Sonoma Weekend--Take One

I start profiling as soon as I get in the security line. Mostly I conclude that no one looks like me, so each of this rag-tag throng of people are fair game as suspects. I’m particularly enamored of the passengers who haven’t got the news about liquids in your carryon. I mean, come on, people. Where have you been?

The TSA clerk and I exchange smirks as the person in front of me gets detoured so that his entire bag—with its shampoos, crème rinses, and shaving gels—can be thoroughly searched and the “illegal substances” disposed of.

Me, I sail through, with barely a momentary pause to slip my shoes back on.

At the bar, I grab a glass of wine and settle in front of a wall of TV monitors. Most are tuned to ESPN, but a few are carrying the Anna Nicole news conference. Unfortunately, the sound is coming from the ESPN channel, so I’m forced to read the transcript on Anna Nicole. The latest is that Zsa Zsa Gabor’s husband is claiming paternity which, I imagine, must piss her off, although at 90, maybe she’s got more important stuff on her mind. Like breathing.

My flight gets called, and I line up to board. I just LOVE the Burbank airport. Not many places left where you don’t enter the plane by walking down a long, windy, tube. Nope. Here, no matter what the weather, you step outside into the exhaust-filled air, traipse across the tarmac, and climb a flight of stairs—either to the front, or the back, your choice. LOVE that! Makes me feel like a glamorous movie star from the forties.

One uneventful flight later, I land in Sacramento, greeted by wet stuff falling from the sky. We don’t have that in Southern California, so I ask and find out it’s called rain. I become quite familiar with this RAIN thing during my stay.

On the way to get my rental car, I pass a CD store and stock up for the drive—Shakira, Norah Jones, and Nellie Furtado. Once I pick up my Buick LaCross, I slide Shakira in and like her so much, she takes up residence for the entire weekend. I become a HUGE Shakira fan.

So, my drive to Sonoma was to be non-stop, but I get an emergency request to swing by niece Jamie’s in Vacaville to pick up her Golden Retriever so I can bring it with me to niece Mindy’s. (There’s a rhyme and reason here, but you don’t need the details.) Anyway, I pick up Brandy (who’s not thrilled to be riding in a strange car with an even stranger person) so she maneuvers herself onto the console between the two front seats. Yep, this is what I need. Rain, approaching darkness, and a nervous canine slobbering on me.

All I need now is a little fog.

Which I encounter about an hour later as I’m tooling down a two-lane highway with vineyards on either side. I know the scenery must be gorgeous—too bad it’s now invisible. I pretty much “feel my way” toward my destination, with intermittent cell phone calls from my niece for assistance. Here’s a sample conversation:

Mindy: “What street are you on?”
Me: “Beats the hell out of me.”
Mindy: “Give me a landmark.”
Me: “I would if I could see anything.”

Nonetheless, with only one major faux pas that sends me in an entire circle (and with a dog so bored it gives up hovering and manages to make its way into the front passenger seat for a nap) I arrive chez Mindy. Yippee!

Uncork the wine!!!

(More tomorrow)