“Actually, I’ve never been to Solvang,” he admitted. “But friends of mine have used the fact that it’s not a scene as an excuse for not going.”
By “friends of mine,” I’m sure he meant former girlfriends. Most of the time, I wondered what James saw in me. But when he told me stories like that, I kind of got it.
. . .
I’m not unaware that being poor has had its perks for me. The elimination of material desire has been a higher calling for thousands of years, and the fact that I was nearer to it than a lot of other people did give me a certain sense of superiority.
For the most part, I had everything I needed. Sure, I wouldn’t mind a more dependable car, one that didn’t break down every four months. But other than that, I was usually fine with being poor, because I had a makeshift family, a fun job, a good education, and a rent-controlled apartment. Really, how could a person who grew up like me ask for anything more?
I found out the answer to that question when we went to Solvang. James hadn’t been forthcoming when he said everything on our trip would be free. What he meant was that everything on our trip would be comped, which is the rich version of free, and unlike anything I had ever experienced.
First of all, our room was so big it looked like something out of a movie. And it came with a view of the wine valleys, which I joined James on the balcony to appreciate. “If this isn’t good enough for L.A. folks, I can’t imagine Napa.”
James shrugged. “It’s like this but with more young people . . . and nicer hotels.”
Wow.
. . .
I don’t remember Sideways that well, but I didn’t have to because every restaurant, wine bar, tasting room, and pastry shop that had been featured even as an exterior in that film announced the fact in brightly colored chalk on blackboard signs at their entrances.
The town seemed to assume that everything everyone knew about wine was from the movie Sideways—which in my case was true, so that made me feel a little better about not really knowing anything about vino beyond Two-Buck Chuck.
After we walked around for a while, Paul drove us out to the Firestone Winery’s tasting room, a large stone and dark wood affair with framed photos of past Republican presidents and Norwegian royalty on the walls. It was all so elegant, but “Do you think the owners feel weird that there’s also a tire called Firestone? I mean that’s what I think of when I hear that name.”
James took me by the elbow and led me to a quiet corner where he proceeded to give me a five-minute rundown on one of the richest families in the United States.
Then I had to pretend like I had already known who the Firestones were when a dark-haired female Firestone cousin of a guy that James had roomed with at Princeton came out to say hello and give James a case of their renowned Riesling, on the house.
“Don’t feel bad,” he said after she left and we were carrying the case back to the Mercedes.
“I’m trying not to,” I said. “But I don’t exactly feel like I fit in here.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. The Firestone family actually just sold the brand to a bigger wine company, so technically it’s not really theirs anymore.”
“They sold it? Like you guys sold Farrell Fine Hair.”
James adjusted the case of wine in his arms. “Not exactly. They still have their brewery and Curtis, one of their brands.”
“You sound kind of wistful about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, maybe you wish you guys had kept something for yourselves when you sold Farrell.”
James snorted. “Like what? The Jheri curl division?”
But I didn’t laugh. “You know, I noticed that there are a lot of men like you in L.A.”
“Men like me?”
“You know, guys who spend a lot of time keeping themselves up. The hair, the skin, the nails, all that.”
“You’re talking about metrosexuals.” James’s voice held a hint of amusement, like he was bracing himself for an insult.