Napa and Sonoma Aren’t the Only Places to Meet Singles Wine Tasting
Over the long weekend a buddy and I spent a day wine tasting in the Santa Cruz mountains. Which is to say, rather than tasting we socialized and drank. As it should be for a single dad like me. (My buddy is married, which could spell wingman trouble, but he’s a good and respectful companion, not someone who lies to women.)
No matter the region - Napa, Sonoma, Monterey, Paso Robles, Santa Barbara, Santa Ynez, Santa Cruz – wineries are great places for singles to meet. Simply step up to the tasting bar next to a pair of attractive women. In ten minutes, you can rub shoulders, engage in conversation, amuse with wit. And you don’t have to know a thing about wine. If the tasting ends with no connection, everyone goes their merry way. But if there’s a spark or you simply get along, you can suggest meeting up at another winery. All these things happened this past weekend, so it was a typical good day.
And then I fell hard for one of the pourers.
We entered a less-trafficked winery and she immediately turned my head. Thirty-something, cute, athletic, nice smile, a little shy. Like an older, down-to-earth, Lost in Translation Scarlett Johansson. Now then, when it comes to bars and clubs, I have practically no game. I’m terrible at approaching women, making small talk, flirting and raising the heat. But in a tasting environment or a bar in a nice restaurant where the banter is witty and low key, I definitely hold my own. And so it was with all the confidence in the world that I stepped up to the bar right in front of this pourer.
For story-telling purposes, I’ll leave out the wine pouring small talk and cut straight to the chase.
There were horses near the winery and one galloped into view. The pourer was wearing Wranglers, an aggie-style jean. I asked if she rode.
“No,” she said.
Okay, no problem, I’d try a different approach. Country music played softly on the radio, and I’m more of an alt-rock fan. Everyone has their preference. I asked the pourer what music she liked.
“Country,” she said. It figured. “And alt-rock.”
Ding-ding-ding!
I immediately told a funny story involving San Francisco’s infamous alt-rock radio station, the One and Only Live105.
“Live105,” she said. “Is that classic rock?”
Um, no.
So much for that tack. I looked for another approach. She was in great shape, lean and strong, so I figured sports and activity might be my in. I asked if she was a gymnast.
She brightened. “I used to be! Now I run marathons.”
Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!
This time I had her, for sure. I’d run seven marathons in my day, before sore knees encouraged me to take up cycling. Turns out she’d run two, including Boston. That meant she’s fast, since you actually have to quality for Boston. She’d run the 26.2 miles in 3 hours and 12 minutes.
“Have you run Boston?” she asked.
“No,” I said. My marathon best was 3:29, and I needed a 3:15 to qualify. “Missed it by fourteen minutes.”
She raised her eyebrows, as if surprised I was slower than her. Whatever. Everyone’s different, and no two races are the same. That she was faster didn’t make me feel unmanly. But the conversation sputtered. She wasn’t giving me an inch, let alone opening up, and I resigned myself to having struck out.
As my buddy and I finished our last taste of wine, we chatted about the Tour de France. Cycling is one of my favorite sports. Turns out the pourer was just getting into cycling for triathlons. Wish I’d known that right off the bat. Oh well, We drained our glasses and left.
Outside, my buddy berated me for not getting her phone number.
“She deflected everything I tossed at her,” I said.
“You could have invited her cycling.”
Good point. But my flirtatious energy had been sapped, and I needed to gear up for another winery. After all, there were sure to be more singles at the next wine tasting bar.
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