A Pittsburgh Story.

We visited our son in Pittsburgh this past weekend. I’d never been to this western Pennsylvania city until we went to visit the Pitt campus when our son was a high school senior. He’s now a junior there and I’ve still only been a handful of times, although that’s another story. Time is the slow, silent killer of dreams, or at least of intentions, and there ain’t enough of it. We went for a two night stay at our favorite hotel, with a room overlooking the Pitt campus and a short stroll from lots of things, if you don’t mind the hills.We came into town around four o’clock on Friday afternoon, and I was resigned to our certain fate, mired in rush hour traffic.

Let me pause and point out how funny I find that phrase; rush hour. I seem to have a vague memory of hearing my mother practice one of her comedic one woman little plays. This particular one was about an Asian man who was trying to learn English, and was confounded by the many idioms. This would have been in the late sixties, and I’m sure we can all imagine what a midwestern suburban, working class woman of that time period, one with no particular talent for mimicry, did to an Asian accent. I have no specific memory of it causing any stir, that may say more about how I am now, than how things were then. The Asian man, in my mother’s distorted voice, lamented the fact that “In rush hour, no one rushes”. Even today, I can’t hear the term without going down a well worn list in my head; park in the driveway, drive in the parkway, jumbo shrimp, military intelligence… George Carlin carried the brunt of my comedic education, but the roots of it are entwined through those one woman shows. But I digress, let’s not dissect the frog.

We were at the hotel before I could realize it, I don’t believe it was more than two miles after exiting the interstate, traveling roads that hugged the contours of the surrounding hills. Most of these roads had bike lanes that were well marked and easy to understand after a moment or two of study. We never slowed below forty mph, and then only once or twice to merge. There was no intermitable wait in stop and go traffic, there was only… rush. That got me thinking about what kind of experience this would have been in Philadelphia, another Pennsylvania city hemmed in by busy highways, hillsides, and rivers. In Philadelphia, I would have allotted an extra hour of travel time, if possible, probably more on a late Friday afternoon. I know many of you will rightly point out that Philadelphia is a much larger city, that if Pittsburgh grew larger there would be equal or even worse problems. Funny you should bring that up, because I was curious as well. Here’s what a few minutes online showed.

Pittsburgh’s population is just over three hundred thousand, while Philadelphia’s is nearly 1.6 million. Land wise, Philadelphia is over twice as large, this means that, while the population density in Philadelphia is higher, it’s not five times as high, it’s actually just over twice as high. This still isn’t the whole story; since 2000, Pittsburgh’s population has fallen by almost 11%, Philadelphia’s has grown by 4%. What does it mean? I guess Philadelphia’s traffic problem isn’t getting better anytime soon. It probably also means that, if this keeps up, Pittsburgh might have whole areas abandoned. With an 11% decline in population in two decades, I’d be real surprised if those ghost towns don’t already exist. It’s a really nice place to visit, I hope it successfully reinvents itself, or whatever cities do when their primary reason for existence is exhausted or obsolete, and folks have moved on. I counted five or six cranes in the area around campus so investment is going forward. I hope it’s enough.

We pulled into the parking garage and surrendered the car to the valet. The hotel is a quirky one, with the lobby on the top floor next to the restaurant and bar. We had packed light and we carried our own bags up to the tenth, and then back down to the fifth floor. We had an hour to relax before meeting our son for dinner, I read and dozed.

Dinner was excellent, brick oven pizza and a chopped salad with myriad layers of flavor. Amy had an Italian selection from the all Italian wine list. I noticed the OG Negroni on the drinks menu and made an impulsive decision to try one. I should point out, with some embarassment, that this was my first Negroni. It’s also likely my last, I prefer my gin in equal parts with tonic. I can never figure out how two somewhat revolting substances can merge into a magical elixir, it is the case though. I’ve howled at many a moon fueled on gin and tonic. Not for dinner, though, and the Negroni went equally awful with food.

We went back to the hotel bar for a nightcap or three, Amy stuck with wine, I stayed with spirits, a shot of good bourbon over lots of ice. With another dose of embarrassment, I’ll admit that I prefer regular ice to the more stylish, single large cube. This has the advantage of keeping me out of the discussion on whether it should even be a cube, perhaps the bourbon would reveal its secrets better to a sphere of ice. It also allows me to savor the nuances that emerge as the sharp bite of alcohol dilutes to something I can peer through.

I promise this is about wine.

Next morning, I was surprisingly alert and unencumbered by head or belly ache. We had breakfast and were greeted by the bartender from the night before, now in the capacity of hostess as well. She admitted, to my admiration, that she had gone home for five hours between shifts and complimented me on my early appearance as well. Breakfast completed, we embarked on a busy day of sightseeing, meeting college friends, and trying out an upscale taco joint where I unwittingly ordered a ridiculous amount of chips and various salsas, truly an epic amount. We carted the copious leftovers back to be devoured by college roommates.

The highlight of the day was a trip to the National Aviary. Put this on a list of things to do for a cool road trip to Pittsburgh. It hosts an amazing variety of birds, there were even a few bats in their belfry. The best part was talking to the aviary personnel in the waterfowl area. There was a small flock of flamingos wading in the main pool, but there was one flamingo, apart from the others, that preferred to stand as close as possible to the walkway. He seemed fascinated with passersby and when he discovered I was willing to to lean in and get closer he spent at least five minutes peering at me from one angle after another. I really felt we were bonding. The woman working in the area explained that these were hand raised from chicks and are mostly easy to work with. The flamingo that I had been semi-obsessed with, and he with me, was named Rizzo, after some movie that was not “Grease”. This flamingo seemed to prefer the company of people, indeed, he seemed to think he was a person. I asked if Rizzo liked to play any games, or if they worked with him for enrichment. She replied that he mostly just tried to mount any person he could, given that he was going through puberty. I was quite interested in this new piece of information, and when I looked again at Rizzo, there was a certain gleam in his eyes I had not previously noted.

I was tired at dinner and excused myself before dessert to go back to the room and rest. I recovered after an hour and we went back up to the bar for another night of nightcaps. Amy had wine, I had a remarkable cocktail that I had tried at dinner and found to be just an exquisite blend of flavors. It was called a Comfortably Numb, and it had a base of bourbon, along with some house made syrup, possibly some Campari, a little of this, a little of that. The bartender (a different bartender) was delighted to know I liked the drink, since it was her recipe. I had a couple and we went back to the room. The earlier nap seemed to have kept me energized and I sat down to write. Then I thought it would be nice to have a glass of wine while I wrote. Amy was agreeable, so I ventured forth again to the tenth floor and asked for the wine list.

I told you there would be wine.

The most interesting bottle on the modest wine list was an old vine South African Semillon. There was no vintage listed so I asked to see the bottle. 2016! Normally an eight year old bottle of wine would be a quick choice, and it was, but I had a nugget of apprehension that it would be past its prime. On that, hopefully, long slog down the path to old age and beyond. How long does the curve last? When does it peak? You might as well ask which way the wind will blow tomorrow. It’s an answer only time will yield, but it can be approached with an educated guess, if you have the confidence in your knowledge and palate. I truly believe it’s a question of confidence, not overall amount of knowledge, but a person’s confidence in the knowledge they have. Most of all, of their right to be in the game, to be at the table. I have retained far less of the knowledge I possessed three years ago, but I am at home with what I do know. And I knew the Semillon was a risky choice.

I made it back to the room with the bottle, two glasses, and another Comfortably Numb. The bartender had opened the bottle (and inserted the cork in the opposite way, I noted with chagrin) and I poured a glass for Amy and a small taste for me. I was not particularly impressed with the taste. Somewhat harsh and oxidized, from age or winemaking technique, that is the question. We pondered briefly, then I sipped my cocktail and wrote a few halting lines. I didn’t make it long, not even to finish the drink, before I got in bed and slept.

In the morning, the Semillon was sitting on the desk with the cork lying nearby. I shoved it back in, wrong side first, and tossed the bottle into my travel bag. We ate another breakfast at the hotel, retrieved the car from the valet, and headed out of town on busy but smoothly moving highways.

I retrieved the bottle the next day and tried a small glass. Still not in a wine mood, not in really an alcohol mood at all, perhaps that will allay any worries some of you might have about what the hell is up with all these Comfortably Numbs. The wine again did not particularly impress, though it was not noticeably affected by its travel, the harshness had softened perhaps, the oxidation remained, but had not increased. I put it in the door of the fridge, without a cork, and it sat another day. Until…

I sat down to write tonight and poured the last glass. It’s actually quite lovely. This could be because some magical force beyond my comprehension altered it in just the right manner, through a journey where it received shameful treatment at the hands of its owner, its purchaser anyway. Can we really own such fleeting beauty, such capricious behavior through time. Was this blooming of the wine into something not just drinkable, but pretty damn enjoyable, another happy oxidation accident like Madeira?

Or is it because I’m having a pretty good smell day. I’m getting fruit here. I very much doubt this wine developed fruit, seems like it would have lost fruit. And it seems less oxidized after time. That can’t be right. Who am I to say, however, just a fellow traveler through the lamentably few wines one lifetime will provide. A fellow traveler, by the way, that has been ravaged by Covid three times. My sense of smell varies from Friday to Saturday. So, is it the day of the week, or the rude treatment. Really no way to tell, even if we could repeat the experiment we couldn’t really repeat the experiment. No way to tame entropy.

So, we had a nice trip to Pittsburgh, ate some good food, drank some wine and spirits, and I guess got a story out of it. Not a bad weekend at all.

Cheers, Jerry