Napa Valley

The carved-in valley.

The rolling meadows.

The golden-dotted hills.

The endless vineyards.

The occasional beauty of a building housing Napa’s finest wines.

The scenic oak trees that make wines taste of them.

The smell of fresh pine and fresh wines as I drive top-down down the winding roads.

The sun beating down on my golden hair and tanning my shoulders.

My black leggings getting hot as the rays want to penetrate through them.

The music fizzing out every time we hit a new turn, only urging us to find a new radio station.

The taste of aged red wine running down my throat.

Port sitting in a big glass, waiting to be drunk.

Endless bottles of Beringer sitting behind the counter.

Corks popping.

Sommeliers pouring glasses to eager barely-legals and newly-weds.

Swirls of glasses before they are raised to lips.

Foie Gras served on expensive toast.

Barbecue ribs on every menu.

Fine mac and cheese with the best cheese for the kids.

Wines and magnum bottles locked away behind thick glass doors.

The breeze coming through the doors at night.

Men getting loud and women laughing hard.

In the county of wine, anything goes.

Waking up in the morning to the morning breeze.

Two days gone and it’s time to leave.

All the relaxation and staying taste of wine has gone.

Top-up drive away from Napa.

Endless freeways and cars honking.

No carved-in valleys.

No rolling meadows.

No golden-dotted hills.

No endless vineyards.

- Beatrice