Wining.

Katherine and I left San Jose this morning excited by the prospects of our day traveling around Northern California. Well, at least I was excited, and I suppose that was more because I was singing along to the Nashville soundtrack rather than the prospects of our day, but regardless, we were happy to be on the road again. That was until we met this man:



Let me introduce you to Mr. Harlow R. Marks, alleged Sierra Club member and tree advocate. Harlow, you see, sets up a table immediately outside the gates of the Muir Woods National Monument-- a largely unimpressive collection of old-growth redwoods that, seemingly due to its close proximity to San Francisco, is wildly popular with tourists. Harlow's table advertises a large sign that states something like, "Save the National Forests! Sign Petition Today!" So, being the good environmentalist that I am, and understanding personally the difficulty involved with something like petitioning, I marched right up and signed the petition.

"The way I've been doing it for years," Harlow said without introduction, "is this way, and it works out real well... It takes just a five dollar donation and then you can sign the petition."

I was obviously confused, first of all because I had of coursed already signed the petition and didn't have any cash on me and second of all because who the hell charges for people to sign a petition? "Uh... sorry I don't have any cash."

Harlow grimaced and yelped in an ornery old voice that didn't have time or patience to deal with a whippersnapper like me, "You mean to tell me that in this day and age you don't carry any cash with you?"

"In this day and age, I use a credit or debit card." I replied moving to scratch my name off with the petition with my pen.

"Well, just leave it. Fine. But don't tell anyone," Harlow said disatisfied with the turn of events. "That could start a hullaballoo." I began to walk away, when Harlow had a change of heart. "Actually, I would like to see some of these start coming back. He proceeded to pull out a small hand cut (by a three year old) card that listed in the uneven typeface of an old ditto machine "Make checks payable to Harlow Marks/Sierra Club." I looked at him slightly dumbfounded. "Wells Fargo won't let me cash checks anymore made out to the SIerra Club. Otherwise I'd have to become a company and get messed up with the government."

"Now just send me that check so you can have a clear conscience." Clear conscience? For what? Signing a petition to save the National Forest? And this from a man who is clearly ripping people off, who most likely had a cease-and-desist order come in from the Sierra Club that prompted him to get out his ink pen and mark out the little purple type that trumpeted the affiliation. Who asks for donations made out to themselves? That's a charity I want to start for sure. As a matter fact I will. Anyone interested in, ummm, saving the redwoods please make checks payable to Jacob Hustedt.



Anyway, the actual woods were rather unimpressive like I said. But we saw some redwoods and got yelled at by a crotchety old man so the day was off to a good start. As we headed off to Napa Valley, we thought things were looking up. The sun was shining and we were beginning to see rows of grape vines dotting the hillsides. We ate a lovely lunch at Buchon, Thomas Keller's cafe version of his much touted French Laundry. Everything was going to be alright... or so we thought. Little did we now that we were about to encounter are most terrifying nemesis yet:



This seemingly mild-mannered yuppie is in reality our most hated foe-- an "Ambassador" for Chandon Vinyards. Yes, that means a tour guide. Somehow Katherine and I ended up at the Disneyland of wineries. Complete with cheesy movies, a schmoozy-to-the-point-of-being-nauseating tour guide, and to top it all of the worst wine I have ever tasted. Yes, kiddies, I sampled wine today that was touted as tasting like strawberries and creme, and sadly, it actually did. The wine had about as much vintage as Kool-Aid (our tour guide assured us that the grapes ferment for the minimum time required by California state law in order to retain "that sweet fruitiness" that so many people like in their wine). Katherine and I ran away from the tour and went to the tasting early. Disgusted that we paid twenty dollars for such a shitty selection we slammed back our samples enticing the wait staff to cheer us on for being "real drinkers." Ah, the sophisticates of Napa Valley...

Very ready for the day to end we set off, and got lost, but eventually found our way down a narrow strip of forgotten highway called Highway 128. 128 twists back away from the valley through hidden vinyards and hills tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the Napa tourist industry. The sun was setting by then and the entire countryside looked golden and hushed, nearly autumnal. The air smelled like freshly tilled soil and the soft breeze cooled the warm setting sun. It was enough to make you want to sit outside, relax, and sip on a glass of Pinot Noir. We were on our way out, but I think we saw wine country at last.