Russian River

December 18, 2009

 The story of travel is the story of expectation. It is the move from the extraordinary to the ordinary. Extraordinary – wanting the exception, the hype, the anticipation to be realized. Ordinary – most trips proceed in similar ways. Packing. Getting there. Delays. Arrivals. Stays.

Our trip to Northern California is no different. A delayed arrival. A frustrating, GPS-driven delay through almost all of San Francisco on the way to Santa Rosa. A longer than expected drive in the rain. An emotional meltdown. When we arrived at Wallywood, thankfully, it was open. I would have hated to break in and be arrested on the first day of a vacation.

Choice. What to choose when faced with everything? When I was younger, I had a reoccurring dream. I am in a comic book store. There are too many comic books. Comic books I’ve heard of, and now finally find. Comic books I’ve never heard of. Which to choose? Which to buy? I’m too excited to do anything. I panic. The dream is going to end. Hurry! Buy the comic books!

Choose among the many. Redemption. Salvation. Perdition. Temptation.  IPA. Porter. OVL Stout. Pliney. Blind Pig. Whatever was on the board. I did not really choose. It was brought to me.

The path to taste arrives via chalk. I had seen these boards before – on other people’s blogs describing other people’s visits. All of our tourist trips eventually become the same. Based on these other photos, I imagined a small, quaint pub with outdoor seating. Sunshine. People in shorts sitting at tables with umbrellas.  Russian River, though, resembles most other pubs. Kitsch on the walls and hanging from the ceiling.  Beer signs. Wooden tables. A long board. Even pitchers of beer! And the chalkboards. They were familiar, yet different. As if chalk can ever be different. You write something. You get chalk on your hands. You make a scratching sound. Voila. Words appear. Redemption. Temptation. Salvation…..

Behind the glass, barrels. The greatest achievement in brewing was taking the commonplace – the beer barrel – and making it unique – the barrel aged.  Didn’t they once sing, “roll out the barrel”? Now, beer sits idly in barrels maturing. Taking on flavors. Being infected on purpose. I have always loved Russian River for the infections. The taste of brett. Sour. Ales that have been aged.

In the rain. My daughter has been to more brewpubs by two years old than I had been to by the time I was in my 20’s. She takes easily to the bewpub. Most brewpubs are family oriented. Highchairs. Coloring paper. Crayons. Each of us plays with our respective toys. I’m still that child in the comic book dream. Hurry up and drink before the dream ends!

And all trips end in purchases. If there is anything that scares me about tourism – whether it is beer tourism or tourism of some other sort – it is the eventual credit card bill. Bottle Barn did not make this part of the trip easier. Will the beers arrive tomorrow? Or did FedEx send an empty box? I’m scared like in that dream. Panic. I have another day of expectation to get through.

Posted in 40, Russian River, beer