MY FATHER IS WAYNE GROVER

            Sorry for the lack of posts and whatnots and usual witticisms but the only thing slower around here than me is the vineyard. Finally all of the intense things have been taken care of just as the weather has slipped into perfection. Ah, how I will miss standing out in the driving cold rain and being slapped mercilessly by the twig vipers. I am down to my final two weeks here and am still contemplating whether or not to come back for the vendange (harvest) in the fall before/after I go to Ireland with my sister. My usual phrase of “time will only tell” is what I’ll have to fall back on in regards to my future. I have one last salon des vins in Chartres and then that is that, smack my hands finished.

            I had hoped to stay in Europe for the whole year and in my research never came across an item called the Schengan Visa. That was until my buddy, Taylor, was told about it as he entered his new Nordic landscape. Apparently if I stay longer in any of these countries that have no “borders” for more than ninety days out of one hundred and eighty I can be fined, arrested, and summarily slapped by a man in a funny cap and then banned for five years. Luckily England is not part of all of that so I will scurry on back there just before the deadline. But the killer was I was just starting to line up house sits, where I care for someone’s home as they play far away and I toss a ball for their dog without the worry for me of rent or for them boarding fees. Since I will have to leave the countries with this agreement it pretty much kills me being in Europe for the rest of the year…or does it.

            So I woke up early on Saturday before last after a hard night of all things the night can bring and I decided, Budapest. So I pulled up Buda on the web and lo and behold they are not part of the agreement. So without thought I put an ad on Craigslist for a room/share/apartment/abandoned car and within a day I had several responders ultimately deciding to go with a grad student right in centre ville. So, once again, time will only tell in regards to my future.

            Enough of the future, let's talk about the past. On the very last day of intense “we have to get this all done” type of work I finally figured out the last mystery for me at the vineyard. What in the hell does Benoit’s cousin mean when he says, in English, but in heavily accented Alsacien, “my father is Wayne Grover.” I always thought maybe it was from a TV show or personality or maybe an inside joke. Finally though I put it all together and it wasn’t Wayne Grover at all, it was Wine Grower. He was saying his father was a wine grower. Yes, yes he is, but I knew that from day one. Thank you for confusing me.