Wine tasting in airports

Ok, this is not about wine. It is about the chance to taste wine in a new setting. It is about eating alone, or drinking alone and feeling ok about it. A recurring theme of my postings is doing things on my own. I would prefer, social and sexual creature that I am, to do things with someone. Eating, sex, shopping, cooking, you name it, all are better to me, with someone else, although each and every activity could be accomplished alone.

But here I was, in a hotel room getting ready to travel the next god-awful early morning to Montana. The room: cheap; the restaurant nearby: with karaoke, and I am sure god awful clams, after all it was names Steamers. The environs: near the airport, not a place to walk.

So I had a bright, no, nifty idea. I would have the hotel take me with their free van to the airport. Why not? Airports are full of shopping, and good food and interesting people to look at. Who in the world travels like this, I would ask, and watch the crowds. The alternative, a granola bar and the hotel TV. No contest.

I called the van and headed over to Portland International Airport. fun. sushi bar, Powell's books, travel store, chi chi stationery stores, and if I only could with a visa, the tempting wish to line up and book a trip to Istanbul. right now, here, with just what I have on. I would love it.

but I didn't.
damn.

What I did to is look at the stores. And because book buying money does not count, got a book at Powell's, the largest independent bookstore in the free world. It was all about the palest rose' and I could vicariously imagine a world where I could roam free for a year looking for a wine. Yeah right.

From there I went to the wine bar. Wine bars are sissy saloons. A woman in a bar bellying up to a Glenlivet looks like a drunk, or a harlot, or out of place. A woman in a wine bar looks like a cognoscenti, a gourmand, or a mini drunk. I asked for the pinot flight, and forgot that it was red. I hate red. I meant pinot blanc. But snobby gal that I am, plus mixed with not admitting a mistake, sipped the four reds for a while. At least since I don't like reds I sipped, I would probably be done with whites in four gulps. I looked at the Wine Spectator and wondered why I couldn't have a column in it l Ike the man I know who does. I showed my Rose' book to the steward.

It was cool, slightly Parisian as far as a Parisian could be in the Portland airport and time for dinner.

New venue, a potato with fixings at Wendy's. Right, just not up to the cost of the restaurant near wine bar guy.

Called the van, home again jiggity jig, and off to bed. The ether of alternative life, the life of an airport is odd, surreal, isolated, and still with potential. Like a time release drug, you can pretend you are traveling before you do, be safe in its federally protected walls, and get your chauffeur to pick you up. Not a bad deal in these Mad Max go to hell Peak Oil days.