Pour Michigan

On Saturday morning, Peter woke up before the sun ... and before me. He was dressed and out the door at 5:30 so he could fish the running salmon and steelhead with a guide named Evan.

The room was completely silent. There were no kids yelling, 'MAMA!' There were no chores to do. It was still dark, so I kept sleeping. For the first time in I don’t know how long.

I finally woke up at 7:30, my stomach still full from Larry Mawby's champagne and the locally sourced food and cocktails at Cook's House the night before. I drank a cup of coffee while referencing MichiganRunnerGirl.com. I figured out where my tennis shoes could take me today, got dressed and started running.

I ran across Traverse City and toward Old Mission Peninsula. About two miles in, I started getting a better sense of the community that makes up this pristine part of America. It wasn't in talking to people, but in reading the signage they had left around town.

The first sign I passed was on the lot of McDonald's. They were hiring. And loudly promoting that they started at $11 an hour.

A mile down the road a novelty shop attempted to lure customers in with a sign that read, ‘Petoskey Rocks and Petrified Poo Peruse Here.’ I laughed, but kept running.

As I started up Old Mission Peninsula, I intercepted a 5K. A woman on the corner signaled for me to run to the right where a sign read ‘10,000 rape kits sit untested each year,' I ran to left though. Those were Michigan Runner Girl's directions after all.

Up and down East Shore Drive houses either sided with Hillary or (still) sided with Trump. Despite their difference, everyone seemed to like a guy named Lon Johnson running for U.S. Congress though.

About six miles in, a bench painted with the words, 'pooped runners and bikers rest here' tempted me, but I ran on. The temperature was dropping, the wind picking up, so without long sleeves I had to keep moving.

There were signs for you to get apples over there, pumpkins right here, and wine just about everywhere. The bare cherry trees quietly told me to come back in the summer for their precious fruit.

As I headed back to the hotel, a readerboard outside of a Lutheran Church in town read ‘this is a sign that God loves you.’ I took it to heart.

When I finally returned to the Hotel Indigo, the sign 'hot' on the shower provided a warm welcome home.

My fisherman came back an hour later and we set off to taste the country side. We biked from winery to winery, up hills and down hills, through orchards and vineyards and in and out of one spectacular vista after another. It was an epic day.

Throughout the rest of the weekend, I saw additional signage that painted a more detailed portrait of coastal Michigan.
Don't frack here.
Unsalted and shark free.
Go Blue.
Go Spartans.
Tasting Room this way.
Come as guests, leave as friends.
Bride and (Drunk) Bridesmaid.
White fish spread and hamachi collar.
White and red.
Old and new.

Like the rest of the United States right now, it's a land politically and economically divided. There is a proud heritage of agriculture, hard work, shoreline, icy waters, and colorful historic towns with beautiful sunsets. And it contrasts but also complements a new generation of chefs, brewers, vintners, artists, fishermen, and settlers who are making the coast a hip destination. Every destination boasts a northern hospitality that is as strong as its counterpart down south. Outside is the place to be, even when the wind whips off the lake. And with a little luck and a really good eye, you can find your own Petoskey stone on the shore, without going to the store that sells petrified poo as well.

It took me a while to find mine. But when I did, I knew it wasn't a fake. And getting to spend a weekend with him, just us, in celebration of our five year anniversary, making new discoveries in such a majestic part of our country, was exactly what we needed. 

Lo. 

Meritages

When I bellied up to the tasting bar of Seghessio Vineyards in Sonoma, California, I felt like I was expected to discern certain taste points. The informative vineyard guide, Mediterranean in skin tone and hair quality, waited with baited breath as I sipped. I did the swirl and smell - a pre-tasting ritual I had seen countless time in the movies. Mouth slightly ajar, I swished and swallowed.

With eager eyes, luminous really, she asked me, 'so what do you think?'
'Delicious.'
She was polite, patient. 'Great. Great. I like it too. Here's what I taste.'
She went through the tannins and just where they should hit. She described the mouth feel, legs, and rich color. She told me about the complexity of Fuji apple, honeysuckle, melon, Meyer lemon and minerals coming together in a glass. She broke down rich combinations of coffee, plum and Bing cherry, with subtle notes of smoke. She told the seductive stories of earth, vine, grapes, age, and people. Virginia Madsen would have been proud; Paul Giamatti would have made out with her. She described the perfection in ratios - 80% Chardonnay, 20% Pinot Gris. 75% Cab Franc, 25% Merlot. 65% Zinfandel, 25% Pinot, 10% Cabernet. 100% amazing. 

I took another sip and made one more verbal contribution. 'Very' was added to 'delicious.'    

As much as I love the precise vocabulary dedicated to the art of wine consumption and as much as I respect the careful marriage of varietals and history to create an idyllic wine, when I find a glass that I really like, that's all that matters. It tastes amazing; I'm drinking it; and it's part of a moment that I will remember forever.


The same can be said for other things that have made bold statements in my life. Say the blend I found when I walked through the doors of the Mendoza College of Business for the first time in August of 2007. High-waisted black pants, green tank tucked in, black stilettos, Furla tote. I took one look around and quickly assessed a ratio that was too good to be true; 75% single men, 15% single women, 10% married; a balance that was better than any meritage I tasted this past weekend. I didn't waste any more time thinking about it - I was in a place and position that felt right. Delicious, really.

I often get asked if getting an MBA was a good investment. While I could probably pull facts and figures that would demonstrate an outstanding ROI: list companies and jobs, preach values-based business models, weigh salaries, impact, published articles, products developed, products launched, stocks traded, bonds sold, and problems solved: the one thing that made my MBA experience so valuable was the dating meritage that put the odds in any single girl's favor. 

So when my questioner is a woman, the answer is always an overwhelming, 'yes,' with the hint that she might just end up with a duel degree: an MBA and an MRS. And I bet at least eight other women I went to school with would say the same thing. Including my friend Carrie who radiantly walked down the aisle this past weekend to say 'I do' and create her own perfect B-school blend.


After a wonderful weekend, a wonderful wedding, and a whole lot of wine, I can safely say that some of the best blending I've ever tasted is in Sonoma. And we will definitely return. But for now, onward toward finding a more realistic meritage; that of work, family, and of course, wine.

Lo.