I was out of town for the weekend when I received the heartbreaking news. My friend and colleague, Sarah, had been involuntarily relieved of her beloved bicycle. It was a true rarity; a beautiful purple Nishiki, probably 40-years-old but seemingly ageless. Little by little, Sarah customized it to her own specifications, in the process managing to improve a bicycle that was immaculate from the outset… And then somebody stole it.
Summer sleep is a rare phenomenon. And even when its reticence abates, its utility is questionable. How unfairly weighted the seasons are when the same one offers us the most tantalizing mornings, the most sublime evenings, the sultriest afternoons and the most gravid nights. The audacity of the cliché, I'll sleep when I'm dead, could be agreeably rationalized by the proposal, I'll sleep in the winter, one taking full advantage of summer’s potential in the meantime.
Impeded from enjoying an evening outdoors by merciless June rain, my wife and I found ourselves halfway down the Youtube rabbit hole. We were taking turns selecting video clips, mostly obnoxious punk rock footage, and somehow or other, I Hate You by the Monks popped up. Decent enough song (Big Lebowski fans will recognize it), but I was ecstatic to be reminded of the brilliant title. “Wow... I Hate You,” I said, “that's obviously the best song name of all time!”
The rocky heights of the village of Saint-Jean de Minervois in France’s Languedoc indeed regularly produces grapes each year, subject to the universal vagaries of Mother Nature. In St. J de M, the celebrity grape (historically) here is the Muscat Blanc à Petits Grains, or just Muscat for short. Gorgeous, floral, exotically-scented sweet wines are synonymous with the village, but in this remote hamlet, more strange and wonderful things are to be found.
