Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (33 page)

From the information I deduced the Willamette Valley wine region is considered a cool-climate viticultural appellation—grape-growing region—similar to Burgundy, France. So we were talking about cool-climate grape varieties such as Pinot Gris, Riesling, and Chardonnay, but most importantly, Pinot Noir.

I couldn’t wait to get there.

I called Benedetta and told her the news about my trip to Oregon. She told me it wouldn’t be a problem, as usual, to drive me to the airport and cat-sit for me while I was gone. I worried a bit about Eros and Peridot sharing living quarters, though. She must have sensed my concern for she soothed me by saying it would all be fine. For some odd reason the certainty coating her voice eased my worries.

I trusted her.

“Once I get back I might need you to take Peridot again.”

“Where are you going next?”

“I’m shooting for Australia.”

She whistled softly. “Finally, Porzia. I bet you can’t wait.”

“You have no idea,” I said, venting my frustration.

We talked a bit longer; actually
I
talked a bit longer, she just listened to me as I rambled on.

“Porzia, I could listen to you for hours, but you’re beginning to sound like a broken record.” Benedetta’s citric comment healed me quickly.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK. Just shoot me if I ever get so pathetic,” she begged me, chuckling.

“I feel like shooting you right now,” I told her, half seriously.

“I’m gonna have your cat. Be nice.”

“Maybe I should ask Evalena.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“A familiar can be devoted to only one witch at a time.”

“Are you calling me a witch, Benedetta?” I didn’t quite understand if she was being serious or not.

She just laughed and never answered. As soon as we hung up my phone rang again with Oscar on the line.

“Hello. What are you up to?”

“Work, work, work,” I told him, walking back to my desk.

“Find time for fun, Porzia, dear. Life is short.”

“You sound like the antithesis of il grillo parlante.”

“Who?”

I shook my head, as if he could see me. “It’s the cricket in the Italian
Pinocchio
,” I said.

“I see.” He still sounded a bit confused. “Well, the reason I’m calling is because I’ve read your piece and loved it.”

“You did?” I asked, smiling.

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks, Oscar,” I said. “And how are you doing?”

“Doing well. Talked to Joel about Camille’s proposal. We’re fine-tuning the details, some of them major ones, like his worries about employment in Miami, and moving once again, and blah, blah, blah . . . I shouldn’t bore you.”

“You’re not boring me, Oscar. Remember, we’re in this together.”

“How about you? Have you spoken with your heartthrob?”

“Not yet. We have a lot of things to discuss, but over the phone it’s extremely difficult.”

“I hear you, Porzia. And I wish you the best.”

“Thanks, Oscar.”

“Any other assignments or exciting happenings?”

“I shouldn’t talk to you about it—trying to scoop out the competition?”

Oscar laughed heartily. “Oh, absolutely not!”

“
Right.
” I was grinning as well.

“Keep in touch between adventures, Porzia, and thanks again for a stunning piece.”

“Thank you.” I hung up feeling pretty good about myself.

I
flew into Portland on a very foggy morning, leaving behind sunny Florida, my cat in Benedetta’s hands, and a spotless condo since I’d spent the day before my trip thoroughly cleaning. I’d hoped I would hear from Gabe before I left but didn’t.

I had called the photo agency in Portland and spoken to Hannah, the assigned photographer. We arranged to meet and decided it would be fine not to make sleeping reservations. “It will be an adventure. Kind of exciting,” she promised.

My kind of woman,
I thought.

I packed a light suitcase with boots, jeans, layering shirts, and, on a whim, Joséphine’s amber pendant.

After a bumpy flight from Pensacola to Denver and an even more turbulent one to Portland, the plane slit through a thick layer of rain-laden, gray clouds, which re-closed, unperturbed, above us, and landed on wet concrete. My stomach felt so queasy I imagined my intestines wrought like clothes after a final spin cycle.

On weak legs, I found the rental car. I fastened my house and car key chain with the dangling set of dice onto the rental SUV’s thinking that Gabe would be proud of my outback choice of wheels. I studied the map briefly and drove straight into downtown rush hour hell. Every other radio station I fidgeted with blasted alternative rock. What a change from Country Georgia or Cajun New Orleans.

Twenty minutes later, a tall redhead shrouded in a hemp outfit greeted me at the photo agency. “You must be Porzia.” Wisps of untamed ginger curls framed her smiling face. I sniffed patchouli.

I nodded and extended my right hand. “Hannah, I presume?”

“Nice to meet you,” she replied, offering a firm handshake.

“You’re driving,” I told her as aftershocks of road rage spasmed through my body.

“Oh, you’ve enjoyed our traffic, yes?” Cocking her head she regarded me, amusement dancing in her deep emerald eyes.

“Oh yes,” I groaned, handing over the car keys.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” she said, laughing and taking the keys from me.

She grabbed a faux suede bag and her photography equipment and loaded them into the back of the rented yellow SUV and we sped off down the highway heading south, toward where the Oregon countryside timelessly spread.

“Where should we start?” she opened with, her eyes shining with excitement.

“How about the Willamette Valley?”

She nodded, smiling at me. “One of my favorites.”

“Great!”

Serenaded by the hypnotic woop-woop of the windshield wipers fighting a lost battle against the unrelenting drizzle, we left the city.

“I wonder if we’ll get to see anything,” I mused. “Half the day’s gone already.”

“It won’t get dark until about nine this evening,” Hannah said, reminding me of how the Northwest benefits from extended daylight during the summer.

“Wineries will be open so late?”

“To make the most of business some will, yes.”

“Do you have any particular one in mind?”

She turned her head smiling at me. “A few, but nothing special. I figured you might have an ace or two up your sleeve.”

I dug in my carry-on bag for my blue ball cap and tied my hair in a ponytail, anticipating rain for the rest of the day. “There is one in particular I’d love to find,” I said, thinking of Camille’s Pinot Gris.

“What’s the name?”

“La Maison de Pascal.”

“Pascal’s house? Never heard of it.”

“You speak French?”

“Not really. Just what I remember after spending a summer in Europe.”

I searched my notes looking for La Maison de Pascal’s address and found it. “They’re on the 47, just outside Gaston. It says about thirty-five miles west of Portland.”

“Not far at all. Let’s go there first.”

About an hour later, amidst gentle rolling hills covered by thick rows of luscious grapevines, we found a simple sign indicating our destination: La Maison de Pascal. We followed a bumpy, unpaved, winding road up through a ripening pear tree grove to a charming winery nestled by the bank of a gurgling river. We parked the car among a few other visitors’ vehicles and walked up to the main entrance where an older gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles and a trimmed beard welcomed us. We introduced ourselves, mentioning
Grape Expectations
—much to the delight of the older man. He told us to please call him John. I dropped Camille’s name and their superb Pinot Gris. John, casting formalities aside, hugged us.

“Pascal!” he called to a petite, brunette, middle-aged woman. A tiny pink barrette kept a mischievous lock of her hair away from her bright golden-speckled chestnut eyes.

She excused herself from a group of visitors and approached us, smiling shyly but sincerely. John introduced us and told her how we came to be there. Genuinely pleased, Pascal offered to show us around. We got the grand tour of the facility, from the cellars to the ceilings, with Pascal answering my questions while Hannah shot photos left and right.

We ended up in the tasting room where John awaited with samples of their wine. After so much talk, Hannah couldn’t wait to taste Camille’s Pinot Gris. John explained to us how the Pinot grapes have a tendency to lose their delicate natural flavors and their natural acidity (which, in the case of such gentle grapes, ought to be called crispness) if they ripen too quickly or, even worse, over ripen. Thanks to longer summer days extending well into late fall and cool latitudes, the Willamette Valley climate is perfect for the best development of such grapes. The conversation got technical as we discussed levels of residual sugars, malolactic fermentation, and the singular phenomenon of the Pinot Gris grapes having a tendency to emulate their soil and regionality. The French call this notion “
terroir
.” It loosely translates as “taste of the earth,” a concept that tries to explain why the same varieties, grown the same way but in different places, end up tasting different.

John believed in leaving his Pinot Gris the hell alone, no malolactic fermentation and no oak. He fermented his wine cold in stainless steel, got it in the bottles, and voilà, all done. The result was bright, clear aromas with the spice reaching the nose, and at the end of the palate a lush but clean sense. After all, it’s Pinot, not Chardonnay; no buttery, oaky flavors but fruity, crisp, refreshing. “Not a wine to be masticated,” he commented confidently. Hannah abruptly stopped sloshing it around her chipmunk-inflated cheeks.

I had enjoyed it in Miami and with my girlfriends a few nights back, but now I truly appreciated it. Almost disappointed, Hannah thought it too zesty, almost tangy. We moved on to try the Pinot Blanc, which I found, in turn, a bit too fruity, though I did appreciate the creamy-textured structure, tasting traces of vanilla on the finish. Of course, Hannah loved it. We tried the winery’s Pinot Gris Reserve—made from his oldest vines and best grapes—last, and John’s eyes twinkled as he filled our glasses. I took a sip. This one embodied a totally different profile than the crisp freshness I had tasted in the first Pinot Gris. Extremely fruity but not cloying, with a rich texture that wasn’t in the least overpowering, it held a lingering, warm, spicy finish topped off at the very end with a whiff of smoke. Intriguing varietal characteristics indeed!

I ended up buying two bottles of the Reserve and two bottles of the Pinot Gris. Pascal, readjusting her pink barrette, cast John a conspiring look and offered us hospitality for the night. After just a moment of hesitation, we accepted.

I spent the rest of the evening with Hannah walking outdoors among the grapevines. Occasionally, the sky took a break from the constant misty drizzle, allowing her to take additional photos in better light.

With Pascal and John we shared a simple but regal pear and cheese salad for dinner, accompanied by their delicious Pinot Gris. I helped Pascal clean up after dinner while Hannah excused herself to take advantage of the lingering daylight and a break in the clouds to snap some more photos.

Sensing my need for some rest after such a long day, Pascal led me upstairs to a guestroom and bathroom. She graciously made sure I didn’t need anything else and wished me goodnight. Grateful for some privacy, I took a warm bath and washed the day off my tired body. A sunset streaked the valley, tingeing the river waters with deep purples and oranges.

I must have been really tired, for I fell asleep right away while daylight still lingered outside, with a brief kiss sent out to meet Gabe in his adventure.

*

With my body set on Florida time I woke up early. I bundled up in flannel pajamas and thick socks and went to work at my laptop, entering all the information I had gathered the previous day. When my stomach begged for coffee I took a quick shower and slipped into a clean pair of jeans, boots, and a heavy, fitted, black silk blouse I don’t wear often in Florida because it’s so warm. At the last minute I clasped the amber pendant around my neck.

I found John, Pascal, and Hannah in the kitchen engulfed in the juicy aroma of frying bacon. I sat at the table with them and poured myself a steaming cup of coffee, added cream and loads of sugar, and took a sip. They offered me a simple but delicious breakfast of eggs, hand-cured bacon, and toast. I asked John if he knew of anybody who made Pinot Noir in the area. I specified that I wanted a smaller, off-the-beaten-path winery where I could find a gem or two for my article.

“I don’t know how he’s gonna take the idea of his wine in a major publication—” John peered at me over his spectacles, “but just about an hour and a half south there’s a place called ToeKnight Cellars. They might have what you’re looking for.”

I wrote down his directions while Hannah traced the route on our map. We thanked our hosts for the warm hospitality and set off in search of this promising destination.

John told us the scenery would indeed be incomparably nicer if, instead of the highway, we decided to follow his instructions for secondary roads.

Above us the sky still looked undecided whether to give us drizzle or a sun break. Hovering clouds lazily collided against one another reminding me of trapped cows on a moving cattle trailer. But all around us the landscape sparkled brilliant, verdant, and luscious. I guess it pays to get so much rain. I had never seen so much green all at once. Hill after hill, valley after valley of it unrolled, ever shifting. Emerald fields swayed gently under the encouraging breeze. Rows and rows of endless, bursting grapevines sloped vibrant hills; I bet they shone like real gems when the sun kissed those leaves. In the far distance the stark silhouette of forest-covered mountains sawed a jagged line across the blue horizon. I rolled down my window as we passed a grove of evergreens. It smelled like Christmas.

“Douglas fir,” Hannah told me. She pointed at more trees coming up the road. “Those are hemlocks.” She cast a sidelong glance at me. “Don’t see many of those down in Florida, huh?”

“No, we don’t,” I said, inhaling deeply with my nose out the window.

In a small town named McMinnville we stopped to fill up the car, and I read a sign advertising for the Oregon Wine Tasting Room.

“What do you think, Hannah?” I asked her, pointing at the billboard.

“It won’t be your secret ace, but it’s worth a quick stop,” she answered, smiling.

Chased by the sky’s decision of more rain, we rushed back to the car and headed southwest on Highway 18. We found the tasting room in no time.

We parked the car beneath a welcome sign announcing not only a tasting room, but a farmers’ market as well. What had begun as drizzle now mutated into persistent rain; we ran inside. I checked my boots to make sure my feet were still dry, and Hannah whistled, “These people mean serious business.”

The place echoed the hollow enormity of certain primitive caves. Only this cave had mutated into an impeccable and well-stocked cellar featuring rows and rows of wines. I grabbed a visitor’s pamphlet and read that the place featured over 150 wines from over seventy Oregon wineries.

Hannah fidgeted with her camera lenses and flagged down a young man to ask permission to take photos.

“By all means,” he replied, smiling.

I walked up to one of the several displays and began to read labels. Mostly Pinot Noir from Willamette and Yamhill, Syrah, and a few bottles of—
surprise, surprise!
—Sangiovese from the Columbia Gorge. In the crowded space I felt like one of the trapped cows I’d thought of earlier. Colliding with rain gear-shrouded patrons, I worked hard to reach each station. I found Chardonnay and Pinot Gris; I looked for La Maison de Pascal and didn’t see it. Then I stumbled upon the dessert wines and lingered over an interesting label of Pinot Gris Vin Glace. Used to not judging a book by its cover, I asked for a tasting. By its stem, I held the glass up to the light and admired the warm honey overtones. I dipped my nose in and finally took a sip: fruity, almost like a cobbler, filled with Cameo apples, peaches, and a hint of cinnamon aromas.
Hannah would really like this,
I thought, looking around for my companion. Only a few feet behind me, she was sipping from a glass of dessert wine as well. I asked for a second tasting and called up to her, “You would like this one, Hannah.” I raised the glass.

“Here, let’s trade,” she said, handing me her glass.

I tried it and thought of poached pears stuffed with Gorgonzola cheese, and walnuts. Not that the wine tasted like poached pears, but it would marry well with such a dessert. It presented a little too honey-ish on the palate for me, but rich nonetheless. I walked back to the Pinot Noirs and browsed for ToeKnight Cellars. Quite pleased, I didn’t find it.

Cradling a couple of bottles, Hannah reached me at the cash register. Her pleasant smile told me it had been fun. One more surprise met us outside: no more rain. The earthy scent of upturned soil enriched the air and held a lightness incomparable to Florida’s humid breezes. I offered to drive, but Hannah declined, assuring me she was just fine to continue.

By early afternoon I began to think about food when a brightly painted sign on the edge of the road announced our destination. Inside a grape-filled vat, a smiling knight in full armor danced with bare, oversized feet, splattering purple
mosto
all over the sign. With the engine still humming, we stopped for a few seconds to enjoy the jovial, contagious energy of the barefooted knight. We grinned at each other and drove on. I knew Hannah shared the same intriguing feeling I had churning in my stomach. I don’t know how to explain it, but I knew without a doubt that this place made excellent wine.