Tuesday, February 23, 2010

It's a wine-wine

To those who are lost in the labyrinths of the dating game, I’d say, get some sun. Throw in some wine, some music, and watch it all unfold. Or better still, go to the Sulafest (thanks to rationed outdoorsy escapades for the Bombayite) and do it all.

Unlike say, a rock concert, a club night (where you can see/hear nothing), or a brunch (where people are focused on heaping their plates or downing their drinks) , things like the Sulafest are a flea market for singletons. You can drink some, mingle some, flirt some, and move on — space, oxygen and members of the opposite sex are unlimited. You can lie on the grass, say a lot, or say nothing, and it would be okay. When you are drinking wine, it is not treated like you are actually drinking, so no one will hold the too-many-drinks-down against you.

So there I was this weekend with the husband and the infant in tow (no point waiting in treating him to the good life, we figured).

One thing that stood out was hundreds of sweet-somethings wearing little-nothings that, in the city could be voted tarty, but in the hot Nasik sun could pass off as something-I-wore-because-the-heat-is-killing me.

And then I realised, you could get away with anything here, and this is true for men and women. Men can get away with being grunge, dressing down or being OTT, having bad hair days, losing footwear, smoking up behind hedges, living on a liquid diet for 48 hours, grumbling there’s no beer at a wine festival, being nonchalant, aloof or over-familiar.

Women can be coy, mysterious, slutty or smart. And a lot can happen over wine (never mind if stomping doesn’t look as good here as it does in France). For instance:

You’ve had so much Satori that you are being a slut (and I must agree with Paul Giamatti’s views on merlot in Sideways)

You can’t remember if you spoke to guy with cute butt, so you ask his name for the third time, because you are Chenin blanc-ed out!

You are happy as a bird for no particular reason and giggling away like a hyena, or whatever animal that comes close to it, and you blame it all on the Shiraz

Midway through the evening you decide that you no longer have to hang out with the guy you came with, because, you are so red and he is so white.

You begin to you question whether, in your search for coupledom, you may have passed the gentle Pinots for the aggressive Cabernet men.

You think getting a tarot card read would not be a syndrome exclusive to singletons afflicted-by-coupledom syndrome. Never mind if it was rather dear at Rs 100 per question, and no, questions could not be combined (so you couldn’t ask, “Will I go to Cappadocia on my honeymoon with X after I get that Y job?”)

You could flash your changed relationship status, either through your just-acquired ring/squeeze, and just giggle, Aishwarya-like.

About the grapes and the music, well, frankly my dear, I didn’t give a damn.

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