2018, Go Jump in a Lake

Saying goodbye to 2018 feels like breaking up with an abusive boyfriend/ girlfriend; very necessary, yet very traumatic. As we count down the few remaining days of the year, we look back at what we have accomplished, lost, or figured out. Or so we are all told we are supposed to be doing. I'd rather have a wine induced coma that blacks out the year's events, but my therapist says I can't do that.

I could try to list all the fantastic things that did give highlights to this year, like the honeymoon period an abuser uses to beg you back, asking you to over look the vile things they have done, but in the end it's still an abuser. We did start out in the stunning country of Colombia (awesome), I was flown to Rochester to be a judge for The Great American International Wine Competition (incredible), we had an array of exceptional mini trips and parties including my 40th birthday (delightful), and the winery is exploding in a way that has stunned the four of us owners (fantastic). But that doesn't encompass the daunting nature of 2018 and its abusive core.

2018 was a beast! If you didn't feel run over by the year, congrats, pat yourself on the back. Most people I have talked to, tell tales of the carnage this year has left in its wake, shock and awe in their eyes; somehow blindsided by just how ruthless life can be.

Personally, we have had to face disproportionately difficult experiences and losses. The kind of stuff that turns your world upside-down, forcing those around you to groan under the pressure as they try to help support. It has been a year that has challenged every single one of my relationships, like a especially hard birth, we have had to bear down and force ourselves through it. As I have eeked out to the other side of avalanche after avalanche, I think of the cliche "what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger" and while that may bring comfort to some, it makes me want to rage into the night. I am consumed with anger, frustration, fear and anxiety at the amount of crap 2018 has thrown at me.

I should clarify, I am not constantly angry (well...my husband might disagree with that, but clearly he has forgotten the golden rule of marriage: The Wife is Always Right). My anger seems to be sourced in the fight I have with what is verses what I want it to be. I must untangle the 'compound grief' I am struggling with as I sort out the complex layers of events that tumbled into this year. Who the hell am I after all this turmoil and grief? We just began to celebrate my good health, only to have a scare it was returning. There were wild occurrences that demonstrated that nothing is what you thought it was. Who are the people around me as they struggle with their own issues that arise as they try to help me? What about as they deal with their own tangled experiences? This year became a whirlpool of confusion and angst. Like Ben Stiller's character in the movie Zoolander  who asks longingly as he stars at a reflection of himself in a puddle, "who am I?" and the reflection answers shrugging nonchalantly "I don't know". This is followed by a passing car splashing the mud from the puddle into his face...2018 is the mud in the face.

What I do know is that I have seen friends and family members transform into the most incredible, generous, supportive, loving, gracious people I've ever met. I always knew they were phenomenal, but like coal, compressed under extreme pressure, they shine like diamonds in the light of the dark shadow 2018 has cast. So for that, thank you 2018. Now get the hell out of the way cause 2019 is going to kick your A$$!

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

Holiday Habits

The Holidays are here and the treats are everywhere! As I continue to process and embrace being FINE (see previous blog post), I vacillate between feeling the need to comfort myself with food and wine and the fact that I am really out of shape and truly taking care of myself would be to exercise.

Celebrating Hanukkah for the first time at our house (thank you 23 and Me for the discovery that I am half Jewish), meant embracing foods of the Jewish culture. As we look into our mysterious family history, it seems mandatory to embrace the things we find out...like Challah bread...which is definitely NOT gluten free... or calorie free. Now that Hanukkah has passed, we move into the Christmas celebration and there are cookies to decorate and eggnog to drink. And I don't know about you, but extra cooking means I need a glass of wine in my hand, which ironically is the only way you will get me to cook. It's a vicious cycle.

So how do you avoid falling down the rabbit hole of the holidays? How do you motivate when you have spent 2 years recuperating a broken body? Clearly I think increasing fried foods is the way (why have I not been eating latkes my whole life???). So out of desperation, and the sight of my stomach, this morning in 17 degree weather, I jog/ walked around the town soccer field for 30mins.

You know that line from The Saint Nick story, "thoughts of sugarplums danced in their heads"? As I drug my old, soggy body down the path, my lungs heaved in the searingly cold air, and images of chocolate coins, special bottles of fine wine, and pasta casseroles danced in mine. My urge to stop was barely drowned out by the music blaring in my ears, but I resisted the temptation. I focused instead on the fact that my ligaments and tendons, once badly compromised by my health issues, now felt strong and my ankle that I completely blew out, now handled the cow like weight of my body without stinging pain. These were really good signs and even though I barely fit in my stretchy workout clothes, I am actually better. This is good stuff!

My self talk can be really bad, I know shocking. But being aware of the crap in your head is the first step right? So I will attempt to have better habits. I will focus on the positive, I will try to make better choices today, I will get a black coffee instead of a latte, I will avoid the chocolate and orange challah bread sitting in my kitchen, I will stop calling myself "fatty" when talking to myself, and I will not drink wine tonight.

Wait, that sounds excessive. Between the dietary edits and the little workout this morning, I don't want to send myself into shock. Maybe I will do less wine tonight. Maybe fatty can get back on a gluten free diet. Maybe fatty can go to bed earlier, before the next bottle of wine is opened. Maybe fatty can ...damn it! I already failed one of my 'better habits'! Ahhh man, that was fast. I guess I should go ahead and eat that Santa cookie that is silently teasing me and call it a day.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

The Art of Being Fine

The last blog post was rough. Thanks for hanging tight with me guys as I tried to express what Scott meant to us. We seem to be slowly melting our way back into regular life, letting the pain of loss fall away little by little, but the scar remains tender. Tender enough to finally catapult me into action.

It is through this grieving process, the ache that is so deeply uncomfortable, that I have started to take a closer look at loss and the scars we carry, the way they build on top of each other. My son, an insightful pre-teen, has been encouraging me to find a therapist since my diagnosis of a brain tumor a couple years back. My need to support and protect my son during that scary time, made finding a therapist for him a priority. For me? Not so much. The concept totally made sense, we were dealing with some scary shit, but to actually follow through? Somehow I couldn't pull the trigger. I felt I was handling it all fine.

Now, after a string of earth shattering developments, losses, and changes, I have finally taken the step forward to seek help. It isn't easy to turn to someone else when you have been able to cope just fine. No matter what life has handed me, I've always been fine. Don't we all have dings from the crap life threw at us? Aren't most of us fine? I almost felt bad taking up someone else's time since I am fine and I know there are some people that are truly in dire need of support. I felt like I was taking their spot somehow.

First thing the therapist tells me on session one is that I said I was "fine" several times in 1/2 an hour and that I can no longer use the word in respect to some of the daunting life occurrences I've weathered unless I agree to being FINE... F*#ked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. I laughed so hard I cried. Here I finally realized just how FINE I've been and the discovery seemed to break open my mind's eye like the quick, powerful smack of a window scraper on a windshield covered in thick ice. As the car sat in the sun, warming just enough that with that single blow, the entire ice sheet splinters and falls away revealing the shiny, clean windshield underneath.

There have been many gems I've gleaned from my sessions so far with this therapist, the biggest is to admit the many losses that have occurred for my psyche, not just the deaths of those we love. Simply having been ill and the symptoms that altered my existence, the diagnosis and the fear that comes with that, the fear for my son should the worst happen to me, the wear and tear on my marriage as we tried to understand my body's changes and the emotional stress, family dynamics and maybe the biggest one...the loss of identity. A loss of innocence that bad things can happen and we are not invincible is a hard pill to swallow even when you thought you were aware of that already. I will never see the world the same, and I need to form a new identity that has grieved the loss of who I was before. To truly grieve the entire process I went through. It probably sounds simple, I know I intellectually had grappled with these concepts and decided...wait for it...that I was fine. But it is a far cry to sit in that uneasy, uncomfortable space where your psyche comes to peace with it.

Add in the other life changing elements, and suddenly a lot has happened in the last couple years that has become a muddled mess. Layer upon layer of pain, loss, grief and plenty of being FINE has mixed together. This mix is not like a finely made Old Fashioned with the sugar, bitters, slice of orange and cherry being thoughtfully muddled, pressed together to combine flavors, no my muddle is more like a sea of people snatching things off shelves in a mob on Black Friday, full of chaos and confusion. Layers of self identity crisis varying from after 2 years of sickness and injury, I no longer fit in my ski pants, to what would I like the world to look like for my son if I'm not in it, to turning 40, to who am I really? If my work does not define me, being a mom or a wife does not define me, who is it that is left?

It is easy to turn to a glass of wine, get back inside my head and debate existential ideas, climb into my nice comfy "fine" place and hide. But, I will resist the temptation, I will continue to feel the ache and hopefully come out on the other side clear of the ice I've let build up. I will take that glass of wine though, after all, it is the only thing left that is truly 'Fine'.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

The Blank Pages

At any one time, I have about 4 books mid-read around the house. Usually there is some sort of work related book, either about wine or marketing, a parenting book (which for us could be about dyslexia, giftedness or sensory processing disorder), or some sort of relationship advice. If I am training for a marathon, I'll have a training guide or diet book going, or when we took up sailing, stacks of how to sail away into the sunset littered the tables. And, of course, there is always something fictional to turn to for some escape. But even with all these books, none of them are the right book, for right now.

My stacks of books are there to help me be a better parent, do my job better, or make me a faster runner. My books promise answers, sometimes to questions I don't even have yet, but each psychology book gives me skills to add to our marriage or encourage my son to finally learn how to ride a bike. What I am lacking is a book that can tell me how to handle the feelings you have when someone disappears from your life. Even the best grief books don't truly answer that.

People with religious passions, I do not dismiss the power of religion in your life, but that is not what I believe, nor does my husband. I grew up Christian, went to church, even went to Catholic school and decided as a child I wanted to be a Nun (those of you that know me well can stop laughing hysterically now). I was raised with an open mind to accept all faiths and to seek out what felt right for me. My second family was Jewish and I loved nothing more than getting to spend the night on the Sabbath. My teenage years I was dazzled by mysticism and even got a Wiccan related tattoo (insert eye roll)...that "art" is now covered with something else. My mom became Buddhist and Eastern philosophy impressed greatly upon me. We have definitely explored various faiths, but are, thoughtfully, Atheists. This means there isn't a "good book" to turn to.

Our friend Scott was bigger than life, bigger than the world. His life and adventures could fill several books. His ever optimistic view was astounding. He was always keeping you in check when you started to think the worst, and his infectious laugh and sharp wit could turn the most distressing topic into a comedy routine. He was 100% heart, even when he flailed about in his personal life, accidentally got himself into trouble and seemed to become a self-destructive bomb. You knew he was all love. He could have written an ironic self-help book, just thinking about some of the hilarious advice he would jest with makes me smile.

But Scott isn't around to tell us about his new scheme, tell us a self-deprecating joke or insane story.  His late night car accident ripped him from the Ethers. A handful of months before, his ex-wife was murdered. I can picture him clear as day, standing on our front porch talking to me about this horrific event. A disbelief in his sensitive eyes, a wobble in his voice. These two had been together since they were kids, and the fact that she had disappeared from our world seemed impossible. The brutal reality of losing them both in such a short time seems bizarrely cruel. Somehow I can't stop picturing him, that day, on my front porch reeling in disbelief. There were no jokes that day, just more to add to the tragedies he had already lived through. A testament to his character to stay strong when the world severs you a Dostoevsky novel worth of crap.

I can also see him clear as a bell, when we first met when I was in High School. The brother to a friend (my husband's best friend actually), he was just enough older to wow us with terrible antics and scare us just a touch with his wildness. He seemed to be the party everywhere he went. That joke of 'the party isn't a party until I'm there' really was true for him, his energy cascading into the room before he entered it. He was that unique type of person that actually wanted to get to know you, boy or girl, young or old, and he would remember the details of stories you shared and secrets you told. He had compassion when you needed it and perspective when you were out of sync. My husband and my brother-in-law have far more stories of Scott as they traveled together, lived at times together and have seen each other through some of life's hardest times, but he always made sure I felt like I was one of his friends, not just a friend's girlfriend or wife. I had my very own, independent relationship with him. It was part of what made him awesome. This is why the entire community mourns him now. Who would have guessed that same outrageous party guy would become an entrepreneur, a coach, and an activist?

Scott wasn't always around, in fact as my husband described it, he was one of only a couple people that would "ghost call him", disappear for months at a time and then call to shoot the shit in the middle of a work day. His carefree lifestyle amusing us was probably what resulted in multiple divorces. But that was Scott, and that was who we loved. He was the guy that tucked me under his big brother arm and told me to wipe my tears, stop seeing the guy I was dating, and find someone worthy of what I had to to give; big words for teenagers. He was the guy that long before the "Me Too" movement would step in to keep some drunk fool from groping me. He was the guy that would make sure I left a party that was about to turn ugly before it did, walking me safely to my car as a mob formed. He was the guy that had my husband's back no matter what. The guy that would give you the shirt off his back if he felt like it could help you more. We grew up in the Wild West of parties and mayhem and he was one of the good Cowboys, setting the story straight when it needed to be, then riding off into the twilight.

When the bedroom door swung open one morning last week, banging against the wall, I was jarred awake. My husband, having already gone to work, stood with a force in the center of the room, not appropriate for the nature of our usual morning routine. He normally lets me sleep-in and tip-toes around in the dark, sweetly aware of my resistance to mornings. I sat up as I heard his words drop like casings to the floor from a gun fired. Each word with a blow followed by metal clanging, the information not making sense in my groggy mind. I couldn't believe it, I wouldn't believe it. I simply said, with utter conviction "No". I begged that it was a different Scott, that there was some mistake. I wanted it to be a book I decided I didn't like and could simply close it, seal that dreadful story inside its pages and walk away.

When someone bigger than the world leaves it, the gaping wound they leave behind is palpable. Stunned we went to be by the family's side, our old friend, his brother, feeling the biggest slap from this, voiced what we were all thinking "I just can't believe it". And we can't. Someone that is in your life for so long, through marriages, babies, careers and great losses, they seem invincible. Now we need to reconcile their disappearance. Not the usual Scott disappearance that promised hilarious stories when we reconnected, but an absolute disappearance. Sitting with the pain left from losing him is where the real work comes in; your mind fighting to stay in denial, the physical discomfort of acknowledging that there won't be hearty laughs together, there won't be bear hugs hello or exchanges of inside jokes from a long history together any longer. It doesn't matter what you believe, the truth is he isn't here and it hurts.

This story gets worse. There is no pain like the pain you feel when you realize that your suffering is but a mere particle to that of his 2 kids that have been orphaned by his passing. His young daughter being diagnosed with a rare cancer just before her mother was killed was too much to have to handle, but as Scott stepped into the role of provider/ protector/ advocate, he took on finding a treatment like a superhero. To have him wrenched from you, for his son and daughter, to tackle this loss on top of it all, has fathoms of heartache we can't even imagine. None of the books in the whole world can make sense of that, no matter what faith you are, no matter what library you visit.

Like a misprint from the publisher, his novel has left us with blank pages; a story unfinished. I don't have answers, I don't have wise words for the people suffering as they grapple with his death, all I have to offer is my gratitude. I am so grateful for the times I got to spend with Scott. For the friend he was to me and those I love. For the wisdom he had when least expected, the tenacity he had to keep going and the love he gave so freely. So much love. We will miss you Scott.

*You may help their kids by donating to the April and Scott Memorial Fund at any Nusenda Bank or donate to the Go Fund Me for Ashley's cancer treatments.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

Insane in the Membrane

Speaking of wine and sanity, oh was no one talking about wine and sanity? Well you should because it is pretty much the only way you can keep your sanity when high stress and month after month of intensely busy work threatens to drive you insane. Crush (a.k.a. harvest time) has been one hell of an ass kicking this year.

Quick aside for those wondering what this time of year is like for our winery:  Our intake of grapes from around the state increased exponentially as did the haul from our own Estate Vineyards. The growth in distribution and tasting room sales as well as a couple exciting partnerships has pushed us into a new bracket of production and the winery is now jam packed with enormous 2000 gallon stainless steel tanks. As with every year, this hectic time of bringing in the harvest and crushing grapes, making wine and bottling in order to make room for the new stuff, is accompanied by huge festivals, private events, exciting opportunities and wine dinners not to mention all the events we host ourselves. It takes all four of us owners and a fabulous staff to accomplish all of it... and, of course, drinking mass amounts of wine is mandatory to keeping our sanity. Of course, as I keep mentioning "sanity", it begs the question 'has she lost hers?'

OK back to staying sane (see, I did it again). I am currently drinking a glass of our "1725 Estate Vineyard Riesling", it is crisp and dry and beautiful, just like the fall leaves clinging to the trees outside. There is a deep sigh of relief after our final huge event of the season fades into a memory and for a moment we feel the pressure is alleviated.

I sit, like a big blob on my sofa and sip my wine and contemplate adding running back into my life. During crush, it is easy to say I am too busy or too tired to run, but now that I have a little bit calmer schedule, the excuses don't fit. Kinda like my big butt in my jeans. I look out the window at the gorgeous fall colors and imagine myself running beneath them. I feel the cold wine in my hand and imagine that cold feeling turning my nose and cheeks pink as I run in the cool air. When I imagine myself running, it's kinda like Charlotte from 'Sex and The City', happy and smiling, filled with euphoria. Yet I know for a fact that when I waddle my now wide load down the road, it won't look anything like that. My face will have a grimace of pain and the pink in my cheeks will be from deep exhaustion. My spandex running tights will be stretched thin to accommodate my plump legs, a constant reminder with each step that I am definitely not the same size as when I wore them last. I sip my wine and wonder if my sports bras will even fit my current full figure. Maybe I should start with yoga instead of running I ponder. Yoga pants are comfy. You can do yoga at home. You can wear a fitted tank top without the need of a sports bra. Hey, I could take a Yoga and Wine Class!

Suddenly a violent thought occurs to me. You could do yoga right NOW! A cold sweat breaks out across my brow and top lip, possibly the most I've sweat in some time, my heart races.

shhhhhh....shhhhhh....hush. Take a calming sip of wine, breath deeply. No one is going to MAKE you do anything right now. In fact, for your mental health, just contemplating working out is a great exercise I quickly tell myself. We have to be gentle with ourselves, ease ourselves into this. Do I sound like Schmiegel from "Lord of The Rings"???

Clearly crush this year, in my now dismal age of 40, has pushed me over the edge. My sanity is being threatened. That calls for more wine STAT and putting off contemplating running for another day. Maybe I should put yoga pants on too. WAIT! If I sit cross legged on the sofa, in yoga pants, and drink wine, I'm pretty sure that counts as a "Yoga and Wine" class. Winning!!

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

The Emotional Car Crash

Life moves so fast, sometimes it is hard to find the time to talk about what it happening, it just swirls around you like watching the fall leaves fly in the wind out a window, silent yet chaotic. The things that are happening are stressful and emotional, which, lets face it, we all want to look the other way on, so you put your head down and get through it any way you can.

A couple of weeks ago, fully slammed into Crush and event season, I went in for my routine blood work. It is a year now of good test results that have shown my brain tumor is staying inactive. Somehow a year seemed big and my most neurotic thoughts bubbled to the surface. Will the results come back badly and I will know that I need to get back on the psycho drug that helped before? The drug that was dangerous in its own right, yet would allow me to jump in-front of the horrific symptoms that would inevitably come back. Or will it mark an anniversary of being healthy? This will forever be something I have to deal with, always haunting me, will it become active again? Will I have to battle hell all over again? This time, will I have to have the brain surgery?

The test came back bad. Not horrible, but not good either. Of course that meant more tests and stress. I tried to be cavalier about it, act as if I believed everything would be fine, echo the sentiment around me. But on the night when I had to take the medication for the more in-depth test, I set my alarm for the late hour I would need to take it and... burst into tears. I realized the stress of this haunting has been weighing on me in a way I chose to ignore. As the tears fell and my incredible husband caressed my back, I tried to keep the fear from controlling me. As my brilliant, insightful son said "maybe these tests will show you that you ARE healthy and that you should look forward to them as a reminder that you are OK instead of being scared of them". The fact that we have to have these conversations crushes me.

While I awaited the results of the tumor tests that had to be sent out, I also had the joy of my 1st mammogram! Yay 40! It was just as unpleasant as I thought it would be and it made my anxiety about being an old lady now worse (ya ya I know, 40 isn't old. But you know what? I don't like it! And I am going to go ahead and have a year long temper tantrum... until I turn 41 and can settle into the endless, silent, depression that is old age). Anyway, that test came back BAD too! WTF???

The morning I had to go back to the hospital for more images and an ultrasound, I got the results back for the tumor in my head. ALL CLEAR! The relief swept over me in waves and I clenched my jaw to keep from crying in-front of my son. I didn't want him to worry or feel the depth of my fear, pretty sure I failed at that. Somehow it was my 1st response, (tamp down your response woman!) to pretend like I wasn't that worried so he wouldn't be. And yet a shadow hung over us. What would this mammography test find? Am I doomed for bizarre scary health shit forever???

My poor mom has had to live through all of this happening to her baby, the youngest of the family. I can not imagine having to watch this happen to my child. Through it all, she has tried to keep a strong face for me, but the morning at the hospital, you could tell it was just too much. Fear locked in her eyes as she sat next to me in the waiting room. A horrible thought came to me, would the recurrence of the tumor issue and now this actually put her in her grave? And somehow I was struck by how much I missed the innocence of my family's emotional security. Knowing that bad, scary things can happen to those closest to you is terrifying and changes your entire being. While we all know intellectually that anything could happen at any time, living through the dark, grimy details of serious health issues, every day with fear and pain, is entirely different.

The test for the mammography issue came out fine. Getting the result was a heavy moment ironically. It was as if we'd been in a car accident and walked away, the carnage of our experience and fears, emotions and relief all in a jumble. The fatigue of the whole thing had settled in the new lines drawn into our faces, a permanent reminder of the trauma.

Yet, it isn't all bleak! It was a great reminder to keep focus on what is important, cut back on stress and of course, drink more wine.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

The Hell of It

One of the many elements of my job is to handle our labels. From the look, feel, content and government requirements to descriptions and working with the printer, labels have a lot of details to cover. Usually it comes together easily, other times it is a real pain and the worst part is if after all that work, time and effort, they are printed, the wine is released, and there is an error. I have literally cried several times over labels.

Two of our wines have specialty labels, they are the Divino and Diavolo red wine blends. They are always released as a pair (one is lighter than the other in body style, think Pinot Noir compared to a Cabernet, skim milk to heavy cream) and the artist for the label changes each year. We call them our Heaven and Hell Artist series and they are some of our most popular. They are also some of the most challenging.

Each year, we get submissions from artists to consider their art for our labels, some are easy to see would be perfect for us and others not so much. The art needs to reflect who we are as a winery; what our branding has been. The art needs to be significantly different than the art that was on the label for the last 2 years because wine shops and restaurants will still have a previous vintage of these wines in stock and it gets very confusing very quickly if the art is similar. They need to be sophisticated and look extremely classy as these are also our most expensive wines. And finally, they need to work with the Heaven and Hell theme, what does Heaven and Hell look like to the artist and will customers connect to that? On our very 1st vintage, after all of these considerations, all the planning, all the details, they were printed and didn't fit on the bottle. There were a lot of tears that day.

The current vintage of labels we are working on are some of the hardest yet. A fabulous artist submitted work 3 different times in order to try to find that sweet spot we are looking for, however, after all these years, navigating these waters are more complicated than ever. As the art continued to raise debates among the 4 of us owners, we realized the clock was ticking and we need those labels done ASAP for the wine's late fall release. We needed to shelve this artist so we could lend more time to finding the right pieces and find someone new STAT. Luckily we have a list of artists excited to work with us so jumping down the list is the easy part. Telling the artist we needed to shelf his label for now, was the hardest thing to do. Squashing his electric enthusiasm over this project felt physically painful. This vintage label isn't even done yet and I'm about to cry.

It isn't easy to pull the plug on something that isn't working when you've put so much effort into it, but sometimes, the way to avoid crying is to make those difficult decisions. So, here we go, from scratch with zero time to waste.

Man, mama needs a drink!

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

Crushed by Crush

The summer flew by and before we knew it, we crashed into August and Crush time. We are quadrupling our production so that meant we needed to buy new tanks...2000 gallon tanks that hardly fit in the winery. Pretty much every important piece of equipment has broken and we literally can not get to all the projects that need to happen. It feels a little like drowning...but being really excited and loving the drowning.

20 years after the initial business plan was put in place and Vivac Winery was started, we started to feel like we had crested the wave and were relaxing into an awesome ride when a couple of big opportunities came our way. Taking on these projects has pushed us hard into a growth we weren't ready for and suddenly we find ourselves in another era of intense work, stress and pressure. Maybe it is because now we are in our 40's and we just can't mentally or physically withstand the long days, lack of sleep and high stress that we could in our 20's. Maybe this is just how it is owning a business. Maybe it is just the way it goes in the wine industry. Any which way, it feels daunting. And I think I'm aging rapidly.

On the other side of this, I know we will find ourselves in a far better place, it's just getting there that feels like a Marathon and you all know how much I hate running.

*this mini blog post is brought to you by the mass amounts of Vivac Sangiovese, Syrah and Tempranillo we need to consume to get through the pain of crush.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

Say it Like You Mean it

Earlier today I told my sister-in-law that I "hated" something. She responded "wow! Hate?", it gave me pause. My word choice was callous when it didn't need to be and my intent wasn't to offend or be forceful so why did I say I hated it? It made me think about how day to day chit chat, we are careless with words. Our lives flutter by LOVING something that we don't really love and HATING something that doesn't warrant such a strong emotion. So why do we do it? Are we all so busy that we can't be mindful? Of course this doesn't apply to running. I do HATE running. Or rather I LOVE HATING running.

In the particular instance where I was texting with my sister-in-law, I was in a hurry and responded flippantly. Even if I did truly hate the thing, do I really need to tell people that? It's like how people weigh in on what you plan to name your baby, unsolicited critics, not swaying you but certainly annoying you. And I definitely didn't NEED to say anything at all. So what's up? Why not keep the negative comments to yourself?

I can't help but wonder when we all started being so opinionated. You know, the I-can-say-anything-I-want-because-my-opinion-is-so-important kind of a way, not the it-is-an-important-cause kind of a way. It's the vomit on social media kind of way. Clearly I could get political here, but I will avoid the temptation, watch my words, something I want to start doing a lot more in casual talk. And it is the casual talk that is the root of what I am starting to scratch at, why do people say yes to meeting up or attending a party they have zero real intention of attending? Why do we say agreeable things just so people will like us? And by the same right, why do we say disagreeable things when they don't need to be said?

This ties in to my winemaker husband's New Years Resolution; always say YES. This is the second year he has done this and he has gotten better over time. He started saying YES to things, but would let us know loud and clear that while he said yes, he hated every moment of going to the ballet. But as he re-examined the quality of the yes (like the quality of my "hate") he began embracing the YES completely and it has been infectious.

Of course there hasn't been a recent blog that doesn't include the reminder that I had/ have a brain tumor, so I better stick in the obligatory "I am saying YES to everything" line, because I had the sh*t scared out of me with that process and better live life while I really can. So I have been trying to be a fully invested YES person since. I have more or less been good at it, traveling in Colombia for a full 2 months was definitely an exercise in it. However 'Hector Projector' over here told my husband he wasn't doing a very good job at his YES path because I could tell he wasn't loving the ballet, as if this attitude shift should have somehow altered his core personality. He, without skipping a beat, reminded me that it is apparent that I am not LOVING every second of each YES I step into. Clearly there is room to grow. But in my defense, who truly LOVES saying YES to caving in a pitch black, wild bird infested, waterfall diving freak fest? I did my best damn it!

So what the heck am I blabbing about? It's this; I think I need to morph my slack in verbal specifics in casual chit chat to mirror my YES philosophy. I don't plan to stop being sarcastic (that would be ridiculous and a loss for the rest of the world since my sarcasm is what brings happiness to those around me), but being more positive with my word choice, save 'hate' for when I really mean it, and say "yes" with my intent. Seems like we could all use this in our lives these days don't you think?

I'm starting now, right now. My husband asked if I'd like a glass of wine and I said "YES, I would LOVE one" and I meant every word with every molecule of my body.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

The "Mother" of All Diets

I write this, sitting in bed drinking coffee, NOT up exercising like I should. Do you think it counts that at least I am writing about exercising? Actually, I think it is foretelling that I can't even spell exercising on the 1st try and always have to rewrite it. It is as if I'm phobic.

Anyway, July 1st is coming up and that will make a month on this diet. I started on June 1st...but was still drinking for 3 days, it wasn't until the following Monday that I really committed. Then of course came Father's Day. All in all I think I did pretty good, I stayed on my diet essentially (literally 2 small bites of the decadent, rich, luscious Yorkshire Pudding and only 2 very tiny bites of the dense, moist, warm whiskey cake) focusing on the meat and veggies of the meal. The wine was really really hard. As a extended family, we drink A LOT of wine, and good wine at that. If it had been Yellow Tail (Sorry Yellow Tail, but you know you aren't making legendary wines so you feel me right?), I could have said no, but when the good stuff comes out, well...it's my cryptonite. Needless to say, I drank the equivalent of several glasses of wine; started as innocent tiny sips, but the sips did get bigger, I'm not gonna lie, but I was surprisingly better than it could have been.

I have to stop and offer an apology for using the word "moist" in the above description. I know there are people out there that hate the word 'moist' and find reading or hearing "moist", physically disturbing. But lets face it, a cake is crap unless it is MOIST! Hahahahaha...

OK back to my diet. I didn't feel bad about Father's Day because I also went for a run that morning which I believe set me even to the drinking, maybe wobbling slowly for 2 miles doesn't make up for the calories in all that wine, but I choose to think it does. Needless to say, I jumped back into the non-drinking mode and made it another successful week...ok, almost a week.

My job at our winery is to taste and create wine notes, to which I did while spitting. This is outrageously difficult when the new wines are so delectable and the urge to sit and enjoy each one, like watching your child graduate from college, is undeniably strong. Yes, I did pat myself on the back for managing to avoid temptation. Another aspect of my job is to talk to potential businesses about partnering in various ways, for events or in a grander, more long term fashion, all of which are better if we sit and discuss over a glass of wine. Having a glass of wine puts people at ease and doing so together instantly makes you friends rather than the sticky issues of a strict business meeting full of numbers and bottom lines. Lectures, wine classes, staff training, wine analysis, sales...it ALL requires a sip of wine or more, yet I held back. Honestly it was a freaking miracle! Until Friday.

Ever have one of those (personal or work related) things that you have been working on or toward, nurturing, investing in and then have it come time to make it truly happen, it could be the beginning of something huge, or slip through your finger tips? Well, I had 2 in 1 day.  The success of back to back, very important aspects to our business and me personally, caused extreme endorphins to course through my body and scream WE NEED TO CELEBRATE!

In a moment of weakness, I gave in. And in, and in, and in. By the next morning, with a raging hangover, I assessed the damage. I did great on the food portion of the day, but I literally lost count on the wine portion. Bad! Bad! Bad!

I reluctantly told my diet guru. I also came to terms with my possible sabotage of all the hard work I'd put in and more importantly, saw that it is the day AFTER excessive drinking that is the real killer. All I wanted was a giant cheeseburger and fries...and a milkshake...and more wine. Getting back on track that day is what is keeping me good now, it was brutal! And watching my husband eat and drink whatever he wanted did not help.

Lets stop for a moment and have a little aside. It is so not fair that men can burn so many more calories! Given my husband is training for a off road 1/2 marathon so he is running a lot, but it seems so much easier for him. He asked why I couldn't simply eat less, why the extreme diet (we see anything that asks you not to drink daily as 'extreme'), to which I informed him I had been trying that. Well except for the 2 months in Colombia where I ate wheat and drank beer of course. But I'm 40 and my body isn't responding the way it used to. I'm recovering from a brain tumor that caused hormones to rage out of control (man those hormones are MFs) so my body needs a shock to get it jump-started again. This discrepancy between my husband and I with wight loss makes every pound he losses, while eating green chile and cheese smothered hashbrowns, and every step on the scale where I have not lost a pound while sipping protein shakes and fasting, all that more painful. I literally want to stomp my feet and pout.

Little kid temper-tantrum done, I am dedicated to getting back to my pre-tumor weight. After I had my son, I actually couldn't help but have the weight fall off, it was even difficult to keep from being too skinny while I ate anything I wanted! I know, I hate me too right now. Maybe the only truly perfect diet is breastfeeding. Is there some way I can arrange milk production without a pregnancy? I've heard stories of how in extreme cases, people can lactate! This IS an extreme case people, I think extreme measures are needed.

OK, no more procrastination, I've got work to do. In order to get this body in shape, I evidently will need to find a breast pump. Amazon, here I come!

* this post is brought to you by the wines that I celebrated with, thank you for the party: Vivac Abbott Estate Cabernet Franc, Vivac Abbott Estate Merlot, Vivac Rose of Sangiovese, and some non Vivac wines (yes we drink wines from everywhere...that's how we know just how fantastic ours are).

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

The Good, The Bad & The Fatty

Well, it has been 4 months exactly since we got back from Colombia. The 2 months there seemed to ooze in a sweet slow way. Life in Colombia was like submerging yourself under water in a pool; everything goes quiet and you become weightless. By the same right, being back home is like that inevitable moment when you finally have to come back up for air and the noise of the poolside chaos jarringly hits you as you break the surface. Since being back, everything seems to be on fast forward, I'm unable to keep up and I long for that cool, calm of deep water. I even dream about it each night.

But reality is, we gotta work! And, my waistline seriously can't be on vacation permanently. As all of you that follow this blog know, I had some "health issues" (to put it mildly) over the last few years and had uncontrollable weight gain. As I got healthier, weight fell off, then stopped. In an attempt to 'love myself the way I am' and be grateful for my improving health, regardless of the train-wreck that was left in its wake, I turned the other cheek to that mean voice in my head. And by "turn the other cheek", evidently I mean go ahead and let my big ass just stay big. Finally I had had it and decided to stop being 'cheeky' and do something about it.

Now if you recall, another fun thing I got from the 'health issue' was compromised ligaments and tendons. So when I jumped off a sailboat and landed on a docking cleat (1 year ago), I literally blew out my ankle (full rupture of 2 ligaments and badly tearing 2 tendons with a high ankle sprain), ya, no bueno. Then, in a series of unfortunate events, kinda like the popular show/ movie/ books by that name, tragic yet funny, I dislocated my shoulder...2 days later. I told you my sh*t was compromised! Anyway, it has taken a year to get my ankle to the point where I can now do some low impact exercise. Being that I had turned into a delicate marionette with my fragile ligaments and tendons, I actually listened to the doctors and have been very very careful. Now, full of fear, it is time to start to test my body. Ahhhh...my "Fueled by Vivac" fans, you are starting to see where this is going aren't you? Yes my dears, I am going to start complaining about running again! Woohoo!

My adventures in Colombia may have been full of thrills, but nothing will be as momentous as hauling my giant ass down the road on a wobbly ankle. And with hardly any physical activity over the last year combined with drinking beer and eating wheat while I was traveling, I now have to try to get back in shape while going through wheat withdrawals. Oh, didn't you know? Yep, I am also one of those annoying people that don't eat wheat. To add insult to injury (no pun intended...ok, maybe it was intended) I'm going to attempt a diet plan that requires me to give up my one true passion in life, wine (GASP!). Nothing should set up complaining like the lack of wine and wheat mixed with making me run. God save my husband and child, this could be scary.

So sit back, relax, open a bottle of wine for me and enjoy the impending doom.

* This blog is sponsored by 'the wines I want to be drinking so freaking bad!': Vivac Abbott Estate Merlot & Vivac Abbott Cab Franc. Oh and Vivac Rose of Sangiovese & Vivac Chardonnay. Oh and also Vivac Tempranillo and Vivac Club Select.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

Really? REALLY? No, but...Really???

Home from Colombia, we were hit hard with the reality of work and ignored projects. While sorting the million miles of emails, request upon request of donations and people trying to sell me something, I find an alert to send wines in to the Great American International Wine Competition. Having recently decided to participate in these International Competitions (and having won Golds at the Finger Lakes International), we thought we'd roll the dice with this one too. However, my computer decided to have a fit and I couldn't get our wine info to upload; I contacted the organization. The organizers were very helpful and I had success!

A few days later, I receive an email asking if I would like to be a judge at the Great American International Wine Competition. I'm suspicious. Why me? What kind of scam is this? Are they going to need my credit card to "reserve my tickets"? Did they need "only" 8 cases of wine to secure my seat? I had questions.

"I googled you after you contacted us with website issues and was very impressed!". Turns out all the little side projects, the articles I've written, the classes I've taught, the guest speaker engagements I've had and my Sommelier Certifications seem to have caught their attention. I was still skeptical. "Thank you" I started, "but we do not have the budget at this time to send me to NY to participate". Nice try I thought. Nothing like a little flattery to work your victim into letting down their guard right?

With a little more back and forth, it was clarified that THEY would fly me to NY and pay for the hotel ...and the meals. Well now, NOW I'm interested! But still...me??? It just didn't seem real. Surely they made a mistake and will figure out that I am not their gal, or of course there will be a hidden catch. I told Jesse (who is perhaps 1st a winemaker and 2nd my husband) who was immediately concerned that if I did judge, would we still be able to enter our wines? Turns out, they are very fastidious and make sure that the wines are tracked and sent to judges that are not involved with that particular winery. That detail out of the way, Jesse got super excited! I continued to have an eyebrow raised.

Dinner parties and events filtered through our world and I avoided telling people the "big news". I told myself I would share when I had an airline ticket in hand. This really was a big deal, this International Wine Competition touts incredible judges from around the world and to be selected as one was not only an honor, but a very exciting experience!

Then it happened. I felt my face flush as my heart beat accelerated simply seeing the email heading "flight itinerary". I opened and printed the details of my flight and hotel stay. It was actually real. I would be flying to Rochester, NY to judge the world of wines! Oh shit, I'm not sure I can do this. My nasty negative self talk kicked in big time.

I think we all have it, that nagging voice in the back of your head that sheds self doubt at the most inopportune times. The one that creeps up when you think you left it far far behind. Mine showed up and decided to yell at me at 3:00am that I was a fraud. There was no way I had what it takes to hang with this caliber of wine expert. It left me shaken and worried. My husband, my confidant and best friend, reassured me. He pointed out how I had already proven myself in various ways. He encouraged me to remember my gift for exactly this type of wine work. He even, adorably, became my excited cheerleader talking me up to friends and family. I have to say, it did help. Until the day I had to board the plane.

My palms were sweaty. I needed a glass of wine. Two different flights, two glasses of wine and hours later, I landed at the tiny Rochester airport. I made the call to summon the hotel van and stood waiting, wondering how I would make it through this experience without my cheerleader holding my hand. Amazing that at 40 years old, I still feel like I need someone to be by my side at all times. I felt like a ridiculous little girl, wide eyed on the 1st day of school.

Suddenly a raspy voice bellowed behind me, someone talking on her cell phone. This woman walked right up to me and instantly knew I was there for the competition. Was it the suit jacket and heels or the stained purple teeth that gave it away? I quickly found out that she was there to judge Spirits, (the drinking kind, not the afterlife kind. Although from her appearance she could have done either) and that she knew her stuff, BUT she was delightful and friendly and after a high five and a hug, I was immediately put at ease. If she was any indication, this would be much more fun than I thought. I released a deep breath and let my shoulders reveal the neck they had been hiding.

My room was lovely and the view of the charming, historic downtown was already whispering seductively in my ear. I was good enough, I could do this, and gosh darn people like me! I couldn't help but think of the SNL skit and recognize how ridiculous I was being.

The next morning, I got breakfast, consciously avoiding strong flavors and focusing on protein for a long day of tasting. I arrived at the ballroom, the hallway lined with tall banners touting the importance of this competition, and marched right up to the check in table. I informed the friendly faces that I'd gotten in late the night before and needed to pick up my name tag and check in. She looked and looked, nope not on the list. She had me check at another table, nope nothing there. Crap, bad sign. Back at table one, she scanned my outfit and said "I know you are dressed nice, but are you ok washing glasses?" I wasn't sure what to say, at our winery, even after 20 years and National publicity we still have zero attitude about doing the dirty jobs, we do what needs to be done to help our staff. I smiled and said slowly "well...sure...I'm supposed to judge wine so...I'm not sure how I will do both, but..." The collection of women behind the table stopped what they were doing and like the screetch of a record player needle, looked at me in shock. "OMG! I'm so sorry, I didn't know you were a judge! I'm so embarrassed!" The group surrounded me and repeatedly thanked me for being there, they laughed that they had asked a wine judge to wash dishes, and they escorted me to the correct check in.

I had to have been bright red by the time I reached the packet pick up for judges, the flattery seemingly misplaced and wasted on little old me. The founders of the competition greeted me warmly and showed me to my seat, introducing me to some of the phenomenal people of the wine world I would be working with. I was told the room was broken into spirits judging, amateur wine judging and commercial wine judging. Ahhhhh...I get it, I'm going to be an amateur wine judge, that makes sense. I had found the missing piece to the puzzle and my excitement dropped a little. I've done a great deal of amateur wine tasting in order to give feedback to enthusiastic winemakers trying to get into the biz, and it isn't always pleasant. New winemakers tend to make some typical errors that result in undrinkable wines. This would be 2 days of "eeewwwww".

It was time for the room to be introduced, we quickly sped through the room of 40 judges and were assigned categories. My table would be commercial wines. I would be working with the Robert Mondavi of Slovenia with multiple Doctorates of varying aspects of the wine industry, a wine writer who has written for most of the big wine magazines, the marketing person for Rodney Strong winery in Napa who is a regular judge at many other International Wine Competitions and the owner of the largest wine shop in NY who has a reputation far and wide. Across the isle was the esteemed gentleman that set up the Sommelier Certification program in Bordeaux.. he is literally a Wine God. My mouth dropped open.

Flight after flight of wine appeared, numbered and with corresponding judging sheets. Discussion after discussion ensued of why one of us had marked a wine up or down and if it should medal or not. By mid day I had people saying "oh wow Michele, I hadn't picked that up, I'm glad you pointed that out" and by day two, other judges were bringing me wines at lunch to discuss. The staff of volunteers bent over backwards to assist in any way possible, I'm pretty sure I could have asked for them to peel grapes for me and they would have done it. It was awesome!

Before I knew it, it was time to go back home. I felt like a princess as I said goodbye to people I was in awe of and staff thanked me again, and again, and again. I floated through the long day of travel and airplane changes, the two hour drive home from the airport and walked into my home ready for a mini parade of appreciation from my husband and son who I was sure had missed me and would want to hear every last detail of this extraordinary event.

Nothing. I walked in to nothing. My husband was taking a nap, heard me come in and yelled "hi" sleepily from his nap spot. My son, engrossed in reading, barely looked up. Several hours later, they remembered to ask me about my trip. I couldn't help but see the irony of this. Thank you family for keeping me humble.

Vivac WInery Great American International Wine Competition Awards:
*Sangiovese GOLD (also our new Rose is made from the same Sangiovese)
*Abbott White Wine SILVER
*Cabernet Sauvignon BRONZE
*1725 Riesling (Dry) BRONZE

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

The Final Test

This is the final blog post covering our adventures in Colombia. Just as the tempo of those final days, this post seems to tumble through our last adventure and leave you wondering if you really want to visit Colombia. Believe me, you do, just avoid Bogota like the Plague.

Like the back breaking trek into Rio Claro Nature Preserve, getting out was equally, if not more difficult. Piling all our luggage onto our desperately aching bodies, including our son's since the heat and humidity made walking a workout for him, we started down the road to exit the park. With incredible luck, a truck had mercy on us and agreed to toss our bags up onto their load and take them out to the gate, we however had to continue to walk. You know you are under extreme physical strain when giving all your possessions to a stranger sounds like a good idea. But, amazingly, we arrived at the gate at the same time our bags were being dropped. Now it would be the hard part; there at the side of the highway, we were given the task to "wave down" a bus.

Colombia's bus system went on strike the day we left the jungle. This meant we needed to hurry to catch a bus still en-route because when the bus got to it's destination, that would be where it would stay until the strike was over. Finding ourselves in the middle of nowhere, there was no ticket office and the nearest town was too far to walk. In order to get to Bogota, where we would be flying home from, we needed some serious luck. On the other hand, we were reticent to leave so we teasingly said that if we were stuck in Colombia, we were stuck in Colombia! Maybe that relaxed attitude is what made things seem easy.

Standing on the side of the road, the blazing heat covered our bodies in a slick coat of sweat and the humidity kept it there. Hardly any traffic was on this quite highway making the idea of snagging a bus seem unlikely. We started to toss around ideas of paying a person with a car to give us a ride, or maybe we could send my husband to the next town where he could contract a taxi and come get us. All of the options sounded faintly like the plot of a horror movie. Then suddenly, my husband stepped into the road and a bus, barreling down on him, came to a screeching halt! Quickly we grabbed our 3 huge duffel bags and 3 heavy backpacks and jumped on board. A little travel tip here, it is seriously difficult to be nimble when your bags are stupidly heavy. Thankfully we had drank all the wine we had packed into Rio Claro so we were less 36lbs now.

The buses in Colombia are really pretty nice and they get nicer as they get bigger. It is also very inexpensive so when we got to the bus station in the nearby town and transferred to the Cadillac double level bus to take us the 8 hours to Bogota, we didn't much mind where we sat. Well, some of us didn't mind where we sat. One of us (who shall remain nameless), a man that attacked every one of our insane adventure sports and experiences over the 2 months we were traveling through Colombia with ease and delight, was terrified of being on the top level of the bus as it swayed along the curvy steep roads. An additional $5 each bought us safety in the downstairs 1st class. And some amusement to me since finally I was not the one that was scared to death.

1st class on this cross-country bus was kinda like 1st class on an airplane. Huge lounge chair seats with leg rests and private TVs. I had never been on a bus like this and it made the journey through ever changing, gorgeous terrain fantastic! I started to get excited, I dreamed that our time in Bogota would be like a poem; easy and elegant with a hint of mystery. Then we drove into the outskirts of the city and my fantasy was challenged.

Many times through our travels we had seen poverty, serious slums and hardship, yet the people and areas had a glow of humanity to them. The tiny areas that one could call their own, were clean and well presented even in a falling down shack town, but as we came into Bogota, the streets looked mean. Garbage was piled everywhere and the people had hard faces. It looked like the kind of area that you don't want to go to during the day, much less at night...and it was coming into night. We pulled into the ghetto bus station and pushed past people that looked at us like fresh meat. We found a taxi and directed him to our hotel. The taxi ricocheted through the streets into the "cool old town area", the lights of downtown brightening as darkness set in. Each turn and weave gave us a new vantage point of garbage, homelessness and mass graffiti. There had been plenty of graffiti in other areas of Colombia, but always as art, something charming about it, but this graffiti was absolutely not. Care for the buildings and the city in general seemed to have long been forgotten and drug use was out in the open. Not cute marijuana joints or bottles of booze, I'm talking needles and crack pipes. I realized THIS is what people think of as 'Colombia', this chaos. That is when we sped through a crisscross of highway and there in the middle of the road, was a huge blazing fire and a homeless man ineffectively trying to put it out with his foot as two police men stood and watched.

"If you have to visit this crap city, this is the best hotel in this shit place", the memory of the Bogota hotel review I had read slapped me in the face.

A series of issues lead us to wake up in a fairly modern room in a construction site of a hotel that was NOT the hotel we had booked, but by the time we were laying our heads down, we didn't care. We woke refreshed and ready to give the city a second chance with high hopes we would find that cool place we had pictured in our minds. The guide books are very clear in cautioning you to crime and danger in Bogota, unlike any other places in Colombia, so we decided to try out the best of the safe recommendations before getting wild with the "hidden gems".

The University campus was neat with fantastic cafes and restaurants lining the edges. The rumor of Bogota having great food was definitely true so we started to perk up! Maybe it was just being tired that had given us a bad intro to the city last night? We strolled down to what is considered the shopping/ restaurant district, it was literally packed with people. The noise was at rocket launch level as street vendor's music competed with the music blaring from the permanent stores and guys wanting you to eat at their restaurants literally chased you for blocks yelling about how great the food was. Among the things being sold were various oddities laid out on blankets in the street. It started out benign enough, books and dvds, then quickly books, children's dvds and porn. Then a hodge-podge of kitchen items and baby toys, then socks and socks and sock and shoelaces EVERYWHERE! I mean really, what is the deal with so many shopping carts full of shoelaces for sale? My husband remarked that back at home he can't seem to find shoelaces. He decided it was because the entire world's inventory was there, in Bogota.

The day had taken a turn for the worse and we were tired and disappointed. That was when we literally took a turn for the worse and found the streets were filled with trash being sold on these "vendor blankets". Broken toys, used household items, and even...prepare yourself...used old underpants. At that moment, just as I was about to scream over the noise of the crowd that I was done for the day, we watched a dirty (from head to bare foot) man climb out of a dumpster with an item of clothing and lay it on his blanket to sell. It was clear none of us needed to say anything, we all knew this nightmare needed to end.

Close to our ramshackle hotel was a grocery store with a great selection of wine and a strip of great take out food places. We stocked up, went to our room and hid from the crap day in that shit city. Tucked away in our homemade oasis, the 3 of us curled up on the bed and streamed movies while sipping a glass of wine. The beauty wasn't in the city, but it was certainly in our ability to make those most out of any situation.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

One Last Cheap Thrill

Finishing blogging about Colombia has felt like a small death, as if completing the story would cement the fact that we are in fact back. Like acknowledging that fact would make Colombia evaporate into a dream and would disappear having never happened. But, at this point it is just silly to avoid writing about it since new and amazing adventures welcomed us home and I look forward to sharing those too. So suck it up buttercup and get on with it right?!?

Only an hour or so after surviving the Cave of Death (see previous blog post), we were flying through the jungle trees and zig-zaging over the beautiful Rio Claro. Neither myself, my son, nor my husband had ever gone zip lining before, but here we were, doing yet another crazy adventure sport. Like the others, this one started with a terrorizing moment (or 5) before you'd let go and swing off the cliff side. Even my eyelids were sweating out of fear, but it was my sweet baby boy that had been so brave in the cave and on the mountain top when we went paragliding, that was truly distraught. Somehow this combination of elements blew his mind. So, standing in all his gear, clipped to the line, he stood, white faced and trembling.

Now, I am not the suck-it-up style parent (I save that kind of abuse for myself). Between the various things that make up the cocktail that is my young brilliant son, pressure never, ever results in the action you are hoping to get from him. Ask his dad, he has had to learn through trial and much error that this kid MUST make the decision for himself, and no amount of demanding will sway him.

So there I am in a tight perch over the river, trying to talk my son into letting go. Hmmm...that sentence right there just said so much, kinda sums up our relationship. His dad wasn't with me, he had gone 1st to show us that everything was going to be ok (damn, I'm coming up with some great psychological parallels here) so I was on my own. Sorta amusing to think that the 2 people in the family that would be content to never leave the house (der, where do you think he got this "cocktail" of issues from? They are genetic), would be the ones talking each other into jumping off cliffs to fly at lightening speed into the mouths of jaguars on the other side. What? It could happen! It was a Jaguar preserve originally and now it was our "summer camp" style adventure park. Pretty sure there are still jaguars hiding out there. And pretty sure if they are, they would want to attack the cat toy that is a small human dangling helplessly above them.

Needless to say, after some fast talking and the assistance of a Colombian guide that didn't speak any English, our little trouper was flying! I have to admit, there was some element that the other activities hadn't had that made this one challenge the perceptions of fear and fill you with adrenaline. It also was one of the biggest payoffs because it turned out it wasn't scary at all! It was simply a lovely way to see the jungle!

I have no idea how a family that would rather curl up together on the sofa and watch a great movie while sipping a glass of wine, or snuggle under the covers reading a brilliant book...with a glass of wine, or lay on a beach somewhere...with a nice glass of wine (what did you expect? We do own a winery after all. It's called research!) would end up being the Adventure Family of Colombia, but that corny idea to 'embrace life while you can' was being put to the test in a huge way, and we were loving every minute of it. Even, looking back, the moment I swallowed a giant gulp of bird infested cave water had its own glory.

The zipline finished out our time in this miraculous place. If you plan a trip to Colombia, make sure you include Rio Claro Nature Preserve, it is amazing. Now we needed to prepare for our final stop; the very end of our days in Colombia would be in the city of Bogota. We had a couple precious days to explore the bohemian, artistic, University town before we would fly home. Pangs of pain set in fast as we packed to leave the jungle in the morning. How did 2 months go by so fast? Determined to enjoy the last fleeting days in the most amazing country we've ever been to, we started to look forward to the places we'd explore in Bogota and I pushed the hotel review out of my mind that had read:

 "if you have to visit this crap city, this is the best hotel in this shit place"

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

There is Nothing to Fear but...but a Really Scary Cave!

I stood in 1.5 feet of water, in a pitch black cave of marble, soaked from head to foot, trembling. I was not cold, in fact the humidity kept the cave and water of the jungle warm, but my nerves were shot. Birds I could not see screamed a high pitched warning that we should get out and then took to diving near us clacking their beaks into the slick marble mountains on either side of us. My headlamp lit the faint spot in front of me that I would need to climb up and wedge my foot into before I would jump down the next waterfall into another series of dead black pools. The crushing sound of water made it nearly impossible to shout for help, and I gripped blindly in the dizzying blackness for Jesse's hand. Tears streaked down my already wet face; I was in absolute despair. How the hell did I find myself in that situation? We couldn't go backwards, the previous waterfalls and silky smooth rock made sure of that, but moving forward almost had me paralyzed.

Let us pause for a moment and analyse how I did get into that horrific predicament. My husband may or may not have known that there would be a 2 hour hike though the steep jungle to get to the cave. He may or may not have known that there was a decent chance we would be swimming, not wading, through black pools of water. He may or may not have known that we would jump off many waterfalls in the pitch dark. What he did know, for sure, was that he knew he wanted to do this caving adventure long before we set out on this trip to Colombia. Now add in that I was trying my best to be a YES woman,  so I did not complain about the idea of caving, but then I didn't know what was awaiting me so perhaps in retrospect I might have hesitated more about joining in. Instead, blissfully unaware, I asked the desk clerk to describe the caving to me. His description was on the light side to say the least and included telling me I could wear a bathing suit if I wanted. I don't know about you, but when I hear "bathing suit" I think fun, not fear. Needless to say, his description sucked and you most definitely do NOT want to wear just a bathing suit on this nightmare.

Back in the cave: I tried to lower my 11 year old son onto a step just to the side of the next, bigger, rushing waterfall, a spot closer to the inky pool that waited below so that he wouldn't have to jump so far. Jess waited for our son, treading water, promising to catch him. My hand burned in pain as the sharp ridge of the marble dug into my palm, this handhold was the only thing that kept me from sliding down the slick front of the rock and crushing my child. At my turn, I jumped, a sharp zing of fear shooting up my spine and my heart racing a million miles a minute, I crashed into the pool, sinking far below the surface, and did the one thing they said to make sure not to do...I swallowed a giant gulp of water...of dark pool cave water...of bird poop filled dark cave water. Now, if I survived this cave, I could look forward to giardia. As I swam to the ledge, my running shoes making me a spastic swimmer, I thought of how I mocked the guide when he said "make sure you do not drink the water", telling my husband 'who would be so stupid to drink the water?' well, clearly me, I am that stupid.

Finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, (the opening of the cave, not death, although at that point I would have taken that option too) adrenaline swept through me; I needed out of that God damn cave badly. Rushing toward the opening in thigh high water, relief started to tingle in my hands. And that's when I smashed my right knee into a massive, hidden rock with the force of someone running for their life. The throbbing sent a guttural primitive cry out of me. I struggle onto a ledge, water now only up to mid calf and tried to shine my ever fading headlamp at the wound. Just then, as the birds' incessant screeching pierced the few feet we had to move in, a sharp stab hit my ass. One of those rare, freak birds attacked my ass! It was as if the cave was taking one last swing at finishing me off. I pushed ahead of the few other cavers that were trying to make their escape and climbed up onto a look out that would serve as an exit. A rope ladder in the heavy rush of the final waterfall taunted me, this cave just wouldn't give up! Jesse and our son waited at the bottom, holding onto a rope that would guide our swim against the strong current of the river to the banks of safety on the other side. Photos later would show that my leggings were see-through when wet and as I climbed down the swaying ladder, I'd put on a nice show for all the people that had come to the beautiful river to play for the day.

Exhausted we sat in the shallows of the crystal clear water of the river, the fiercely green jungle jetting thousands of feet up around us, and I cried. I wish I could say I was  doing a happy dance, feeling like a million bucks, but I didn't. I cried a good hard cry. I don't think I have ever been subjected to such a long duration of fear and my entire body shook, rattling with the intensity of it.  My husband rubbed my back and tried to give me a pep-talk. He told me how proud he was of me and how well I did, and then, just like that, he said the words that transformed my entire mood, "honey, lets go get you some wine".

*on a side note, I did not cry the entire time I was in Colombia. I seem to be selecting blog topics that were highly emotional...thus all the crying. I actually had a fantastic time and we spent most days NOT doing terrifying things. The large consumption of wine on the other hand, is a completely accurate depiction of our trip.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

Scratching That Itch

Waking up in Rio Claro, in our tree-house open air room, was a treat. I was happy to discover that we had not had any slithering visitors in the night, something they said could happen as you were perched in the dense jungle. A little sleep deprived from the crazy toucan that had come to visit and loudly announced his presence in the night (scaring the you know what out of me), but otherwise ready to see more of this crazy place.

After a surprisingly good breakfast, complete with Colombia's favorite rock hard, flavorless "arepa" (a fat corn tortilla kind of a thing), we set out to raft the Rio Claro's crystal waters.

*(a quick aside) Not sure how or why arepas literally swept the entire country as a good idea, but it was the single most unappealing food we'd come across. My husband had taken to making a face of repulsion any time he forced himself to try another one, it was awesomely hilarious.

Being that we live in Dixon, NM, an area known for its fantastic white water rafting, a float down a river was not exactly 'exciting', but rather a fun activity. That is until they steered our raft directly under the torrent of a waterfall. Our son, a kid that hates having water on his head, screamed in terror. He is 11 by-the-way so it was fully HIS choice to climb aboard this raft, it was not his dad and I torturing a small baby...just wanted to make that clear. With water gushing over my face, I tried to console him, yet as the guide kept us swirling in place, the other guests in the boat loving it, I worried that my child was actually going to jump overboard. Needless to say, it was a bit traumatic. One of the most impressive moments of the trip was when we finally emerged from under the waterfall, our kiddo crying, and he quickly pulled himself together setting his mind to having fun again! A pretty amazing thing for a kid with sensory issues to pull off. I was so proud of him.

The rest of the trip was filled with the guide rattling on about who knows what (remember that there is zero English being spoken anywhere in Colombia so clearly it is not happening in the jungle in the middle of nowhere) only my husband and the other Spanish speakers could say. My son happily drifted off into his imagination, staring into the wild juggle we passed. But me? I was still a little sleep deprived and my brain simply could not keep up with the translating, so while the boat full of people seemed to be having a wonderful time with tales of the history and details about what we were seeing, laughing at jokes that must have been amusing, I started to feel intensely lonely.

Just when I thought I might fall into a deep well of self pity, we pulled onto shore at a huge cave that had a current through a deep pool making it like a ride of sorts. By letting your life vest hold you up, you would let the water push you through the channel in a fast whoosh around a central island and find yourself on the other side. Once again the three of us were laughing and playing and that bond that I had envisioned we'd have, taking on adventures together, was back. Yet there was a lingering open space inside me, I realized with ultra clarity, that I had been focusing so much for 11 years on my family, that I didn't know how to be happy just being with myself, finding my own individual enjoyment. It was a strange sensation and one that would have me pondering for weeks to come.

The raft trip came to an end, leaving us standing in an emerald green field filled with white floppy eared, humpbacked cows, waiting for our ride back to the Lodge. No Colombia story would be complete without yet another insane driving detail, so of course, the truck that arrived was a surprise. This truck looked like it was there for the cows, but no, they squished a couple rafts worth of people onto the benches inside its large wooden box attached to the back of the cab, and hurled us down the road. As the truck swerved and screeched around corners, I watched the slates of the floor move and shift; yep, this was a totally ridiculous way to transport paying guests. A fine dust wafted up from the angry dirt road into our faces and everyone began to cough. No longer surprised by the 'vehicles of fear' in Colombia, my husband and I looked at each other, then we looked at our son, and then in unison, we all laughed. As I bathed in the warmth of our private family joke, I thought again about my personal enjoyment verses the enjoyment of doing things with the people I loved. The raft trip would not have been nearly as fun had I been alone, and the stories we shared over dinner not as fun if we had not experienced it together. But the nagging itch at the back of my mind struggled with feeling deserted when large gaps of time on the trip were spent 'solo'.

Safely back at the Lodge, my son and I trudged our way back to the pay-more-so-you-can-hike-more-room while my husband climbed onto the back of a motorcycle and got a 5 star thrill ride down to the next town to be reconnected with his cell phone...that he had left of the bus the day before. I know, it is totally ludicrous that we both lost our phones within 2 days of each other. Yet here we were again at the mercy of the kindness of the Colombian people to help us retrieve our belongings. Jesse would return hours later with a harrowing story of nearly being smashed by semi-trucks out on the highway and of the incredible juggling it took to get his phone back to him. He had the glow of adrenaline shinning in his cheeks as he regaled us with stories. Again that itch at the back of my mind called for my attention, how was it that he could find himself in any situation and always be jovial, engaged and excited, alone or with loved ones? What was his trick? How did he magically connect with other people, instantly becoming the best of friends and disappear into that new relationship? Was it the motherly instinct to always think of others 1st; give up my comfort and interests for the sake of the family? If I could turn that off, would I too be able to do this? Would I really want to?

That day slid into the night and filled with the strange sounds of the jungle. A bottle of wine and quite conversation with my adoring husband, while our son lay reading in bed, and that itch began to fade. Maybe I didn't need to figure it out, maybe I was over thinking it, or maybe, and hear me out on this, wine really does cure EVERYTHING?

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

Drinking in The Beauty of Paradise

Rio Claro is a nature preserve in the jungle of Colombia between Medellin and Bogota. The "hotel" inside the park offers open air rooms and is an all inclusive, meaning breakfast, lunch and dinner are all included in the price and served in the main common area...also open air. Probably a good idea to stock up on bug spray. They tout "no alcohol" on the website so of course Jesse and I had some math to do. How many bottles of wine do you smuggle into a place you will be staying at for 4 days?

After a long bus ride from Guatape, we were dropped at the front gates to the park. It was humid and hot as we stood in the sun and tried to understand how everything worked. Wait, what do you mean there is no transportation to the "hotel"? What do you mean we have to hike all the way in with our 3 enormous duffel bags and 3 horribly heavy backpacks? F#@k, why did we pack so much wine?

Loaded down with bags strapped to every angle of our bodies, we headed down the dirt road into the jungle; sweat poured ferociously down my face, burning my eyes. Parts of my body that I didn't even know could sweat, were sweating. The weight of the luggage made every step difficult and soon, our son was in tears. I could completely empathize with his pain and took his backpack and added it to my load. Now I was afraid I'd have permanent back damage as my spine roared in pain.  Dad, always a champ, was carrying the heaviest of the duffel bags and his backpack...packed with bottles of wine. The air smelled of musk and wild, exotic flowers and the sights and sounds let us know that the real adventure had just begun.

We arrived at the check in, a grueling several mile hike done and thankfully gulped cold water. My head pulsed with each racing heartbeat, my body feeling oddly light after dropping the pile of bags dramatically to the ground. I panted heavily and moaned. It was a lovely scene I had created.

We had paid extra so that we could have a "fully open" room, one that would allow us to be a part of the jungle even while in bed. Because the room was so special, it was located at the end of the nearly mile long path. This path lead us up hill on a cobblestone like path. I say cobblestone "like" because cobblestones are usually rounded and these were more a collection of random, sharp edged rocks stuck in cement. After loading the bags back on our screaming bodies, we took on the last hike to our room. Just when I thought I could make it no further, we came to the step climbing portion of hell. Oddly enormous stairs loomed before us, each one making my legs violently shake under the weight of the bags. I wondered if it would be easier to drop and roll onto each step, but the sharp rocks seemed even more painful should they jab my ribs, as it was the wobble of my ankle (the newly recovering one) and the pain of my feet almost made me cry. So far this part of the vacation was awesome.

I do have to say that even in misery, this place was insanely gorgeous. Colombia just kept besting itself! As the name suggests, the focus is Rio Claro, the crystal clear river that the jungle hugs and the summer camp like lodge sits beside. The walk to our room was a challenge, but it meandered through some of the most stunning scenery you can imagine. Actually that you CAN'T imagine, it was that amazing, even your imagination won't allow you to conceive of such a place. Our room did not disappoint either. We opened the door to a dream like tree-house. The mosquito netting was tied charmingly up above the beds and the bamboo railing on 2 sides of the room let you be 100% a part of the tall jungle trees; the river bubbling far below us. There was a quaint table and chairs nestled into the far end of the room and the shower actually had hot water...sometimes...when there was water. Toucans squawked and monkeys screeched while brightly colored song birds sat at an arm's length away. We blinked wide eyed at the glory of this magical place unable to put what we were seeing into words, we each simply muttered "wow". The incredible room deserved a glass of wine, the view deserved a bottle.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

Guatape Rocks!

The day after my dreadful 40th birthday, we boarded a bus for a long journey to Guatape. It was more than our massive amount of luggage that weighed us down that day; leaving Jardin was brutally painful. This little cozy blanket of a town had become home in a surprisingly deep and emotional way.

I'll skip the details of the bus ride, the Medellin city taxi ride of death that had even our taxi driver signing the cross over himself and get to the part where our second bus dropped us off in the charming, tourist magnet of Guatape. This hilly town was bigger than Jardin and rose up from the banks of the finger like lakes that separated it from the other islands, into a colorful town plaza. Each cobblestone street that stretched out from the bustling center was filled with high end tourist shops and cafes. There was nothing beachy about this place, yet it felt like the Yucatan towns of Mexico 20+ years ago. The colonial charm was apparent, yet it felt marketed toward us, almost for show rather than inherent. Don't get me wrong, it IS cute, but it is filled with English speaking tourists and you feel the separation from the locals and the connection to the culture we had in Jardin.

Our time was limited so we tried to make the most of it with night time strolls to see the ornately wood carved church light up in different colors, pass the soccer fields full of kids and the delightful lit up decorations of the open air restaurants. During our one full day in Guatape, that we dubbed as my '40th birthday do over', we set out to explore the greater area.

El Pinol is the name of the giant rock that is the #1 tourist destination of the area. I know it doesn't sound exciting, but this sucker is immense! 650 steep steps up the cement staircase (a case of asthma and a heart attack later) you reach the rock-top patio and look out. The 365 degrees of view was pretty incredible and this area is another wonder to behold as the brilliant blue water threads its way between mounds of emerald green land. A dizzying 650 steps back down the black rock and you find yourself in a maze of little shops. My adorable hubby, wanting 'take 2' of the birthday to rock (pun intended, yes I know I am a dork), he encouraged me to pick out several pairs of adorable earrings. It was shaping up to be a great day...until we got back to the hotel and discovered I'd lost my phone.

My phone is my most important work tool and holds every detail of my life. It would be like the panic of having left your wedding ring somewhere, not as horrible as if you had left your child somewhere, but definitely worth a deep belly sick feeling. I know some of you are holding back the urge to get on a soapbox about how reliant we are on our phones, I know, I hear ya, but save it, my phone is practically a part of my body at this point...if only it truly was then I wouldn't have left it...at the top of the big black rock.

Turns out the phone had fallen out of my bag, been found and turned in to someone that worked there who gave it to a taxi driver who waited until we called the phone (thank God I had it off airplane mode and accepting calls for an important work thing that day). One thing about the people of Columbia we found over and over again was that they wanted to take really good care of us. I wish I felt more of that in the United States. Once reunited with my beloved phone and I'd recovered from my panic attack, I needed a glass of wine. Now it really felt like a day to celebrate!

We finished our day with one of the most incredible meals of our trip, looking out over the delightful town, as we toasted to the next adventure, the much anticipated jungle portion of the trip.

*this post is sponsored by the questions: "now that I'm 40 will I start loosing things more often?" and "how much wine does one buy when headed into the jungle where none is available?"

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly 40's

It took me forever to write this post because I was stuck, unable to move onto the major adventure portion of our trip (oh yes, there are some crazy stories ahead)...because I was stuck on the experience of my 40th birthday. Most people say the 40s are great and considering I was in a shit storm (excuse my language) last year with my health, you'd think I'd agree, BUT I am a big baby and having a temper  tantrum. Why you ask? You were in Colombia on vacation after all right? Yes, I physically was in a wonderful place, mentally  however, I was a hot mess.

The big day arrived... my 40th birthday, our last day in the Garden of Eden, and my child got horribly sick. It was the icing on the cake. Now, like all mothers, I took it in stride; there is nothing like seeing your child sick to kick mama mode into gear. So I ignored the birthday plans we'd made and settled in to spend the day in our apartment. We tried our best to make it fun, my husband Jesse seriously rose to the occasion to make the most of the day, running out to get coffee and food and lots of wine, perhaps aware of what boiled under the surface. Yet the overarching symbolism of my loathsome 40th being filled with puke was not lost on me and by the end of the day I was in tears. The end of the year had challenged me emotionally in ways I can't share in this forum (yes, there ARE some things I don't post publicly) that also added to my midlife crisis. It was as if the culmination of the last 2 years, all the emotions stuffed down, couldn't be held any longer and I wept on Jesse's shoulder.

I can sense your eyes rolling at this point. I know, I know, grow up and get a grip. I actually am, but I had to find a way to describe the birthday because that in part, sets up our next leg of the trip as we leave Jardin and dive deep into the jungle.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

Sweet Sensations

The 1st time we went paragliding was epic, but it was so adrenaline filled and insanely unique of an experience that it immediately slipped through the fingers of our memory. The sensation, the images, it all faded into a blur and made myself, my husband and my 11 year old son demand another go.

It was my husband Jesse's birthday and while being in Jardin, Colombia was clearly gift enough, we took the opportunity to sail the skies again. Having done it once before, in the neighboring town, we felt like pros as we climbed into the back of the open jeep; gratitude swept over us that it was not the crap van the other company used to try to kill us in. But then we hit the trail and decided that the way anyone gets from point A to point B on the small little roads of the area was to see how close to death they could get. Jess has an CJ jeep at home so we are no strangers to off-roading, but this was something different, even Jesse was nervous. The jeep rocked hard side to side tilting perilously onto the left tires, then the right as we griped anything we could to stay inside. Soon, as we launched off another boulder, we started to laugh at the absurdity of being in the most terrifying of vehicle journeys yet again. Maybe the guide books were right to warn us about driving in Colombia.

We were less nervous going into this round of jumping off a cliff than the first time we decided to, but the full body tingling had been surging before we even got into the jeep. By the time we got to the top of the hill, our hands were shaking, our hearts were racing and we were once again wondering why we were being such crazy asses.

The hilltop we were to fly off this time was not the hellish steep cliff-side from the 1st time, but was a gentle slope, a welcome sight! The wind was perfect and they teamed each of us up with a pilot immediately. This too was a wonderful surprise as this meant we would, all three, be in the air at the same time. Quickly we were clipped in and before we could silently throw-up in our mouths, we were launched high above the Emerald City below; a gentle, warm breeze blowing against our faces.

Sweeping to the right over luscious fruit farms, we began swirling up up up into the clouds, a chill raised goosebumps on my arms and I swung my legs, relishing the sensation of the wind against them. We sailed over dense green hills and through wild jungle filled valleys, past diamond dazzling waterfalls and spun down toward the caramel colored stone town. We floated over the tight lines of coffee farms and blue bagged banana trees, we passed cows on hillsides close enough to almost pet and danced between immense flowering trees. Intermediate butterflies fluttered in my stomach as the currents of air would change, making us wobble and reminding me that I was dangling thousands of feet off the ground. But the sheer outrageousness of being flown through the sky, unencumbered, was addictive. I watched as the golden sunlight moved across the layered mountains and glinted off the tile roofs of the buildings below; an impossible view to behold and yet I was seeing it. The beauty of the world, this country, lodged a lump into my throat and as tears rolled down my cheeks, my chin began to tremble and I took a moment to absorb this amazing experience with every particle of myself. As if trying to record it deep down in my core.

It was a glorious day for paragliding which meant we were able to stay in the sky for an unprecedented full hour. There was only a week left to our stay in Jardin and as we soared with birds and under rainbows, I said a goodbye to this place of perfection. To have had the chance to not only visit this town, but to truly live here among its kind, caring people, felt like a punch to the heart as the ache of leaving set in. Our time in Colombia was anything but expected and more than I could have ever wished for. We set off on this adventure unsure what we would find; what we found was utter happiness.

We slid to the soft grass at the end of our flight exhilarated, a feeling of celebration bubbling from the three of us. We delighted in sharing stories of our individual experiences and laughed as we sipped wine at our favorite cafe. Jess' deep voice full of excitement rippled against my son's infectious smile, wide and bright over his lime/ coconut drink and echoed the pure bliss I felt. Like the Dorothy Parker reading night on the sailboat at the beginning of our adventure, this would be another magical moment I would never forget.

*this post is brought to you by sappy sentiment which I recommend pairing with our San Francisco International Wine Competition winners Aglianico (bronze medal red wine) or Abbott White (Silver medal white wine blend)

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com

The Splendor of Love

Living in Jardin, Colombia was like a dream, hazy and easy. Time slipped away silky smooth like the sand in an hourglass. Hours slid into days which slid into weeks. We slept in, meandered to our favorite cafe where we would drink coffee for hours and got to know each other in a way forgotten by most families. The bright sun would heighten the dazzling scent of the blooming roses that packed the center square as children giggled in the distance. A light warm rain, would come every afternoon sending us, along with the locals, back home.  The rain was fuzzy, not the hard cold drops we know of at home, and it cradled you as you moved about in it. The afternoon would be spent with each of us reading a great book as my husband and son curled up next to next to me. As the evening turned the light a rich gold and the droplets of rain made the emerald green of the mountains become even more vivid, we would head to our favorite cafe once more. Our second daily stop at the cafe would be for wine and people watching as the local vendors set up shop and many gathered for an afterwork libation. On weekends the plaza was gently packed with tourists from Medellin, a Colombian city 4 hours away. During the weekdays, the town was as romantically sleepy as a Gabriel Garcia Marquez story. Surprise events would spring up dazzling us with charm and awe and soon we were recognized by the town as permanent fixtures. Our favorite bistros and waiters greeted us even more friendly than before and knew our order as we walked through the door. The love affair we had with this town was deep and passionate and seeped through our veins like morphine.

Over the time we were in Jardin, we talked about things we may want to do; paragliding again, but over the town itself this time, possible waterfall repelling, the little colonial museum, the tiny box they called a tram that crossed the river, the Los Rochas bird sanctuary and a host of bistros we had to eat at. The problem was, as we oozed into life in this jewel of a town, like a fine wine that slips down your throat, enticing your taste buds, tingling your every sense and wooing you moment by moment, we found it increasingly difficult to motivate.

It took several days of talking about the "tram" to finally will ourselves the few blocks to the odd crate that dangled parlously over the immense gorge and river below.  When we finally did, it was like everything in Colombia, a thrill and unexpectedly delightful. The tiny box swayed as it crossed threatening to drop us to our death, yet offered stunning views of the banana farms. When we finally made our way the couple blocks in the opposite direction of the tram to the bird sanctuary, we were embraced by a lush, dense jungle filled with strange birds; benches built into the trees giving you an unbelievable ability to be in their world. When we finally made it to the boutique that was a scant few steps from our favorite cafe, we found the ultimate in Colombian fashion and showered ourselves in items sure to never be found elsewhere. Each visit clearly well worth the effort to seek these things out.

However, it wasn't until my husband Jess' birthday, toward the end of our trip, that we were able to get to the most exciting of all experiences, our second paragliding adventure. Our love affair with Jardin had been like one of teenagers lusting after each other, but once we saw the town from above, caressed her steep hills and coffee farms in this way, did we truly fall madly in love.

-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com