Annual Musings

Season's Greetings

2003 Year in Review Letter

Season's Greetings...

That time of year has arrived: I hunker down with The Babies, 500 mg of Claritin, and a couple bottles of wine and hammer out The Year in Review letter. As you may have noticed, I've done away with the manual letters in response to several complaints about the illegibilness of my handwriting. Some of you (you know who you are!) even had the audacity to suggest that my past holiday handscrawling was somehow related to a failure on my part to properly titrate my wine intake. It was the Claritin -- really.

Whew! It's been a big year between all of the promotions, marriage proposals, and publicity gigs, so let's get right down to it.

Ok, I lied. I've received no promotions, marriage proposals, nor publicity gigs, but I have been fortunate enought to have traveled a lot this year, so I'll start there.

2003 Year in Review Letter

Season's Greetings...

That time of year has arrived: I hunker down with The Babies, 500 mg of Claritin, and a couple bottles of wine and hammer out The Year in Review letter. As you may have noticed, I've done away with the manual letters in response to several complaints about the illegibilness of my handwriting. Some of you (you know who you are!) even had the audacity to suggest that my past holiday handscrawling was somehow related to a failure on my part to properly titrate my wine intake. It was the Claritin -- really.

Whew! It's been a big year between all of the promotions, marriage proposals, and publicity gigs, so let's get right down to it.

Ok, I lied. I've received no promotions, marriage proposals, nor publicity gigs, but I have been fortunate enought to have traveled a lot this year, so I'll start there.

Rio de Janeiro

2003 Year in Review Letter

Some of you may remember Ted from his days playing bass clarinet (third chair of three) in the Jefferson High School Wind Ensemble I. Ted later parlayed that talent into playing bass drum in the Jefferson High School Marching Band. This year, Ted tired of Working for The Man and Minnesota winters, moved to Rio, changed his name to Tedge (kind of rhymes with Edgy), and opened up his new apartment to anyone inclined to visit. I was so inclined.

I departed on March 7th and arrived in Rio on the 8th after twelve hours of flying and minimal sleep (Continental sucks). We dropped off my bags, found a restaurant, and started drinking caiparinhas. Somehwere between my second and fourth cocktail I learned that I would participate in a post-Mardi Gras parade (once a marching band member, always a marching band member) later that evening.

The parade would be a "victory lap" attended by approximately 100,000 crazed Brazilians. It would feature the five first-place finishers from the Mardi Gras parade from the prior week. For some reason beyond my comprehension -- I've never been to Rio before in my life -- Ted and I were among the winners, and therefore granted the honor of appearing in the parade. For a fee.

I admit it: I was excited. I envisioned myself sashaying around in some skimpy, sparkly, sexy outfit festooned with feathers, glitter, and blingbling, as one envisions Mardi Gras paraders. No. Ted neglected to inform me that I would don a Catain Hook outfit: 50 pounds of a red, long-waisted jacket; clunky, big-buckled shoes; the requisite hook; an oversized hat; and an itchy, heavy, hot, curly wig. Once dressed, we consumed more caiparinhas and headed to the parade.

The parade began at midnight, which is the Brazilian equivalent of 6:00 p.m. in the Midwest. Cariocas (Rio natives) are just leaving their homes for the night. We were late (Shelly, does that surprise  you?) so I ran -- drunk, sleep-deprived, in my clunky shoes, desperately clutching my swashbuckler hat and wig with my hook, ruby tailcoat flying, to join our section of the parade. We made it with seconds to spare.

Our section didn't march exactly -- we proceeded with miniature swing steps and at one point in the song we'd stop and perform a little arm routine. We completed that damn parade three, miserable, hours later (did I mention that the temperature was 90 degrees and humidity was 100%)? And we only swayed to one song the entire time. Sung in Portuguese. Over and over and over again. The tune still haunts me.

Well, I still haven't figured out if the parade was the highlight or lowlight of the trip. Anyway, my vacation was quite fun.

Brazil is beautiful, the food is spectacular, the exchange rate is advantageous, and the weather is hot and muggy like I like it.

By the way, Continental sucked on the way back, too.

Bordeaux, Part Un

2003 Annual Review Letter

late last year, while leafing through a food and wine magazine, I spied a short story contest sponsored by the Bordeaux Wine Bureau conducted to launch their 'Seduction' campaign on Valentine's Day. I submitted an entry and won a trip for two to Bordeaux. My writing was lame, but my strategy was solid: I kissed up to the judges. I composed an (unfortunately fictional) account of my one-night seduction at the hands of a suave, sophisticated Frenchman, in the library of a Bordeaux castle (of course), facilitated by a bottle or two of Chateau Latour.

The prize included a private Chateau tour, so my friend Kari and I decided to rent a car and visit the scenic medieval village of St. Emilion (still can't pronounce it) after visiting the winery.

I was a little nervous about driving the rental car. Of course I'm too cheap to pay for automatic transmission even though I've never mastered gear-shifting (it's so easy to mistake second gear for fourth when cruising down the autoroute at 90 kms/hour). And I refuse to pay for anything but the most compact of models. In fact, the last time that I rented a car in France I not only nearly killed my friend Bryna and myself, but I terrrorized the greater part of the inhabitants of the Cote d'Azur. In fact, jerking our way haphazardly, recklessly through the Alpes d'Azur in our mini-mini-mobile, we resembled two Shriners in desperate search of a parade.

To this day Bryna takes pleasure in reminding me that the car functioned much better -- especially in mountainous regions -- with the parking brake released. Yeah, well, you drive next time Little-Miss-Smarty-Pants.

This time, however, Kari and I finally located our rental car in the lot and we were amazed to find a brand-new Alfa Romeo sportscar in our space. We double-checked our contract against the license plates... ... yup, this was our vehicle! Someone screwed up. In retrospect I realize that our kick-ass car was foreshadowing of the day ahead.

Thanks to Kari's expert navigating, we arrived at the chateau without a minute to spare. A Nice Guy (our own age) awaited us. He escorted us through the property's limestone caves, explained the winery and Bordeaux in general to us, and (finally) opened up the shop for our own private tasting. We asked him stupid American questions about life in Bordeaux (Do you really drink wine with every meal?), American stereotypes (Do you really think that we eat hamburgers every day and live like the characters from Dallas?), and advanced relationships between our individual countries (We think he's an idiot, too. We voted for Gore).

We pulled into St. Emilion and several policeman immediately directed us to a parking spot. Boy, there sure are a lot of policeman in St. Emilion. We meandered a bit. There sure are a lot of serious-looking men in black suits talking into earpieces in St. Emilion. We window-shopped and trudged up and down the limestone steps that transverse the village. There sure are a lot of distinguished-looking men in tuxedos and haughty-looking women in bright colors in St. Emilion.

Then it dawned on us: Something Was Going On in St. Emilion that day!

Bordeaux, Part Deux

2003 Year in Review Letter

We approached a nearby shopkeeper, who was leaning in a doorway with his arms crossed, looking expectantly at the old church dominating the square, and asked him what was going on. He explained that the daughter of the owner of Chateau Cheval Blanc (one of the top two wine chateaux in the region) was marrying that day. Her pere, we later learned, is one of the wealthiest men in Belgium at a worth of approximately $1 billion.

The townspeople (dressed in their Sunday best) were converging a around the church courtyard, so we joined them. The spectacle that followed for the next hour -- the wedding guests emerging from their hired cars and mingling before us -- was five-star entertainment.

The hats! Big hats. Loud hats. Hats with feathers. Hats with veils. Hats with rhinestones. Every woman flaunted a hat, and apparently the more ostentatious, the better. Some ladies were absolutely gorgeous and sophisticated; others appeared to be in drag. The jewels were amazing as well (some were as big as the hats).

There stood Kari and I in the midst of the display, snapping pictures, laughing, and commentating on everyone's outfits á là Joan and Melissa Rivers, despite the fact that I was in a wrinkled Banana Republic t-shirt, clamdiggers, and sensible, low-heeled walking sandals and Kari was no fashion model herself. A sweet elderly village woman adopted us, pointing out France's most eminent personalities, such as Madame Chiraq (wife of the prime minister) and Bernard Arnault (owns the entire country).

The bells chimed promptly at five o'clock, at which point the mack daddy of Rolls Royces, bearing the bride and her father, rolled into the courtyard. The paparazzi swarmed the vehicle in a frenzy. The bride stepped out: she was approximately five-foot eleven, blond, thin, impeccably dressed in a custom Dior gown, and stunning. We hated her.

Bordeaux, Part Trois

2003 Year in Review Letter

Kari and I spotted our friend The Front Desk Guy among the onlookers, so we visited him the next day: we needed the inside scoop on who the bride and groom were, etc. He didn't have much dirt on the couple, but he was eager to share that Madame Taittinger, matriarch of the champagne clan, was also staying at our hotel (he had chauffered her to the wedding). The best part: he had brought her bags to her room earlier in the day and she had opened the door in the nude. Now don't go spreading that around, because the last thing I need is the Taittinger family mad at me. Again.

The Front Desk Guy then produced an article on the event from the Bordeaux paper, and if you squint your eyes and look slightly above the bride's perfect right ear, you can see Kari and me standing (arms crossed, head cocked) in obvious "what's she got that I don't got" stances. The article stated that no less than the Prince of Belgium, the Prince of Luxembourg, the Prince of Lichtenstein, and the L'infante of Spain were among the guests (I don't even know what a l'infante is, but I was still impressed.) I can't believe that I finally met (to use the term loosely) half the male royalty of Europe and I was wearing sensible walking sandals. And no hat.

But it was still a pretty decent day.