The Art of Solitary Wine-Drinking, or, I Wanna Sit Near the Fun Flask

I had a work thing in a different city this week, and because of the gruesomely early start of the palaver in the morning, we were granted permission to stay the night at a hotel. Now, while perhaps some of you may frown upon my use of the word “gruesome” about a nine-a.m. start, I have to tell you, that yes, in my line it really is sort of gruesome, especially considering we were working the previous night, myself and Roberts, and would have needed to leave in the six-thirty train full of angry early-morning commuters, not to mention the cross-town bus before that, taking up to forty minutes, so my morning would have started at four. I mean oh my lord what an ungodly hour to do anything, let alone start one’s damn day.

So, there we were, staying at a hotel, Roberts and me, my closest work colleague going back ten years. We share a similar disposition of neatness and tidiness, and some fuddy-duddiness, and are both prone to highly sensitive reactions to our surroundings, so pairing with her in the same room is the closest to a picnic in the park I can think of, out of all my work mates. She is also keenly aware of my battle with insomnia for the past three plus years, so I felt safe enough to bring along a 0,375 liter bottle of Syrah, just a glass for each, to perhaps ease the burden of having the busy brains that we both, unfortunately, have, and maybe thus enable us to get a few moments of shut-eye, before the inevitable time comes when I start my early-morning debate in my pretty head over whatever comes to mind at three or four or five o’clock.

We drank our small portions of the red wine in the room, night caps if you will, from some paper cups I had, in a moment of true sherlockian brilliance, snatched from our work place just before leaving for the train, laughed at nothing a little, because what was there not to laugh at, really, taking turns in the shower, watching some late night nonsense on TV, Roberts having forgotten to pack enough clothes so she, with extreme reluctance and noises of disgust, had to put on the same socks she had worn on the train, me reading aloud excerpts from Alain de Botton’s How Proust Can Change Your Life, about the various ailments and tortures Proust had to endure, and it was just so nice to be there, to have a friend there who knew exactly why it is so important to place one’s clothes for the morning in a neat pile and not just toss them on the couch, and we are opposite-handed, to boot, so there were no issues over who got what end of the bathroom sink for beauty products and so forth.

The biggest miracle of all, however, was that the wine really did work, even if I sort of had my doubts, and after taking turns going outside our room and trying to yank the door open by the handle, thus making sure we were not going to be attacked by a faceless intruder in the dead of night, we both, myself included, fell into a deep sleep.

The next late afternoon, as Finland’s thermometer was finally making its slow ascend to a summer-like ballpark, after having been excited enough over the warming weather to run into a clothes store to buy some new swimming trunks, and yes, trunks, because I seem to recall owning a bunch of tops but only one bottom, and because I’m a woman in her very late thirties, the one I had was a size too small, I was back in the train towards home, Roberts beside me, posting pictures on Instagram of our little adventure.

I started thinking about our shared bottle of red, and, minuscule though it may have been, the idea of needing to have that one glass in case it might help to get some sleep. Us Finns have a reputation in the world for being heavy drinkers and having horrible drunken manners, at least I think we do, because we are and we do, and while I categorically deny being one of those drunken, blubbering Finns, I was, on this trip at least, the one with the proverbial as well as an actual fun flask in her backpack.

In what other areas in life did I feel the need to have a glass in hand, I asked myself in the train. After quitting the sleeping pill, I have made a slow but gradual recovery to the world of natural sleepers, and while I most certainly do not have the bottle open all the time at home, I have reached a conclusion, that if I must choose between the teeth-wrecking synthetic crap, or the teeth-coloring natural crap, I choose the wine.

“Medicinal”, is what my paternal grandmother would say about her small flask of cognac in the cupboard, and I have never felt more acutely the truth in that one word as I feel now, in my drug-free existence, post-pill, if you will.

So, here are some things I came up with. My wine-at-hand activities:

Knitting the leg of a wool sock. So boring, there is no way around a glass of deep burgundy red, along with the fireplace burning, Umbrellas’ Illuminare playing softly in the background, autumn rain rapping gently on the window, and hoping to god I already had the other leg ready, because the rib is what I picture having to knit all through eternity in hell, either that, or eternally sorting my man’s sock drawer, because as everyone bloody well knows, my sock drawer is in immaculate order. Interestingly, Roberts would be knitting the rib in her version of heaven, and in hell, she’d be cursing like a sailor negotiating the heel, whereas I feel the heel is more like it, and have never needed a numbing glass of wine to ease myself through that part.

Post-bike-ride feeding frenzy. Wine is a part of a fabulous meal, and whether it be biking, or hiking the hot streets in downtown Paris, there really is no equivalent to having a frizzante glass of sparkling Prosecco after bathing. There is a feeling of luxury and well-being beyond measure in sipping the ice-cold drink, muscles aching pleasantly, the ingredients for a simple pasta all ready on the counter, to be chopped and mixed accordingly.

Whenever I think about my teenage self, sending some godawful poems to a writing competition, I feel an acute need to take a good long swig straight from the bottle. Red, white, who cares.

Gilmore Girls. A little glass of delicious wine goes a long way with the show. I should know, since I started up with having coffee and Oreos with the show, moved on to eating full meals of pasta, or frozen pizza, if I was feeling particularly lazy that day, and now, have added the fun flask to the mix. Since my best friend J. has seen the show a million times, and I don’t really have anyone else to either watch it with, or talk to about it, I have made the wine glass my friend with whom to watch the familiar show, especially after a rough day at work, if I’m home alone and in desperate need of unwinding. I have no idea how devastated Amy Sherman-Palladino would be about this, so let’s be clear: the show did not make me an alcoholic; it merely gave me a little nudge in the right direction. Just kidding.

Reading. The idea of sitting on the terrace swing of my parents’ house in the country, a glass of cold white wine on the table, immersed deep into a book, is a treat that almost has no rivals for me. It is such a profound pleasure to feel the world soften, even if it is just the tiniest bit, around the edges, to have that privilege of standing inside a world only I can know, because we all have our own private experience with any given work of art, and what I love most about books is that it is never the same. It is different to anyone who reads it, and it is different even for the same reader every time she reads it. Even if the words stay the same, the experience is always different.

To be fair, a bunch of stuff came to my mind on when the wine infusion would be the worst thing ever, too. So, to not appear as though I’m endorsing being hammered all the time in life, I shall include the cautionary tales as well.

These are some of my alcohol-no-nos:

Watching Twin Peaks, or anything, really, by David Lynch. The horror, the freak out, the insanity-inducing foreboding. There is something in the way Mr. Lynch deals with things that makes my skin crawl, and whatever I am watching of his, I am scared shitless from the get-go, never mind whether I have seen it before or not. Especially his way of using audio for a frightening effect, and the way he frames his shots, like you just know there is evil there, lurking just off-camera, just at the edge of your vision. Why would I ever want to make it worse for myself?

Writing. I mean, sure, I have written my journal many times while under, but this? Never. I have never felt any inclination whatsoever to test it out, the Beat Generation obviously did not suffer from any form of OCD of control freakism. And good for them, there is no one way, all I’m saying that it isn’t my way, never was, and especially with my starting point as a horror writer, I think it would have been destructive to the point of total alcoholism. Just kidding. Or maybe not.

Reading. Yes, on both lists. Let’s face it, a few drinks and you’ll have no idea what is going on in a Marguerite Duras novel, because every word counts, and if you are too tipsy to read between the lines, you might as well not read the book at all. Even if she was drinking while she was writing it, doesn’t mean you should be drunk to read it.

Sex. Why would people want to be drunk for this? I have no idea. "Passion? I'll show you passion", is what Homer Simpson said, and so do I.

Zero amount of wine was consumed while writing this story. Well, maybe just a glass of Prosecco. What do you want? It’s been a fabulously hot day.