, inebriated, confirmed and stationed ourselves accordingly. We observed as she raced toward the sculpture. We watched as she launched her long body, limbs sailing in air, legs stretched to straddle beast, left hand grasping at boar's left ear. We inhaled as tender inner thigh united with blistering metal marinating in sun for four hours. Our concern liquefied into laughter as she rocketed off the boar's rear, her shriek puncturing the still air. She grabbed at her thin green dress and groped, embracing cool hands to charred skin. She vowed to never again spread her legs for a metal boar blistering in the sun.
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