On plane, the three vials of CRB pineau d'aunis went down with the ambien. Arrival in Beaune, Russell fetched me at the train, and spirited me off to Bouilland, seven km above Savigny. The Queen Before the guests arrived, Becky and I did some dueling computering, I, sipping at something like a Gagnard C-M. Dinner was had with some honeymooners, cucumber soup and some vegetable thing in my honor while they snaffed down the lamb. 1989 Lafarge. For that moment, joyful. yum After honeymooners taxied back down to Beaune, I knocked back 10mg of Ambien and sent screwy texts to too many people. Got one email from a friend, "I will assume your phone is broken?" Another suggested I was drunk. Neither was true. The result, however, was being shamed off of the stuff, unless absolutely necessary Happy I did not email any editors or engage in Twittering. My iPhone did not sing me out of slumber. Russell wakes me up. He tended to my toast, coffee and we race to the Jura. The landscape. I am slightly disappointed. God knows what I had hoped for/ A jig, perhaps? Did I expect the soil to stand up and dance The Nutting Girl for me? And then, then, then we met Jean Francois! J-F Ganevat, for several years, a biodynamist, and his high tech destemmer. (hint: Think washing clothes on stones in a river bed.) Ganevat has a dog named Schist, a sweet and skinny Weimaraner. The pooch welcomed me with enthusiastic sniffs while Ganevat, racing off to Alsace, put me through my paces in about twenty minutes. Speed tasting in a Speedo. Gorgeous. No time to ponder the twinkle in the glasses. But twinkle there was. He makes 35 cuvees, I tasted a third. Let me just say this, 1999 Les Vignes de mon Pere. (I lied. More words, meyer lemon tart. Can't stop drinking) Lunch? Tout smothered in morels that were oddly tasteless, overlooking a creek about two inches deeo. Then out of Arbois and into ......... J. Puffeney Jacques was not that happy to see me. He seemed put upon, oh god, another American who wants to taste these wines, I'm tired and what the hell does it get me. ( I could hear him think, understanding his telepathic French perfectly.) Things picked up a little when we went to the vines and he showed me a Ploussard leaf, as distinct as a Victorian cutout. Did someone say Pierre Overnoy? M. Overnoy needs his own entry. Coming. The day was sandwiched in greatness. Pierre Overnoy! An hour later, Russell and I rolled into Bouilland. Here I am referred to as the famous authoress. I like that. Russell popped a 2007 Pataille Marsannay rose. Followed by a way too oaky Dujac Clos St. Denis 2001. I felt guilty. Could not drink. Russell plies me with Armagnac. I brave the cold night without potion. It works. And then there were the limestone cliffs reflecting the harvest moon, and somewhere over Montrachet, sparkling like the Hope Diamond, Jupiter. I'll miss him when he leaves, but right now, let's not think about it.