Most of that Thursday night was a blur. At least, that's what it felt like. Day to day interactions blur at the 24-hour margins. The underappreciated working life builds the thickest of shells until you end up with an unnatural anaesthetic numb feeling that gets you through most days. To break out of that shell, you need something to shock you back into your senses, to lure me out. So, I got on a plane, endured a drowsy commute next to an effeminate Korean hair dresser (who stole my issue of GQ) and a very late night in Portland. By the next day I found myself in completely unfamiliar territory. The sun was shining, 70 degrees. And this was staring me in the face. Acres and acres of it. Pinot noir. In the heart of the Willamette Valley. With this alluring dark purple bunch, the shell was cracking.