I accepted a press trip to a region I was nosebleeding to visit.

This is a confession worthy of the new 12-step meeting, AWA: Addicted to Writing Anonymous.

With no magazines paying expenses, with no trust fund in my past or future, or juicy divorce settlement, there was also no room to be holier than thou so I said, yes, please and thank you.

Here's the pickle. Many of the publications I write for forbid sponsored trips. I find them uncomfortable but paradoxically, as a freelancer, especially in these times, I find them useful... for research. For some background. But get a story out of it that is suitable for one of my publications...for me that is like draining a lake with a slotted spoon. No, a return trip is always necessary.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. The trip was five days and in order to squeeze everything I could out of the opportunity, I spent two, very happy weeks over in France and Switzerland. I loved being there and did not want to come back. I bounced around a lot and did not rent a car. Instead, I hopped around on an easy Rail Europe pass

I visited people I needed to see, even if they weren't press trip approved, and those expenses came out of pocket. And so with Russell Hone who came along with, we met with winemakers at the top of my list, Ganevat, Puffeney and Overnoy

Ah, it is such a half-sour pickle, these things. I love being on my own and sticking my editor with my bill. And I love having a book to write and sticking myself with the bill. But when the region is stuck with the bill, well, I feel stuck. Adventures I crave are stripped down to the bone and I get full blown claustrophobia.

I was a loner born and a loner grown.

When I was a kid, four years old, I ran away from a summer camp at the hotel my family was spending a summer weekend, in the town of Monsey. I chose my moment carefully during arts & crafts and on little feet, sped from tree to tree, looking over my shoulder like a munchkin bandit. Here, I did an adult version of the little runaway routine. My sprinting bore fruit.

In one stolen moment, I gave an impromptu Quebecois step-dance lesson to a trio of young boys who tolerated my French. After five minutes, one nine-year old in modified hip-hop attire asked me, 'Do we have to pay?'

So damned cute.

Then there was the mad dash around Arbois when I came across Domaine de la Tournelle's bar a vin (bistrot) and I met with Pascal Clairet, one of the vigneron I had wanted to meet.

Gorgeous Trousseau, by the way.

Bistro de la Tournelle
5 Petite Place
teL 03 84 66 25 76

Other benefits? For sure. You know, at a tasting, unless I try not to, I self-select and limit my experience to wines within my comfort zone.

In the Jura, I'd only have gone to vin naturelia. Sad, but true. That would have meant I wouldn't have understood the gestalt of the area, just the naturel impact. (I would have believed that everyone made wines of life and transparency and no one wanted to compete for international flavors).

The biggest crime, however, would have been missing those wine-guys who do gorgeous work and not on my radar. It would have been such a loss not to have had drunk those of Bourdy. The 1952 Arbois rouge? My heart, be still. Or would I have had such a range of Vin Jaune vs. Chateau Chalon?

Would I have ever known that there was a Ludwig Bindernagel?

And for the next Jura posts, please know that everything I wrote was experienced while I was the guest of the lovely people of the region. Yes, contradictions exist in the world. Even though I wanted to run away, I was also very happy to be there. And I thank them very much for including me.