My name's Bianca, and I'm a 21-year-old future vintner. Yes, as bizarre as most of my friends and family back home thought it was, I had always wanted to make wine. A few years back, I had packed up, left home (the midwest), and moved out to California, where I was now studying. My studies were twofold. I was enrolled in a viticulture program at the university, earning some credentials, and also had a job at a small winery, earning some experience.
My job at the winery included anything and everything that the owners needed - which sometimes meant actually working with with the grapes, but other times, like today, just keeping the tasting room and shop going. These were my least favorite days. The endless stream of young couples from the city, who knew nothing about wine, except that it was supposed to be romantic to take your date out wine-tasting. The occasional wine snob who would treat me like I knew nothing and talk my ear off about the biz. The tourists who stopped just to use the restroom or ask for directions.
But I'd always sigh, suck it up, and put on my helpful customer service face, knowing that this was all good experience that would serve me in the future, when I someday owned my own winery! So anyway, today was one of those days. 78 and sunny, a peaceful breeze, and a steady stream of customers. By about four in the afternoon, with a couple of hours to go before I could close, I was getting hot and weary of the rush of ignorant people. And I had only sold two bottles of wine, in spite of the innumerable bottles I'd opened for tasting.
And then he came in. I recognized him immediately, even though he had aged a bit from his press picture that I was so familiar with. See, he was a bit of a celebrity in the world of wine, a writer who had made a name for himself as a knowledgeable connoisseur who was interested in making good wine more accessible to the masses. He had recently written a best-selling book which aimed to explain the world of wine - from the difference between red and white to the finer points of tasting and food-matching - to the average man on the street.
And because I was such a wine geek, I had read the book cover to cover, and was so impressed that I also had been following his blog online and his occasional features in newspapers or magazines. As I read his work, I always found myself thinking that he was the kind of man I wanted to be with, in spite of the fact that he was at least 20 years older than I was. He was educated, cultured, sophisticated - but also down-to-earth, not afraid to go all-out when it really counts. Most men I found, it seemed, offered one but not the other.
Still in my world of daydreams as he approached me, I'm sure I blushed as he introduced himself.
"Hello there, my name is Jeff..."
"Yes, sir, I know who you are! I'm familiar with all your work. What an honor to have you here in the shop!" I knew I was babbling like an idiot, but couldn't seem to stop myself. "My name is Bianca. See, my parents met during a production of 'Othello' and couldn't help but give me a Shakespearean name. But, I'm sorry, you probably don't care about that, what brings you to California?"
Smiling, obviously charmed rather than irritated by my babbling, he replied, "Bianca? Well, it could have been worse. They could have named you Desdemona, and that really would have been a curse, don't you think?"
I couldn't help but giggle, and then blushed again as I caught myself checking him out as he talked to me.
"But anyway, what brings me to California is that I'm putting together another book. After the success of my first, which you're obviously familiar with, I thought I'd attack another project, this time about white wines in California."
