“Napa today thrn back to the grind.”
The typo stayed. The plan was clear enough.
Amanda had emailed Turnbull a few days earlier to ask about a Monday tasting. I jumped into the thread to take the 1:30 slot and correct the head count. We were not four. We would be five.
Monday morning still had room for a phone call before we headed north. After that, the itinerary became four names in one message: Darioush, Turnbull, BV, Rutherford Grill.
That was ambitious for a day that was supposed to end with a return to normal work.
The phone mostly disappeared at Turnbull. My camera roll has four photos taken within less than half a minute. Two show the tasting table with glasses, water, clipboards, and the friends across from me. One catches a closer look at the room. The last points toward the high wood beams, artwork, holiday greenery, and barrels resting above the tasting area.
It felt like somebody had designed a comfortable living room around the wine instead of building a formal tasting counter. We sat low around a broad wooden table and worked through the lineup without pretending that I had suddenly developed a professional vocabulary for it.
The rest of the list happened quickly. There was another winery, then dinner at Rutherford Grill. I sent the complete report as a string of proper nouns because that was enough for the people who knew the area.
After dinner, we headed back to the hotel. I said we were going to “wind down / party hard lol,” which covered every possible version of the evening.
The grind could wait until morning.