A Glass of Gran Reserva

 

The woman was curled up in the modern style furniture like a teenager, one leg folded underneath her on the chair.  Jet black hair at first obscured the fact that she was older than she first appeared.  Her legs were skinny.  Too skinny.  One platform soled designer athletic shoe pistoned up and down on the carpet with manic energy.  She looked at me from the corner of her eyes, pretending to be absorbed in the paperback book she was manhandling.  The spine of the book strained as she folded back the cover.  The waiter brought me a glass of Marques de Riscal Gran Reserva and artfully presented little dishes of olives and vegetable chips.  I asked if they had grown the olives on the property.  "No sir, but they are local.  Many of the area farmers grow olives in places where they do not grow grapes."  I had just come over from Portugal where the leading port producers had diversified into premium olive oils with luxury packaging and prices to match.  The woman paused until the waiter left and popped her head up.  "They have wonderful olives here.  They don't make the olive oil.  They don't."  

It is important to note that this was the vinotec of the Marques de Riscal luxury hotel.  I had walked onto the property and checked in at the gift shop to see if I could taste the wines.  The woman at the counter had told me that all tours were fully booked.  It would be impossible to have a look around.  I noticed a sign pointing to the hotel, a luxury hotel designed by Frank Gehry, a modernist architect with a flair for the dramatic.  I just wanted to see the building.  I walked out "authorized personnel only" door.  The woman at the counter yelled out at me.  "Sir!"  I waved and said, "It's OK.  I'm staying at the hotel."  

I wasn't.  

"Sir!"  I gave her a wave as the door shut behind me.  I could have been staying there.  There was a room available for $845.  I checked the rate online out of curiosity.  It should also be noted that I was wearing a cowboy shirt with a snake handler design, jeans and a pair of beaten up boots.  In theory I could have been one of those Cali tech bros, and I think that's the reason the woman at the desk decided not to pursue me as I walked onto the grounds.  I mean, if you're working there and you see some upper middle aged guy in a fucking cowboy shirt confidently walking though a security door like he owns the place, do you want to risk upsetting him if he actually is a guest?  Who needs that hassle?  I walked up the hill to see if there was a bar to try the wines.  As you see how things developed, there was, and I was treated quite nicely by the employees who assumed I belonged there.

So, I'm sitting there with my Gran Reserva, biting into an olive, and the woman was looking at me very intensely after giving me the lay of the land on the olive situation.  She had an untouched glass of white Rioja.  Her brows were furrowed by her nose, the crease lines suggesting a lifetime spent in mild disapproval.  I assessed the olives.  "Yes, these are quite nice."  She gave me a little snort.  I asked her, "Are you staying here at the hotel?".  I knew goddamn well she was staying there.  I also knew that just by me suggesting that she wasn't staying there would ruffle her.  She was American.  I didn't know from where exactly, but there was a solid LA vibe. "Yes... I am."  I said, "It seems very nice."  She looked down at the predominantly burnt red carpet as she pursed her lips.  "It's quite... red.  I mean, I understand the reasoning but...  It's quite red."  

She looked at me for a moment and then lowered her eyebrows again into a disapproving look.  It was just the two of us in the lounge.  It was completely silent.  I had specifically chosen one of the seats a comfortable distance from her so as to not freak her out.  There was so much energetic suspicion coming off of her, I didn't want any misunderstanding.  She was in the best seat by the huge windows overlooking the small village.  I took the small table two back as a buffer, but due to the arrangement of the chairs, we inhabited the same basic space.  She went back to manhandling her book pretending to read it.  She was about my age but had that SoCal dress code and dye job going that made her look like she was in her twenties at a passing glance.  Her foot nervously twitched again, clearly concerned I was going to ask her to go up to her room and perform depraved sex acts on her malnourished body.  I had engaged with her initial conversation after all.  I could see her chastising herself for putting down her armor.  Her foot kept bobbing.  I sat looking out at the village, slowly drinking my Rioja, eating olives.