Monkey vs. Robot

I always wanted to work in a factory. No, it wasn't because boot boys romanticized the factory workplace in the early seventies, but rather the experience. The mundane repetitious tasks and grinding of simple machinery would have been enough to give me an inkling of what it might have been like to slave away in the early stages of the industrial revolution as a new immigrant fresh off the boat(a Hungarian or Germ in my case) in a stinking meat factory or a steel mill. Actually, one of my more feasible goals in life has been to work as many jobs (most shit-tay and unskilled) as possible to have a better understanding of the workforce.

A small compilation includes: toll collector, phone solicitor, power plant shitworker, janitor, dishdog, mail clerk, deli-hand/foodeater, quasi bike mechanic, messenger, trail worker, flea market peddler, poster sales rep, guinea pig, landscaper and most recently cellar hand. Searching back into the dank environs of my memory bank the only jobs on my list that I haven't got around to have been Carnie, barkeep and Alaska fishermen. There is still time of course but after a recent trip to the Mendocino County Fair and a short whirl on the Gravitron I think Carnie might officially be crossed off the list. Honestly, I just don't know how long I can hang out with a bunch of leathery skinned dudes with soul patches and gnarly pony tails smoking resin behind the Eggbeater.

So, I always wanted to get my chops in ye olde factory, that was until last week. Last Thursday by mid-day I was over it. The warnings were there but they never really sank in. I should have believed Pat when he told me that working in a factory was so unbearable that it made him turn his back to Noise. Or possibly when my former roommates BBQ and Grandpa Crappaletti told of their horror stories of placing slices of cheesecake into boxes, once piece at a time for ten hours on end. But the idea was always there lingering in the back of my head, that was until I bottled Verjus and Pinot Noir juice at the winery.

The fun started on Wednesday when I was elected to help Manuel and Ulysses prepare the bottling line for two days of juice bottling fun. Upon his selection Jim quipped "I know you don't have much experience with hygiene, but the boys will take your understanding of clean to a new level." What the fuck? Was I being called out already? Over the last six months I have made a concerted effort to clean myself up. Hell, I thought I was doing pretty well. Friends didn't recognize me at the airport and ex-coworkers were a bit shocked. But maybe he smelled me out. The garlic/onion aromas mixed with heavy afternoon must is a dead giveaway that reeks of sketchy punkhouse dweller. Never underestimate an oenologist's nose.

While bottling is itself a delicate process, bottling juice (especially mid-harvest when millions of little yeast cells are floating about the cellar) is an incredibly nerve wracking business. For eight hours we cleaned the shit out of the bottling chamber, which sits betwixt the barrel room and a series of large insulated stainless tanks. Ulysses dusted away, Manuel dissembled the bottling line and I powerwashed the conglomeration of stones that made up the floor making sure the cellarmaster could see his face in every shiny pebble. Even the redwood walls were sprayed with a sanitizer to ward off nasty microbes that might foil our plans for deliciously sterile juice. The only thing in my life akin to such cleaning was the mini-bottling line at the Death Trap that without a doubt indiscriminately imparted it's proprietary yeast and bacteria into every homebrew, no matter how many failed food science experiences I cleaned up.

Thursday morning a number of vineyard workers joined us and we were under way. The clanking bottles on the line, the whoosh of the corker, the grinding of cogs and the bouncing Ranchera fused together to produce an ugly noise that vibrated my brain and tested my nerves. Stacking palettes was cake work but washing bottles with ozonated water and placing them on the line for two straight hours killed my back and strained my wrists. Place bottles on rods, spin, lift, shake, place on line, repeat. Two goddamn hours. Friday was not much better as I finished up my last two places cleaning bottles giving my elbow a nasty ache. The next stop was boxing the bottles, a 2 1/2 hour non-stop nightmare. For two straight hours there is no stopping, no cigarette breaks just boxing as the bottles come out onto a whirling table. Grab, lift, turn over wrists and place into a case.

I would seriously loose my shit if this was my full-time job. Can you imagine contorting your body every day into painful positions only to show up the next day beaten to do it all over again. At 27 you begin to consider your health, the vivacity of your body and protecting what you have. I'm close to another quarter life crisis. No health care, no stable job, no money and contemplating a second education and career from the ground up. Shit this is gonna be quite a ride.

Luckily for this cellar rat, the winery only bottles juice twice a year and everyone who works the line gets to take a bottle home. Pinot juice and vodka it is.

Nearly Missed Connections

Speeding and swerving to the beat of Pacific Highway 1, Marty led the way toward north toward Mendocino in her sleek new Saab as my stomach groaned and quivered as it lurched to the left and right through the tight coastal turns. Ever since a winding bus ride hungover from pulque in the highlands of Chiapas I have become disposed to a wretched motion sickness. Jonas, my housemate who sat shotgun, talked on and on about the mushroom bonanza we would encounter when we took to the hills in search of King Belotus and Black Chanterelles. "Heavenly Lord when will this hell ride end," I thought as I panned down to go over another one of my dusty S.A.T. vocabulary cards that I had so casually dismissed as a capricious youth. Soporific: adj. sleep-causing. This short jaunt was anything but. Turbulence: n. state of violent agitation. A fitting word for my current situation. Just as I looked up to commit another flash card to memory, maybe this time fortuitous, I glimpsed a passing touring cyclist on the other side of the road. First I quickly locked on to a pair of intense, deep blue eyes. Seconds later a visual image in my brain flashed a freckled complexion. Before I couldn't even think of the cyclist's name I blurted out to Marty and Jonas, "HOLY SHIT, I know that girl!"

"You what?" the couple simultaneously asked confused, but equally amused.

"I know that lady! That's Ms. Speedie Ellie K. I cycled with her in Chile! Can we turn around," I asked politely but shaking slightly with a nervous jitter. Had my eyes deceived me? This wasn't a completely coincidental occurrence after all as I knew my old pal Joey Bulldozer was making his way down the West coast on his beloved one ton Trek 720 at the very moment we as we were turning the car around. Pulling alongside Ms. SEK I mused "Fancy seeing you in this neck of the woods lady?" Also, bewildered she asked if we could pull over which we did, precariously parking the car on the shoulder less road. Flinging the car door open I ran over and gave my friend a hug. After all when you are as far away from home as I am seeing someone you know or are close to means everything in the world.

This was anything but expected. Hell, I was supposed to be at the winery on Saturday cleaning up after a day of crushing reds and whites. However, afternoon showers on Friday were sure to lower the grapes' Brix(sugar) levels, which in affect pushed back the arrival of new fruit. As a result the cellar crew was given the entire weekend off. Did somebody say "PARTY TIME! EXCELLENT!" Friday night I decided I would use Saturday to focus on serious endeavors and set out a series of goals: drink copious amounts of coffee, take pulls off of a fifth of Irish whiskey, walk with the Humboldt Wizard and somewhere in between polish off a can or two of my favorite sweetened energy beverage all while banging away on a keypad. What ridiculous diarrhea that was set in motion to be shat out was not to be as last minute coercions from the German-Carolina duo convinced me to jump on board the day trip. Happy, I was.

En route to the battered Mendocino coastline, we followed local highway 128 at we breezed by lush rows of Dijon and Martini Pinot clones, their canes flopping over the top vine wire leaving them to flap wildly in the breeze. Jonas mused curiously at the heavy traffic in the Navarro tasting room while other local business's boasted only a "few crappy rentals." Tossing around the thought of tasting in my unusually dry skull I suggested we stop by Standish, as the owner's daughter told us she normally pours on Saturday. The suggestion was too alluring for the Davis grads to pass up and so we abruptly took a sharp turn off the main road. Standish is a relatively small producer in Anderson Valley(making around 500 cases a year) and sells much of their Chardonnay and Pinot Noir to sparkling wine producers in Sonoma and Napa. Quite possibly the most interesting part about our visit was the tasting room building, the Day Ranch, which double as a smoke house for Anderson Valley apples in the early Twentieth-century. Our host took us through a serious of Chardonnays and Pinots all with nearly 50 case production. The standouts were an off dry Chardonnay whose fruit came from a clone originally developed for ice wine in downstate New York. The Chard gave off a fruity/perfumy nose with an off dry mouth feel balanced by equally crisp acidity which would certainly make any soccer mom scream out in elation. The 2006 Standish Merlot was a surprising standout in the group with an olive and dark fruit nose and plenty of dark fruit and mocha in the mouth. Incredibly palatable. The Standish Mayflower Pinot took the cake though with dark cherries, spice and a fragrant spearmint nose and a delectably smooth and velvety body. At eighty bucks a pop though this beauty is not on the affordable side for your average day-laborer.

Working our way north we(as stated earlier) bumped into my cycling buds. After making loose plans to meet up with Ellie and crew later in the night we journeyed on up the coast for Van Damme State Park. Jonas at this point was pissing his pants to forage for wild mushrooms but a 6 dollar day fee forced us around the backside of the park leading us serendipitously to a back entrance. Bingo! The trail head began at the foot of the Pygmy forest, an ancient ecosystem of pines, huckleberry shrubs and manzinita trees stunted by the one million year old heavily acidic soil. Marching along the boardwalk Jonas boasted that he felt like a giant and stopped a number of times to add a bit of his own nitrogen back to the soil, snottily daring the shrubs to grow a few more centimeters. With the nutrient deficient soils of the Pygmy Forest shrooms were no where to be found so we continued to trudge down into the Fern Canyon, another ecosystem that was formerly populated with old growth Redwood. While all that remained of the oldgrowth was decaying stumps the size of a small lake cottage new Redwoods had sprouted up in the last 100 years, renewing my faith in humanity at least a little bit. Marching along the path I envisioned myself as the cheeky Wicket in the Ewok adventure, with my faithful sidekick Cindel(Marty) and an out of place German Chewbacca at my side. The mushroom bonanza however, was a bust but to our credit we uncovered a beastly black newt and a slinking banana slug that could have doubled for one of the decaying Doles sitting in our fruit basket at the house.


Reaching Mendocino by late afternoon we soothed our parched throats at the local watering hole Dick's, a colorful bar that was bombarded with stickers from a failed 80s flower power revival. With Buena Vista Social Club pumping from the jukebox I ordered a Lagunitas IPA and sank into a bar stool pondering the lifestyle of a Mendocinite. You quite honestly have everything you need at your doorstep. Fresh coastal waters and abalone hunting in spring, the redwoods a stones throw away and a high influx of tourists in peak season. The village after all might be a lined with boutiquey galleries exhibiting colorful images of Indian shamans and exotic organic knitwear but the locals need to make a living somehow. On top of that this quaint seaside town has an archaic character with giant watertowers made of redwoods protruding above the Western shop facades and well worn paths along the coast giving off an aura of contemplative strolls and unrequited young love. The winter certainly must be chilly, but the town has a beating heart that makes it so appealing. I could definitely envision myself living here.

***

Close to nine o'clock I pulled into Manchester Beach State Park, my headlights poised and positioned to look for a few crusty kids and a group of antiquated lugged frames with high end componentry. Across from the ranger station I spotted my prey along with two tents erect under the foliage of windswept pines. Getting to the coast wasn't easy, as one must cross the Mendocino ridge, which can take up to an hour when allowing time to avoid small woodland creatures doubling as moving road obstacles and a thick ubiquitous fog that blankets the coast. Stepping out of the car my lower limbs were rigid and I ambled over to an EMS tent, my lights still shooting an authoritative beam on the temporary shelter. Adam the mathematician popped his head out from a synthetic shelter that looked quite similar to "the womb." "Can I help you?" he brusquely inquired, surely non-plussed that my motor vehicle was interrupting quiet time. After my non-response he repeated his question, this time with a bit more irritation behind his delivery. Creeping up behind the double tent I quietly offer up my services to my old pals, "House-keeping. Housekeeping. You need new towels?" The joke might be beat to death but it still warranted a giggle from Mr. Bulldozer. Adam, satisfied that I was harmless, popped his head back into his tent door like a prairie dog and Joey and Ellie joined me to catch up over a couple bottles from the Anderson Valley AVA.

Needless to say I am really proud of these kids. The trio started bicycling in Seattle nearly a month ago and have come some 1,300 miles down the coast on the way to San Francisco for the Bike! Bike! conference. These kids have stuck to their guns; they love bikes and they are whole-heartily into promoting cycling in their communities and making their knowledge of bike mechanics available to everyone. The three hours in their company were quite sublime. As the ocean played its never ending ballad in the background we chatted on about the Buffalo we miss, camping catholic school girls singing to the rhythm of a roving gypsy act, fresh organic cheese and fresh tulips of Old Rasputin, mass consumption of cookies and memories of past roads traveled. The next morning I bid my friends adieu after a robust cup of coffee in Point Arena. The kids jetted off toward San Francisco while I got behind the wheel stuck in a strange purgatory of yearning to return to my transient, irresponsible early twenties and my current trajectory, a rocket set to launch myself into the skies of total yuppiedom.

Gravitational Pull

California, an oasis of fast paced culture, fresh produce, relaxed attitudes and quick witted entrepreneurs. The major cities compacted and dense, featuring a smattering of ethnic groups arriving from far and wide in search of wealth and a better life. The Bear Republic first encountered a storm of immigration from around the world in the mid-twentieth century when James Marshal discovered gold at Sutter's Mill in Coloma, CA in 1948. Within a year after the gold reserves were discovered word began to spread around the world about the massive caches of gold hidden in the foothills of the central valley just east of San Francisco and stretching as far north as Eureka. Within the five years some 300,000 people would travel from around the world arrived at California's gates, broken and weary their palms tense and sweaty awaiting their chance to swing a pick or pan along a meandering river. The Forty-Niner's weren't of course the first outsiders to arrive, but their presence was heavily felt as San Francisco blew up, transforming from a refugee sized shanty town to into a boom town of the future. Today it's alleged that over 60,000 people move to California every year. Obviously there is a powerful force pulling people to this land whether it be to plant new roots or re-insert those that had once been torn out.

Naturally California's allure and my ever insatiable thirst for knowledge of winemaking and viticulture were equal players in my decision to seek out work in Mendocino County. The process actually began, for all intensive purposes, in a distant land once commonly referred to as Aotearoa. In the backside of a tank farm on a chilly night in Marlborough, NZ I struggled to find the racking arm of a 60 K litre tank while my veteran Portuguese workmate began to tell me tales of the fabled Navarro Vineyards. Ricardo elaborated as far as telling me of Navarro's solid and balanced Pinot's and award winning Gewurztraminer, close knit working environment and delectable catered lunches during crush. While Ricardo spoke the thought slowly crept into the back of my head that I might take a stab at applying to work at Navarro during the upcoming vintage. As things slowed down in the cellar in Marlborough I began to send C.V.'s to prospective employers sending a personalized letter to the head winemaker Jim. While no job was advertised I used my friendship with my curly haired compatriot and experience at Giesen to cast myself in the best light. Anyway it wouldn't hurt to throw my self out into the open, howling from the top of a mountain top "I'm free, available and ecstatic about shoveling spent skins and scrubbing tartaric acid from the walls open tops!"

The howl's, albeit crackling and raw, worked and three weeks later Jim responded that the winery was interested as hiring me as cellar rat, ahem intern for the upcoming vintage but first he needed to check things over with the family. Navarro, started in the early 1970s, after all has a long history in Anderson Valley as a premier producer of Alsatian varietals and seeks to maintain a healthy work environment
and all decisions are still made by the family and head winemaker concerning the winery. No corporate offices here, just a large estate with ranch house, cellar, vineyards, offices and tasting room on the property. The ranch is packed with character though and can be envisioned as if an established Burgundy Domaine was transplanted to Northern California where it spontaneously imploded into a series of structures with solid redwood beams caked with layers of living Saccharomyces yeast, rich brown panels and foam insulated stainless tanks that have rocketed themselves halfway through an Energizer inspired roof coated with lime green lichen and furry moss. While the winery's reputation spreads far and wide much of Navarro's wine stays within the state of California. The owners Ted and Deborah made a decision early on to deal with customers directly, cutting out the middle man(retailer) and providing quality wine to customers at some of the most reasonable prices in California. For that reason and many others 60 percent of Navarro's customers return year in and out filling out purchase orders and receiving the wine at their doorstep packed in an ingenious mailer.

And frankly speaking if you can't make the trip every year to the tasting room on Route 128 in Pilo, CA who wouldn't want Navarro wine let alone any tasty tipple arriving at the doorstep across country. After a long workday what would be more refreshing thank to uncork the Anderson Valley Cuvee Traditional Gewurztraminer with its gripping spice and citrus fruit taste, hailed by one industry writer as "one of the greatest of all California wine achievements." Conversely, if it's a red you so desire then the Anderson Valley Pinot Noir Cuvee d' le Ancienne is a lighter bodied, delicate pinot which expresses bold spice and dark alluring cherries. This style of pinot at its best dangerous quaff and highly drinkable. Before you realize it the bottle will be tipped over an it side, your head spinning with mirth and your mouth reeling from the lingering last sip.

Returning to the story...

After his first response Jim got back to me, spelling it out in not so many words that he was pretty sure he would like to hire me but we needed to have a phone interview first. While his reputation as a winemaker is impeccable, Jim wouldn't make a bad private investigator either. Without asking me to brandish a single reference he found the contacts for my previous employers and contacted them himself. The results were superb of course, I'm a bust ass worker. The interview took place in a decaying, run down farm house in the Wairau Valley; at least on my end. Jim, however was holed up in sunny California while I nervously took pulls off a deep black cup of French pressed Joe, the phone pressed hard to my intent ears, pacing the room as per any normal conversation while Jim laid out my day to day duties as we discussed experiences abroad. If I had to venture a guess the interview had more to do with personal character than my knowledge of a propeller pump or using tasting off a T-valve. That sealed the deal. My interviewer presented himself as articulate, relaxed, accommodating and interested in having me on board. The other job offer was in the Willamette Valley with another well known Pinot producer, but that was out. Stepping out the door en route to the vineyard in my butch Swandri flannel and imitation Levis I had a shiteating grin on my face. I was heading to Anderson Valley! Yee-haawww!

Three months and 3,000 plus miles later and I was crossing state lines into California. At the agricultural customs stop a confused agent asked me of the origins with a bag of black beans and wild rice. "Jerry's," I casually responded advising our kind inspector that one should never leave home without the proper fixings for righteous burritos. The agri-fuzz waved me on and I was soon careening and swerving my way down the Sierras into the the foothills only to be shot out into the scorched San Joaquin valley where much of the fresh California veggies and fruit and mass produced. Was this the California I had envisioned when I was a youngster? Way back when I was working at a boat launch along the mighty Ontario, I envisioned the California in the way Steinbeck had painted it. While devouring the lives of the unsavory characters of the Palace Flophouse in Cannery Row and the boys in Tortilla Flat I envisioned rustic canneries, endless seas of Nativo grape fields, broken down saloons doubling as brothels, the seashore teaming with life and a heartless Californian sun whose power equals if not surpasses its legend. The outskirts of Maryville and Columa were living up, at least partially, to my adolescent vision although the parched straw countryside and a lush trail of trees lined up to soak their feet along the lazy riverbed differed greatly from the lush grass and hills that were emblazoned into my visual memory bank. The tortured beige hillsides with sporadic vegetation were beginning to remind me more of Chile than the Western paradise we learn of through story books. Summer in the valley has been harsh though, will little to no rainfall, but that hasn't stop modern drip irrigation to allow fields of sun drenched red tomatoes, non-GMO soy, smelly cabbage and juicy table grapes to flourish and be picked for wholesale.

Traversing the Mendocino ridge to the coast last weekend I had a non-epiphany while scuttling down a rugged sea bluff to the shores of Elk. When I was younger I always envisioned myself living within the vast expanses of the state of California, but later in life passed off those thoughts as childish daydreams. After all why would I, a jaded, moody yank decide to up and move to an overpopulated state? A region that coincidentally for many represents a ecological utopia with mild winters and toasty summers. A state that facilitates outdoor activity for the neo-eco jock/weekend warrior, a bloated entertainment industry and its spoiled villains, and gives cash crop farmers looking to be paid an honest if not large sum for their goods. While walking I concluded that California is the ultimate destination to live, especially for someone in my shoes. Booming wine industry-check, parks to cycle, hike and sea kayak-check, fresh food year round-check. If both coasts in the U.S. were given magnetic fields the East would surely be the the negative charge and the West coast the positive. After all Easterners are an introverted folk, hidden away in their hovels for a better part of the year. Wary of outsiders and casting disapproving looks at anything out of step with their conventional way of life. Not to your face of course, but rather behind clothes doors. There's a twang in the country and a fast paced business attitude in the city.

Conversely California and the West coast are filled with people whose ancestors were not content with sticking to the East or the mid-West for that matter. Many were pioneers with an adventurous spirit and today many remain hellbent on keeping their country, state and community progressive. What does that mean? Anything from universal health care to supporting the local economy ("Made within 100 miles" read a display at the local grocery today). People on the West coast are by nature relaxed and while some still cling to their hippie roots others have long sold out but chose to drive $30 K hybrids and shop exclusively at Whole Foods. Green Republicans would be an interesting splinter party from the GOP. On top of that a growing Hispanic population is also changing the face of California which brings new family values, foods and religion to the table and will eventually leave an indelible mark on the geo-political landscape of the state.

To me it makes perfect sense that I ended up here and now. An East coaster "with hippie tendencies" who was attracted to the West Coast. Science tells us that positive attracts negative after all. Then again some things are certainly going to take some time getting accustomed to. For example when the goateed lady at the Elk Grocery and Deli orders me to get the Peanut Butter Cookie with a "yum yum" approving grunt. "No chocolate, no deal girlie," I muttered stubbornly under my breath. Down the road I shuffle into a boutiquey clothes shop peering over the coast begging for a pen to jot down some fleeting thoughts. The only sales representative inside was a 60 year old ex-Berkleyite who kindly asked if I might have any singles. "If you happen to have change for a twenty, now that would really be groovy," she continued as my ears shriveled and curled into their waxy canals. "Are you fucking serious," I thought to myself as I grabbed a blue ball point I had no intention of using. "No, but I might just palm you a twenty if you jump in the next wormhole and warp your dead(beat) dialect back to the sixties," I mused silently as I stepped out into a fresh crustacean sea breeze.

Will California work for me? Who knows, we both seem to be floating out on an island cut off from the rest of the world. Time will only tell.