Olly Olly Oxen Free!

By the dinner time on Sunday most of the guests had said their farewells. Stauber and Cousin Sam had taken a taxi to the Vilnus airport for their respective flights, and the Lithuanians had hopped in their cars, headed for home. Only later did we find out that poor Sammer had confused his flight dates and would actually be staying in Lithuania another night or two, which meant he'd need some more funding. Ha!

Those of us who remained got back in the van, carrying our wedding favors (a bottle of Vodka branded with--you guessed it--a photo of Nate and Lina). We left the newlyweds to enjoy the lodge for one final evening. As thrilled as Nate was to have had such a gorgeous and memorable wedding, one thing loomed over him: there was yet another physical challenge he would have to undertake. Apparently, Lina was supposed to hide somewhere really sneaky and he had to find her. He was just so tired at that point that he wasn't sure he could get into the game.

As it turned out, Lina gave him a pass on the hide-and-seek challenge, and they snuggled in for their second night together as husband and wife, exhausted. Whether Nate will be able to keep her warm this winter, however, will remain to be seen. Perhaps, as a PhD and all, he'll be able to figure something out.

The Morning After

The warning Nate got about his inlaws turned out to be fair--they were indeed up partying all night. However, no Eastern European--not even a Ruski--has anything on Stauber. When I came down from the bunk room the next morning, I found him asleep on the table where we had been eating dinner the previous night. Apparently, he had just "gone to bed."

While Stauber slumbered in the dining room, the rest of us hung out on the grounds of the lodge where there was a sauna, a lake, a swing, and various other lounging aids. After a while, I noticed that a group of people had gathered near the picnic tables and made my way over. There, was Lina's grandmother, who was addressing the small crowd as Mendogas and Lina translated.

It turned out that she was talking about her experience as a Lithuanian who was deported to Siberia in the early 1940s. Along with 12,000 other "enemies of the people," she had been arrested and moved to a Soviet work camp. Together, she and Lina's dad explained what it was like to be a Lithuanian before, during and after the Soviet occupation from 1939-1990.

While they tried to make their accounts as educational as possible, it was clear there was a lot of emotion behind their stories. Living under Soviet occupation had been financially devastating as well as demoralizing for most Lithuanians. As I listened to Lina's family members tell their stories, I got my first glimpse into this country's fierce sense of national pride.

Cousin Sam

As the evening went on, it became evident that the singer of the band spoke perfect English and knew quite a few English-language songs. Cousin Sam, a passionate musician, managed to convince the band to take a break from Lithuanian music and play a song or two in English. He even volunteered to pick up a guitar and play along.

Before anyone knew what was happening, the band was rocking to AC/DC and Sam was basically head banging. One minute people were dancing to Hava Nagila-style wedding music, and the next, well, um, Who Made Who was blasting from the small stage. After a few songs, the band switched back and Nate's mother and uncle let out a big breath. Man, do I love weddings. I also really like Cousin Sam.

Ay, Ay, Captain!

At last we were able to take a break from the photos, the posing and the feats of strength and kick back with the other guests. It's unclear if Nate officially passed his challenges, but judging by the warm welcome Team Americanas got from Lina's friends and family, I'd say he made the cut...at least informally.

At this point, the beer started to flow and the reserved, buttoned up Lithuanians began to unwind. Many of them spoke beautiful English and were able to help Lina and Mendogas with all the translations. After an hour or so on the patio, we moved inside to the lodge where we were seated at a large, wooden table. It looked like something out of a cartoon, where intoxicated Germans might congregate, holding frothy beer steins that spilled their contents with every belly laugh. There were even animal heads on the wall behind us. Awesome.

The table setting was elaborate, with all sorts of special decorations in celebration of the newlyweds. Not only were there custom-made embroidered wall hangings, but there were personalized candies, complete with photos of bride and groom. The best part was that each section of the table was assigned a Lithuanian captain who was to be in charge of vodka consumption. In this important role, any time he or she felt as though a member of the table section was slacking on consumption, the captain would join them in doing a shot. Genious.

Throughout the evening, we were served all kind of traditional dishes while an accordion player and singer rocked song after song. The Lithuanians belted the words to each number in a drunken delight as they swayed in unison, encouraging the rest of us to sway along.

Here we are, just getting started:

Feats of Strength

After a stop at a vista point for additional photo opps and a drive through some quaint little towns, we arrived at the reception site. The minute we stopped, a young boy darted onto the van and handed out candy to each of us. We never did find out why.

Before we had time to unload our bags, an accordion started playing traditional wedding music and Nate was directed to the lawn area. Relatives had started to gather and we joined them in a circle around the bride and groom. Poor Nate looked like he needed a minute to gather himself, but again rose to the occasion and began clapping along to the music.

What happened next felt like a scene from Something About Mary. Nate was handed an ax and instructed to chop a piece of wood, to demonstrate that he could keep his bride warm during the long Baltic winter. Not having had much ax experience, Nate shrugged light heartedly and took a swing. While he did hit the piece of wood, it didn't quite split in half. Errr...

As if on cue, Lina's dad then stepped up and picked up the ax. Let's just say his family would be warm and toasty all winter.

Finally, Nate had to pick up his bride one last time to carry her across a seesaw. Not kidding.

Blue Steel

After the bridge-crossing feat, we made our way to a picturesque home in the woods that seemed to belong to the wedding photographer. The living quarters hinted of a fairy tale where one might expect to find a despondent Baltic maiden with some kind of magical pet who helps her to overthrough her evil oppressor. Did she live here for real or was the property only for photo shoots? A lot of questions went unanswered that day, but I was OK with that as it made things seem even more mysterious and exotic.

The next question had to do with costuming. Why was it that members of the wedding party were being photographed with various unrelated props? I was pretty sure Nate was no sax player and that his sister, Amy, had nothing to do with the navy (above). Was it some kind of Baltic tradition? This went on for at least an hour while the rest of us snacked on pickled vegetables and salmon tea sandwiches.

After a few more series of curious photos, we got back in the van, unsure of what would come next. The Lithuanians seemed completely at ease with all the posing and shuffling around whereas the Americans were bewildered as to why they weren't drinking yet.

Over the River

Back on the foreigner van, we discussed what the rest of the evening might hold in store. Nate had warned us of his inlaws' proclivity for heavy drinking and tireless dancing that often lasts past noon on the following day. But these people seemed so stiff (not in a stuffy way, but in a crisp, Baltic kind of way). It was difficult to picture them slamming drinks and shaking it on the dance floor to George Michael...or even Journey for that matter.

As I was flipping through my mental catalogue of "that-would-be-funny" wedding song selections, the van pulled over. We were in the middle of nowhere. What was going on? The driver motioned for us to get out and when we did, we noticed a bridge stretching out ahead. OMG, was this really happening? As we walked toward the the bridge, I glanced at Nate's mom who looked more than a little nervous. This bridge was no tiny brook crossing--it was long.

One of the relatives signaled Nate to pick up his bride and carry her across. Stauber immediately took out his camera and began grinning ear to ear. And me? I just hoped that nothing happened to Lina's dress. Or Nate's back. OMG.

The next few minutes seemed unreal. As if it were nothing, Nate scooped up his gorgeous, 6-foot-tall bride and whisked her across the bridge, with the river beneath. The moment had the feeling from one of those 80s movies when the lovable protagonist accomplishes the seemingly impossible, like when the Nerds beat the Alpha Betas to win the Greek Games in Revenge of the Nerds (not that Nate is a nerd, but he does wear glasses). He carried her the entire distance with confidence and grace. Everyone cheered on the side of the road, in a mix of Lithuanian and English.

Nate Gets Hitched

The foreigner van dropped us off at the wedding church where we unloaded and milled around for a while in the shade. While Nate and Lina were busy greeting guests, I stood by while Stauber took a few calls from what I guessed to be his trading colleagues. Each time he'd answer, he'd get a serious look on his face and respond with, "Ok, yeah, sell" or "mmmm...let me get right back to you on that." It all seemed very Wall St. with a hint of Hollywood. I liked it.

With Stauber preoccupied for the time being, I was left on my own to survey the premises. After some thought I concluded that their wedding chapel was one of the prettiest I had come across, which is really saying something since I visited (read: was forced to visit) just about every "iglesia" one can visit throughout the entire nation of Spain...and then some. Towards the end of the semester, every last student in my study abroad group could identify and describe in detail the features of their favorite cupola. (Today, my friend Brian would would offer his nerd call on that one: "nerp, nerp.")

After a beautiful ceremony, of we which understood next to nothing, we went back outside for an extensive photo sesh (complete with a clergyman in a druid outfit). Then we were loaded back into the foreigner van, presumably headed for the reception site. By that point we had given up hope on the bride-and-groom bridge crossing, assuming it was just a rumor created by the locals to scare the hell out of Nate. Or maybe once they heard about the beaver, they decided he couldn't handle any more "local traditions?"

The Farm

The next morning we were off to Lina's dad's farmhouse, where the wedding pre-party would take place. As promised, we got to hang out among black current bushes, edible mushrooms, apple orchards, the family's bee-keeping operation, and some hearty Lithuanian sheep. Lina's dad built and runs this farm solo and keeps up its rustic Baltic charm.

After we had completed the tour, we gathered on the front lawn waiting for Lina to make her big reveal. When she stepped out of the house in her white gown, our group inhaled a collective gasp. She was stunning. And statuesque. And, OMG how was Nate going to carry her across a bridge in that dress?

Next we moved inside for snacks and spirits and several heartfelt toasts that were translated back and forth with the help of Lina and Mendogas. The brother-sister translation team had to be exhausted at this point, and the day had barely begun.

English-speaking guest to Lina: "Lina, please tell your father that his farm is lovely." Lina passes on the message and responds on behalf of her dad: "My father wants to thank you for your kind words." Mendogas for his father: "My father invites everyone to please enjoy the spread of food." Guests: "Oh, please tell him the dill spread is delicious and we appreciate his warm generosity." It went on like this all day.

Soon enough we were shepherded back into the foreigner van, now with several cars full of friends and cousins lined up behind us to follow our lead. As we pulled out of the farm, I took one last look at the sheep while Mendogas translated for the driver. "Please, everybody, sit down."

Alytus

Two hours later we arrived in Alytus and checked into our hotel. Lina had organized for all the foreign wedding guests to stay at one place, which I'm sure Baby Brother Mendogas appreciated. This meant he didn't have to keep track of us all. Once safely inside the air conditioned building, poor Cousin Sam went straight to bed while the rest of us geared up for the parental introduction luncheon.

With Lina translating, the mother of the bride and the mother of the groom traded well wishes and dignified gifts. Meanwhile, the boys had caught wind of the fact that Nate would be forced to complete several acts of strength and bravery as part of the following day's marriage rituals and began placing bets on how it would all shake down.

Would our Nate be able to carry the bride across an entire bridge? Was it true that he'd have to engage in some kind of violent duel before he'd be considered worthy of her hand? Why wasn't this being filmed by MTV, cause, man, the entirety of "Nate's Lithuanian Wedding" would trump Jersey Shore before viewers could say holyshiticas.

Has Anyone Seen Stauber?

The next day we were scheduled to travel by van to Alytus (pronounced “Al-ee-tas”), the home town of Lina and Mendogas. However, there was a bit of drama getting out of Vilnius on time. You see our especially fun friend Dave Stauber, had arrived the night before. Wired from his flight, he convinced 20-year-old Cousin Sam and me to join him for some late night shenanigans post dinner. Let’s just say that Cousin Sam, an endearing little thing with a heavy British accent, was no match for the blinding force behind Stauber’s party power.

The next morning, poor Sam arrived at the van, in a bad way. Hungover and exhausted, he had somehow managed to spend all the funds allotted for his trip, which still had 4 days remaining. Meanwhile, Stauber was nowhere to be found. While I attempted to track him down, Sam begged his cousins to buy him some bottled water. ("A bit of water would be luvely, if it's not a bothah.") Eventually, we all made it on the van, with a frazzled, sheepish Stauber haphazardly stuffing clothes into his bag. Mendogas sat up front with the driver, no doubt apologizing for his cross to bare: Team Americanas.

This scenario immediately brought me back to the era of high school field trips. In fact, it was Nate and I, along with our friend Verd and some other delinquents, who caused a similar holdup on the Chatham High School trip to DC, back in ‘92. Convinced it was a good idea to indulge in a bottle of Southern Comfort (we were in the South, right?), a group of us wound up drinking ourselves sick at the hotel after a day of sightseeing.* Verd, now a Harvard educated attorney who appears on CNN as an expert commentator, attempted to explain his delayed bus arrival and disheveled appearance to our teacher, Dr. Freiberger, with an excuse he’ll never live down: “I ate some bad fish.”


*Let it be noted that Nate was an innocent bystander in this operation.

Enter Mendogas

Since Lina was still at her father’s house, preparing for the wedding pre-party, she had arranged for her brother Mendogas to show “The Americanas” around Vilnius. At this point, we had become quite a large group as Nate’s mom and her husband had joined us, along with Nate’s aunt and uncle, their two daughters, and a stray cousin from England by the name of Sam.

At last we encountered "baby brother" Mendogas, the tallest person I’ve ever met. A city historian and proud resident, we couldn’t have been in better, or larger, hands. As he aptly explained the historical significance and artistic value of each point of interest, he trotted us all around Old Town—up to the castle, around the main square, past what I deemed the Lithuanian Darth Vader statue (see photo), and through the ancient city gates. I guessed that we looked like bunch of little ducklings following their large, Lithuanian mother.

As my jetlag set in, the group walking tour started to feel like some sort of tourism endurance test, and I didn't care if my failure made my countrymen seem apathetic and lazy (plus, we kind of are). “Mendogas?” I asked with trepidation, looking way up at him to meet his eyes. “Um, would it be ok if I went back to the hotel for a bit before dinner?” “Yes,” he responded flatly with zero facial expression, indeed a man of few words. So back went the little Americanas with her figurative hall pass, to lay around…and sweat.

Cocopufficas

The next morning we met up with another wedding guest and hit the hotel’s continental breakfast. Damian, a proper Englishman and fellow History professor, had arrived the night before while we were at dinner. Over coffee, we brought him up to speed on the beaver situation as Nate’s stomachache had not improved. “Is it even legal to eat beaver?” he inquired.

Little did I know, this breakfast would set the culinary stage for the next three weeks. Spread over a few large tables was a selection of meats (mostly ham-looking items), some hard boiled eggs, sliced cheese and tomatoes, an assortment of pickled vegetables, a choice of dark and light bread, a big bowl of pink yoghurt, and a few cold cereal options.

When Nate saw that I had opted for the brown cereal with the pink yoghurt he commented, “Oh, I see you’ll be dining on the Cocopufficas?” Sure enough, the cereal turned out to be the Lithuanian version of Coco Puffs (see above photo taken during a later trip to the market).

According to Nate, when in doubt regarding an English to Lithuanian translation, simply add an “as” to the end of the word. For example, salon becomes salonas. You can also recognize a Lithuanian name by the presence of an “as” as in Medogas, Lina’s brother, and my good friend Tony (from Antanas) Brasunas. No wonder the the hotel staff kept called me "Americanas."

A Dam Fine Meal

So off we went into Old Town Vilnus in search of dinner—Nate, Amy, Amy’s husband Ryan, and I. Luckily, I had a Lonely Planet book that covered Lithuania, which meant that I was put in charge of finding a restaurant and mapping our way. Bleary eyed and spacey from the 10-hour time change, I paged through the book. “How about this place, guys? They have traditional Lithuanian food, like spiced wine and, ummm, something about all kinds of hunting game.” No one had the energy to come up with an alternative, so traditional Lithuanian fare it was.

By the time the waitress came over to take our order, we had consumed enough beer to convince Nate he should order the Beaver stew. Billed as a house specialty, it looked kind of interesting and, after all, how could we (read: Nate) pass up a Lithuanian tradition?

Newly pregnant, Amy wondered if she should even have a bite. “Is it safe?” she asked. Fresh off my canoe trip through Minnesota, I knew where she was coming from. “Those things are like river dogs, with all kinds of bizarre oil glands and super powered tail muscles. I’d steer clear.”

Over dinner we swapped transport stories and learned what was in store for us over the next few days: a tour of Vilnus, a visit to a black current farm, the wedding, and then an all-night reception at a campsite with cabins and a sauna. “Oh, and Lina’s 6 foot 6 “baby” brother, Mendogas, is gonna be our tour guide of sorts throughout the trip. He’s a man of few words, doesn’t take no for an answer, and can knock back vodka like it’s lemon aid. Something is bound to go awry.”

By this time, we had finished dinner and moved onto vodka…and beaver jokes. “Well this certainly shaped up to be a dam fine dinner!” Ryan announced, slapping Nate on the back. Amy, completely sober, rolled her eyes.

When Nate called Lina later that night with the report on our first night out, she burst into laughter. Having lived in Lithuanian most of her life, she explained that she’s never once been offered beaver. “Damnit!” Nate responded, now experiencing the beginnings of a stomach ache. “Those bastards passed off their crap meat as a local delicacy and we played right into it. I’m gonna blame Lauren so she can deal with the scorn of your brother tomorrow.”

Lietuvos Respublika (Lithuania)

It’s been almost three months since I went to Lithuania for my friend Nate’s wedding. I’m not sure how that’s possible, yet here we are in October, my favorite month. I swear it feels like just last week that I was subsisting on all things pickled with the ever-curious bright pink beat soup the only respite. Here’s how three weeks in Eastern Europe went down.

A Bit of Background

Nate is a friend of mine from home. (Fun fact: we were born on the same day.) His little sister, Amy, is my little sister’s best friend. Nate, who’s a History professor complete with requisite glasses and beard, fell in love with Lina, a Lithuanian researcher at his University. The two of them held a traditional Lithuanian wedding on July 31st and a handful of us flew over there to cheer him on. (Woot!)

Touchdown

From the minute I arrived in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania, it was clear that this country was gonna make me work for it. With no one speaking a lick of English at the airport (um, shit?) and zero signs to point me toward a downtown bus, I was lucky an Irish business traveler took pity on me. He must have noticed me pacing back and forth in a jetlagged daze, saddled with my 5-ton backpack.

“This country will drive ya mad with disorganization, you know,” he explained in his darling accent. “But if you’re looking for rich history and breathtaking countryside, you’ve come to the right place.” And with that, he pretty much threw me on the bus, paying for my ticket since buying one would have been a multi-step process requiring small bills, native language skills and at least 10mg of Valium.

Eventually I made it to the hotel and found Nate alone in his room, cursing in a pool of sweat. “It’s so effing hot in this hotel, I’m gonna kill someone. Why don’t you get yourself together and we’ll grab some food and beers? Lina’s at her dad’s house for the night, but Amy and Ryan are here…and starving. Let’s get the hell outa here.”

The Land of 11,842 Lakes (Part 2)

Top 10 from Our Trip to Minnesota (a chronological review)

1. Mo’s parents’ warm Minneapolis welcome. Not only did they prepare a quesadilla buffet spread that would rival some Mission taquerias, but following our dinner they also sent us on our way with fresh-baked cookies for the road and homemade trail mix for the canoe.

2. Duluth! Who knew it was such a cozy, charming city? It was a little confusing, I admit, to see “the ocean” before you and have to remind yourself that it was actually a fresh water lake. But we forgot all about that problem once we settled into a cute littler bar where this adorable hipster twosome was covering country and folk songs and where the bartender served us apricot IPA.

3. Learning everything we could about the great state of Minnesota, down to the fact that the official state muffin is “Blueberry.” As a former resident, Mo felt slightly disgruntled by this discovery never having been presented with the opportunity to vote on such a matter. He would like it to be noted that his vote would have gone the way of Chocolate Chip.

4. Beavers! What a fun surprise to find ourselves in the company of these curious little creatures. Paddling around the lakes, we stopped every so often to examine a new dam, each one with a distinctive arrangement of mud and sticks. In a true National Geographic moment, we watched as a beaver and a loon paddled by our campsite together, an interspecies watersport team on the go. Not surprisingly, The Boundary Waters was voted a Place of a Lifetime by National Geographic.

5. Marisa’s campsite service was nothing short of decadent. An early riser, she would hop out of our tent each morning, get her French press going, and serve Mo and me coffees and breakfast while we remained snuggled in our respective sleeping bags. The routine was that I’d unzip the tent window so we could watch Marisa pour, stir, slice and mix, all with a early morning view of a lake in the backdrop. We called this part of the day “the Minneshowta.”

6. Steering the canoe with finesse. Some people are skilled drivers and others talented artists. Still others are outstanding orators. And me? Well, I’m really good at steering canoes.

7. The view of the Boundary Waters from a canoe was truly something to behold. Paddling around small islands, through beds of Lilly pads, under tree branches and across glistening lakes was simply stunning. In fact, it was so beautiful that I forgot to be upset that it was raining for a lot of the trip. Even the rain was pretty...

8. Mo’s favorite dirty joke. Often, Mo would hold onto the canoe, push off the shore and jump into the boat to give us some starting power. Meanwhile, Marisa and I would be paddling our little hearts out. Since we couldn’t turn around to confirm he had actually made it into the boat, one of us would inevitably yell, “Mo? Are you in?” And his response would always be: “Ladies, no man ever wants to be asked that question.” Hahahaha...

9. Newfound nationalism. It’s true! This trip basically turned the three of us into flag waving torch carriers for the good ole US of A. Anything that George W. did to throw dirt on my American pride fire was undone the minute I saw a bald eagle swoop down from his nest to successfully dive for a fresh water fish.

10.Planning our Minnesota party. Yep, we're throwing a Minnesota party! We even have a planning committee consisting of real locals and people who lived there for at least a few years. So far, all we know is that we're going to play a lot of Prince and Har Mar Superstar..and say "Oh yeah, you betcha" in response to most questions. Perhaps Marisa's Native American bikini will be completed by then?

Check out the Boundary Waters! And if you ever want to take a canoe trip up there, I recommend the outfitter we used, based in Tofte. Not only did they hook us up with a great canoe, but they also rented us a tent, tarp, cooking gear, packs and more.

Land of 11,842 Lakes (Part 1)

I’m not exactly sure when it all started, but I’ve been obsessed with the state of Minnesota for quite some time now. I even own two different books detailing state highlights. You know, Lake Superior, Little House on the Prairie, Prince, the French fur trade, dog sledding, sugar beets, Loon birds and ice fishing…not to mention the butter sculpture competition at the world’s largest state fair (see above butter-Yoda). What’s not to obsess about, really?

Sownas and Hawkey
A few people have pointed out to me that Minnesota isn’t exactly the kind of place that one need long for in the same way that, oh, Uganda or Indonesia might be. Given that 1) I wouldn’t need a passport or special inoculations to travel there, 2) the level of civil unrest and political turmoil is really quite low and 3) the journey would only be a few quick hours, it’s kind of weird that I haven’t just hopped a Continental flight to Minneapolis by now. Fair.

Instead, I’ve just forced everyone I meet from Minnesota—all of whom are notably darling—to tell me every last detail about their experience there. Did you grow up playing hockey? Do your parents canoe? And ice fish?! Have you ever been to the state fair? Did you learn to swim in a lake? Did you buy your prom dress at the Mall of America? Say “sauna” again! (Note: people from Minnesota pronounce the word “sauna” like “sow-nah,” which is the Finnish pronunciation. Fun fact: There are a lot of Scandinavians in Minnesota.)

A Native Guide? You Betcha!
Then a few years ago, I met my friend Mo (of New Mexico ghost town fame). When he told me he was from Minneapolis, spent his childhood vacations canoeing with his family aaaand grew up playing hockey, I knew it was time to act. “Would you take me there sometime?” I begged him, almost desperately. “Sure” he responded, shrugging his shoulders as if this were a casual request. (Bitch, please.) It might have seemed odd that I was seeking a native guide to assist my journey through an English-speaking, U.S. destination known as “the Bread and Butter State” but if he wants to focus on Lauren-related curiosities, he’ll have bigger fish to fry than Minnesota. True.

Mo convinced me that the best time to visit the Land of 10,000 lakes (but really there are 11,842 according to Wikipedia) is in June after the snow has let up and before the mosquitoes outdo the local vampires…and I wasn’t about to question my native guide. It took a few years for our schedules to sync up for a June visit. And then finally, the stars aligned.

To The French Voyagers!
Anxious to lock down our trip, I secured a government camping permit, an outfitter reservation and an adorable high mobility cooler, recommended by Jen who’s reeeally good at recommending things. I also signed up Miss Marisa, my ever-spirited body double travel partner, for the adventure. Having heard me wax poetic about Minnesota for years now, she figured I must be onto something. Foreshadow: she was right.

Like any good wilderness explorers, we held some serious trip planning meetings at our neighborhood pub re: things like water filters and the pre-trip self-assigned reading list. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to read Last of the Mohicans before we departed, nor did Marisa finish beading her Native American leather bikini. So instead, we just dedicated the trip to the French Voyagers and off we went—Mo, Marisa and I—to North Country.

Purple Lifting Drinks

Remember how I helped my friends Dayle and Larry with their grape harvest back in October*? Well, over Memorial Day I got to experience yet another step of the vine to shelf process: wine bottling. I know that filling 2,000 glass containers with 750 ml of liquid each sounds kind of boring in comparison to sauntering down row after row of glistening grapes, picking the very best ones with love…all with a view of the Sierra Foothills in their full autumnal glory. But I can assure you it was just as satisfying. Here’s why: semi-automated machinery!

Who knew it would be so much fun to operate a bottling machine, a corking machine, a foil wrapping machine and a labeler, not to mention completing the steps in between? A group of us were literally holed up in Larry’s wine chemistry room (aka: the detached, windowless garage) for what felt like 15 hours each day. Yet it never got boring. In part, that’s because a lot of old school Madonna songs were coming on the radio but mostly it was because bottling wine is honestly fascinating.

So, here's how you bottle wine:

Before the actual bottling takes place, Larry and Dayle research, purchase and set-up all sorts of fancy machinery. Then they casually coerce their friends into kickin' it at the vineyard for some “Memorial Day fun.” Then said friends arrive and learn how to operate the machines. Each person gets to pick the one they like best and essentially becomes an expert operator by the end of the day.

Step 1, Break 'em out: Remove empty bottles from boxes and attach to the bottling machine. (Bottling machine video).

Step 2, Fill 'er up: Fill four bottles at a time with vino, making sure each contains the correct amount of liquid.

Note: Of all the machines, I like the bottler best. That's the machine that's connected to a huge vat of wine via a vacuum cleaner-type tube. The wine flows through this tube and into a metal container. Then it's somehow pushed through four separate small, clear tubes that each end in funnel dispenser. The machine operator (me!) snaps one empty bottle into each dispenser and watches the wine flow into the bottles through the clear tubes. There's a trigger that stops the wine from overflowing but occasionally the trigger would fail and it would be my important job to "manage the excess", which I was very good at. And my strategy? Drink it, I Love Lucy-chocolate conveyor belt style.

Step 3, Put a cork in it: Pass the full bottles to the corking machine operator and watch as the cork is smushed right in there. The best part was the Willy Wonka chocolate factory-esque noise that happens as the cork arm descends, plugging the "purple lifting drinks" with the beautiful Tryphon Vineyards cork. Note: Cynthia, in her Rosie the Riveter glory, is pretty much the best corking machine operator of all time. (Corking machine video)

Step 4, Top 'er off: Slide a foil topper onto the corked bottle. Depending on what kind of wine it was, we'd use either orange or green foil. (See green above, pre-smoothing machine).

Step 5, Smooth 'er out: Insert the top of each bottle into the foil smoothing machine. You can't imagine how wholly satisfying it is to see a crinkly, loose foil become smooth and fitted. Or maybe you can? (Smoothing machine video)

Step 6, Make it official: Run the bottles, one by one, through the labeling machine, watching them transform from a cute little pet project into an impressive-looking professional product. (Labeling machine video)

Step 7, Pack 'er up: Load the bottles back into case boxes, stack the boxes on a pallet and wrap the entire collection in plastic to prepare for transportation and storage.

Then all you have to do is wait for bottle shock to pass and it's go time. Let me know if you want to be part of the wine tasting at my house that will take place as soon as Larry says we're not in shock anymore. In the meantime, I'll continue to trip over the case of wine every time I walk into my kitchen.

*Note: the grapes we harvested will likely be ready for bottling 3 years from now. The wine we bottled today was from Dayle and Larry's very first harvest in 2007.

Just Another Ghost Town in New Mexico

A few weeks ago, my friend Mo told me that he had booked a plane ticket to New Mexico where he'd be meeting up with his parents and uncle to "take care of some family business." Having known Mo quite well since our Burning Man adventure in 2007, I could sense that there was a story behind this plane ticket--a rich story. Something about this trip had intrigue written all over it.

After some dedicated prying, I learned that in 1970 Mo’s grandfather, Armand DeJong, had purchased a town in New Mexico located about an hour east of Albuquerque. As the story goes, Armand had spotted an ad in the local paper for a "ghost town." After convincing his business partner that this land would be a solid investment as it had its own stop on the passenger railway between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, the two men purchased the town for a grand total of $25,000.

It's really not clear to me how the men planned to draw inhabitants back to the town, all of whom had vacated in the 1950s...or if that was ever their plan. What I do know is that Armand's business partner later decided that he no longer wanted his share of this investment, and Armond bought him out.

Flash forward about 40 years to the time of Armand's death. In the process of completing paperwork and finalizing the last of his affairs, his children (Mo’s mom and Uncle Peter) stumbled upon their dad’s deed to this town. Unsure what to make of it, they contacted an Albuquerque real estate agent, scheduled an on-site meeting with her and convinced Mo to join them on their investigative expedition.

Mo for Mayor!
It’s at this point in the story that I become aware of the New Mexican ghost town, begging Mo for information. “Do you think it will be haunted?” “What if there’s gold or oil there and your family becomes instant billionaires?” “Does anyone still live there? If so, are you automatically their new mayor? And if so, will you leave San Francisco in order to go rule over them?” “Oh! Do you think you should contact Ira Glass and have This American Life go with you to film the expedition?”

After what felt like an eternity, Mo returned from the trip and we met up for Thai food. He informed me that his family made it to the town and walked around for the afternoon. Much as he suspected, everything there was completely desolate and dilapidated, with the exception of a working water well that hadn’t been used in decades. There were a few abandoned buildings (see below pic), their adobe brick literally crumbling to dust in the desert wind, and that same railroad track traversing the town.

Only one building looked sound enough to enter. Inside they found an oil-powered turn-of-the-century knife sharpening machine along with some rusty beer cans that looked to be from the 1950s. It was as if time had been frozen and they could almost see a group of young railroad workers with James Dean and Elvis haircuts sneaking off on their lunch hour to knock back a few while they discussed our Russian enemies and the impending war.

More to the story?
Uncle Peter talked with the real estate agent about possibilities for selling the land, its value now estimated to be a mere $15,000. But was that really all it was worth? What if Armand knew something back then that we don’t? After all, his hunch about investing in Florida swampland turned a 10-fold profit when the swamp was later drained for a large-scale development operation.

As if on cue, a guy in a truck drove by at that very moment and pulled over when he saw Mo's family and the real estate agent, standing beside a crumbling building. He stopped for a brief chat, and it turned out that he owned a Gypsum rock mining company looking to expand its work area. (Note: I've now learned that Gypsum rock is used to make plaster of Paris and writing chalk).

With the town's passenger rail now operating as a freight rail, this land would be the perfect spot for his operation, he explained. The real estate agent took his number, and it's anyone's guess how this might play out. (Freight train pictured below.)

Was this guy for real? If so, will Mo's family strike it rich from plaster of Paris and writing chalk (which would be way more interesting than an oil fortune)? And if not, what does fate hold in store for this little ghost town? Perhaps one day Mo's grandkids will make a fortune when Hollywood offers to buy the town for the filming the No Country for Old Men remake. In the meantime, I’m going to celebrate the fact that there were real-life tumbleweeds there, blowing over the railroad tracks and through the town. (Win!)

And something tells me that Armand DeJong is smiling somewhere, watching his family come together to work it all out.

Girl Vs. Tineola Bisselliella

It takes a lot to gross me out. It really does. Like, I'm the person you can talk to about the intestinal parasite* you picked up in India or how your radius snapped that time when you wiped out skiing...and sliced through your arm. And my anti-freak out specialty is listening to messy birth stories. Blood, guts, and gory episiotomy details? Bring it. And I won't even make hint of the "Oh God!" expression, suggesting that your story might not be fit for sharing. Nope, I'm here for ya, friends.

But there are a few things I simply cannot handle. One of them is worms (and slimy worm-like creatures)--anywhere, any kind, any time--even slithering around through flower beds in a beautiful garden where they belong. The thought of them alone makes me kind of queasy. Snakes, fine. Ants, no problem. Worms? Hells no.

This aversion to slimy creatures (human newborns excluded) has made the recent moth situation in my apartment approximately, oh, 150 times worse. What moth situation, you ask? Well, about 6 months ago, I started noticing that some of my wool sweaters and dresses had holes in them. I convinced myself that the dry cleaner was responsible (how unprofessional!) or that I must have snagged the item on something sharp (that bitch on BART with her sequined purse!)...until I started seeing moths flying around. Then I had to face the music and dance around proverbially in a moth-bitten Go-Go dress.

So, I did my research and decided upon a 3-pronged eradication approach: natural repellent (see above), toxic battle chemicals and an extremely thorough spring cleaning. (See Gwen's recommendations here for how to "quarantine the scene.") After many, many hours of closet attack, vacuuming, scrubbing, spraying, and completing a staggering number of loads of laundry, I'd say I'm half way there. Visual: me vacuuming my apartment wearing leather boots, a nylon nightie and a bandanna tied over my nose and mouth. (Everything else was in the wash!)

Phase 2, just so you know, will involve opening bags of wool items that have been simmering in deadly moth ball vapors for a few days--the moth balls that I made my friend Mo carry to the counter in Walgreens. You see, I was too ashamed to hold them myself for fear of seeming like a creepy person with a dirty house (I swear I'm not!) or perhaps someone who doesn't quite understand the dangers of bio hazards.

And I was almost having fun with all of this, especially the part where I got to spend an hour with EJ, filling pretty little satchels with lavender and dried mint leaves that now guard my dresser drawers...until I saw one. There on my beautiful wool hand bag from Oaxaca was a slimy moth baby looking way to similar to a worm for me not to freak out. Eeek!

So now I'm kind of panicking about opening the mothball bags. What if there are slimy moth babies in there, squirming around? The plan is to rip open the bags, throw the contents into the laundry and pray for salvation, all while avoiding horrific damage to my nervous system via toxic vapor inhalation. But at least I could talk about that without passing out.

Stay tuned for results.

---------------------------------

*Unless it's a tape worm. Then kindly keep this information to yourself as it is not fit for sharing.

Curious about closet moth eradication? Check out some info here and here and here.