Raise your hands

Ok, everybody.  Let me see those hands go up if you hate putting a finish on a piece of furniture you're this close to being done.
Counting....
Counting....
Counting....

I'm coming up with 7.6 billion of you, in fact, the entire population of the world.

I decided to take the top back down to bare wood and have another go at it, damnit.
Again.

 Wet rubbing out the surface.  I thought I was so so so close to putting this one on the truck.

But wait!  It fucks up.....again.

Using the cabinet scraper to scrape off the finish so I can go through the whole sequence.
Again.

Well, at least tomorrow, I'm up in wine country working.
Again
And that always takes the edge off of those too sharp corners in life.

Welcome to This World Famous Video Production

Since you're clamoring for more pics.....

The title refers to the turgid use of language in the Welcome to Napa sign that visitors see as they drive up and down Hiway 29 coming into the valley.

Anyway, I tagged along with Henry and Steve yesterday on their initial inroads into this wonderful world of the wine industry.

Five locations. 
The statue that sits at the southern intersection of Napa (the town.)  I've driven by this at least one million times, this was the first time up close for me.

Then on to the aforementioned sign. 

The client obliges some tourists by taking their photo.

I talk to a couple from I don't know where that mentions the websites that caution them from stopping along the roads to take pictures of the valley.  I told them to ignore the internet and do what they want.  He seemed still trepidatious despite my 35 years of OG-ness of stopping along the roads to photograph the valley.

Minor celebrity Steve A.  If I told you what the A stands for then you'd know who he's the son of.

Working and goofing at the same time.

Location three.  A random barrel room in the valley. 

Setting up for some wine pours in a barrel room shot.

Then onto a deck of a random winery overlooking the valley for some of those type of shots.

Staff showing her prowess of wine glass stacking.

Sunset in the mustard fields.  It is a beautiful time in the valley when the mustard is in full on bloom.

And Henry striking the Pose before we all head inside for dinner and drinks before the drive back to my place for more dinner and drinks.

Bar 1

Not going to tell you the name of this bar either.  I will tell you it's in the highest town in Portugal.  Guarda.  Guarda is also known as being it's coldest town.

I'm not telling you the name  because I don't think it has a name.  At least I couldn't see one.  BAR is all it says on the outside in vertical letters.

It's on Rua Rui de Pina.

We're walking the old town on a real cold afternoon looking for a bar I found on IMaps.  Never did find it but as we give up, BAR comes into notice.
I peek through the door window and say "Let's go in."

I knew this was going to be fun.

We walk in, me first.  I scan the place.  Man standing on a chair painting the ceiling white.  Small fireplace on the right, two men are sitting by it.  That's it.  Brightly lit so you can see all of the well earned dirt and grime.
The oldest of them, the one sitting the closest to the fire, what looks like to be the chair of honor, stands up and looks me in the eye.

Glances to the door where Annie is standing.
Eyes flick back to me, then to Annie, then back to me.

I'm thinking....is this a men only bar? because he's so silent.

"Aberto?"  I say.

He says yes, I ask for a cerveja, Annie a vinho tinto.

He walks behind the bar that comes up to this chest and pour two beer glasses right to the very tippy top with wine.
That's alright, I really didn't want a beer anyway.

That's it, we're on!

We start to try to communicate, try Spanish, French, Italian.   Nothing, but you know of course that doesn't stop humans from eventually being able to convey thoughts and meanings.

I know I'm painting with a super big brush here and no harm meant at all but it seems like it doesn't matter to the Portuguese if it's obvious you don't understand their language.  They just keep talking as if you understand every single word they say.  Even when you say, "I have no idea what you're saying."  They keep talking.  Love it actually, shows a passion for living I think.

The barkeep is no exception.  One of his first questions is how old we are.  He say's he's 83 and reaches into his shirt pocket and wrestles with some large object trying to get it out.  He does.
It's a big stack of cards and papers held together with a rubber band.  I mean it was large.

Top of the pile was an official ID.   There was a picture of him maybe forty years ago on it.  His name.
José.

I say "José! like I've been pronouncing since high school Spanish.  He corrects me in Portuguese and I tried to follow.  Back and forth we went for quite some time.  He correcting me over and over.

Satisfied he stops.....for a few minutes.  He picks up the back and forth some more.  This goes on a couple more times.
He has children, we tell of ours.

He becomes silent as he reorganizes his stack of cards and papers.  He gets a flashlight and shines it at his ID and studies it real close.  Pulls out a piece of paper and writes something down then announces he's 84, not 83.
By then we're done with the wine and spy some GinJa on the top shelf.   I asked him for a couple glasses of it.  He turns and looks at the bottle and turns back and says No.

Corrects the pronunciation of it.  I guess we've been totally not pronouncing it correctly for years.


There's another bottle of GinJa on a lower shelf.
He says Yes.


Drink that and there's two more bottles of unknown liquor next to the Gin Ja.
We get a couple shots of each.  Still don't know what they were.  The drier one that I was drinking was funkier than all get out.  Funky.  I'm sure it could be used to power an engine in an emergency.

José and his bottles. And the piece of paper he was doing his age figuring.

Oh...the smell.  The paint the man on the chair is using is an oil based enamel.  The fireplace was no gem at drafting so there was quite a bit of wood smoke in there too.  Heady I tell you.  Oil enamel and smoke.
Anyway, we've been tortuously communicating with José with finger points, hand gestures, mimicking, acting when the guy with paint brush he says he speaks Spanish.  Man did that make me laugh.

A woman walks in, she's 51, by the way, and walks right up to us and starts talking like she's been there the whole time.  That was beautiful.  Annie and her are talking at a good clip now so I sit down by the fire.
They exchange facebook info.

A much older lady comes in and she starts talking too like we've known each other forever.  She sits down close to me by the fire.  I get up and offer her the chair of honor.  She refuses.
I point to the very large safety pin holding her sweater together and smile.  She laughs and points out the holes in her elbows.  Lives across the street.
You know, it's at a point, an hour or so in the bar that it feels like I just gained a new family.  Everyone laughing and talking, touching and holding you to make a point.

My older lady friend picks up two magazines and goes page by page telling about each page...I don't understand a word but she keeps it up like I do.  Page by page, two magazines.  She even cross reference things for me.
At one point I start to sing the David Crosby song, "If you smile at me, I will understand.  Because that is the one thing everybody does in the same language."

BAR.  Damn, it made me feel connected to the core of humanity in there.  It doesn't matter if we don't have common spoken languages between.  That's of zero consequence.  A smile, a nod, a touch and you will understand.

Leave eventually to go get something to eat and I give thanks to Srab, The Goddess of Bars.

Bar 2

No pictures to see here.  None because there are signs that say no pictures.
One of four bar rules

A few months ago I write an email to an author of a book about Sherry.  I had gone to a Sherry tasting and to her talk about the book a year before. I buy her book of course.  She lives in NY now but grew up here so her parents were at the book event.  I spent quite a bit time talking with them.  She now is the publisher of a magazine about alcohol.

So the email was something like.  "Heading to Spain for a month, done the Sherry triangle already so will be heading to other parts of the country.  You know a good bar I should hit?"

Her reply was something like.  "The answer is yes.  It's one of my favorite bars in the world, hands down.  It's all about the vibe there."

Apparently it was Hemingway's favorite bar as well.

Did the month in Spain and decided the very last thing I do, before getting on the plane to come home, is this place.
Kept my expectations on zero.  Walked in as MU as I could.

Walk in and you're in another world.  The aroma, oh my god, the aroma.  The aroma that comes from 70 years of Sherry in barrels that line a portion of the backbar.  Barrels black as a crow.  The aroma that only comes from Sherry.  If you know Sherry then you know the aroma I'm talking about.  If you think Sherry is that cream sweet stuff then no, you won't know what I'm talking about.  Sherry is the driest wine in the world.
Dusty dry, it lays on your mouth and sticks to the hairs in the nose.

Hundreds and hundreds of Sherry bottles on the shelf.  The bottles are covered in dust.  Really thick dust like these things hadn't been handled in decades.  The floor, the walls, the chairs all look like came with the opening of the bar.  It just feels like nothing is different for the past 70 years.
Really like stepping into an almost real-er form of reality if that makes any sense.

Or maybe an older reality.

Older because that's what Sherry is...it's old.  For the uninitiated, Sherry is matured in a solera system. Picture a pyramid of barrels.  New stuff is put in the top barrel, and at a point is transferred to the older row below which has a portion of each of those barrels transferred to the even older row below.  And so on. The bottom row, the oldest, has a portion finally put into bottles.  The oldest barrels can have minute portions of when that particular solera started.
A bacteria bloom is allowed to form in the barrels.  That's what gives Sherry that distinctive taste.
It's a flamenco of dry dusty earth and yeasty grassy hay foam.  And sea salty in the manzanillas that come from near the coast.

From what I could tell they serve 5 Sherries that come from bottles that are filled from the barrels.
Two finos, palo cortado, amontillado and oloroso.
That's it.
My Spanish is nearly non existent so there was no way I could ask if the finos were "en rama" (not filtered)
From what I could see, regulars that come in are handed a bottle of their favorite and they go to sit in probably what is their regular table.

The barkeeps aren't there to listen to how you can't stand your boss or to fix your relationship problems.  They're not there to talk sports or politics or to put the move on the ladies.  No, they're there to pour your drink and hand it over to you.
They keep the tabs on what you ordered by writing on the bar with chalkboard chalk.  At the end of the night, they add up La Cuenta right there in front of you.  You can see the math right there in white chalk on black bar top.

You can't tip the barkeeps.  That's another rule

Don't spit on the floor. Rule three.  And the last is you need to hold the Sherry glass a certain way or you'll identify yourself as a spy for the fascists.
The rules came to be during the Spanish Civil war.  The bar was a haunt for the Republicans.  No photos because they could be used to identify sympathizers in the bar.  No tipping because we are all workers of the world, and no spitting cuz it's not hygienic.

Not going to tell you the name of the bar.  Because Porto is fucked. Porto is also a wonderful beautiful city beyond words as well.  Last time we went to Porto, it was ours.  Early March 7-8 years ago, we walked down the street in front of the Port houses and caves across the river and were alone.  This trip in early Feb, it was overrun.  Last time the tourist boats that people take as an amusement ride up and down the river were covered for the season. Not one running.  This time the river was crowded with them.  Porto is fucked from the word getting out.  I know everything changes, doesn't mean that it doesn't make me run away from it when I see it.
You should go to see Porto.  Really.  A UNESCO world heritage city.  Go. See it.

The bar is not in Porto by the way.  It's not in Portugal at all.  Spain.

It's what you say when you see something written about something behind the mainstream matrix in the NYTimes Sunday newspaper.  "Oh shit.  Call something paradise, kiss it goodbye."
So, it's not that hard for you to find the name of bar 2 on the internet, but it won't come from me.
Why am I writing about a bar without telling you the name.  Because you should go and find this bar.
Just don't tell anyone else.

We walk 30 meters down the street into a shop and buy a Sherry with an average age of 50 years in the barrel.