Inscription

Pierre explained that it was customary for guests to write their names on pieces of wood to mark their stash of bottles in Marco and Rod’s cave. So I’ve heard, I nodded. (A charming idea to ascribe such permanence to something so ephemeral.) But we cycled through so much wine that summer that it never stuck around long enough to warrant writing my name on anything aside from the credit card receipts.

What I couldn’t wrestle the two block trip from Maison Paillot was delivered in boxes on a dolly. (Daily entertaining requires volume.)  The empty bottles migrated to the carriage house, awaiting the car trip across town and up the hill to the recycling depot. The cave, magically, remained stocked in spite of the litany of empties. There was cidre, too, all gone of course, and I imagine beer, although I don’t touch the stuff myself.

A year on, my inscription wings its way to Noyers, accompanied by a few euros and a personal note, here unpoetically blunted:

[pullquote]Dear Pierre –  Please buy wine, as you see fit, and place this in the cave so I will have something awaiting my return. Kindest, Andrea[/pullquote]

Mine, it says in that one word. Also, I was here, and, most importantly, I’ll be back. (It is written, therefore it must be so.)

Beguiling, that kind of promise.