Intern Life Outside the Winery

My friend, John, who works full-time but is a burgeoning home winemaker with his backyard Syrah vineyard (armed with UC Davis knowledge and a potato masher as a grape crusher) noted that my blog was stuck on my third post.  So, for you, John, I'm writing this next update tonight, even though I'm half-dead after an 11-hour day at the winery (we just brought in our first grapes of the 2011 harvest today: a small block of Estate Chardonnay), and half-drunk after an impromptu tasting at a winery in town after a grocery run.

I've been meaning to write about life outside the winery, namely because I think I can kiss it goodbye now that we're starting to bring in fruit.  But first I wanted to focus a bit more on the housing situation:

You'd think in Napa, which must need hundreds of harvest interns, there'd be a plethora of short-term housing options -- like maybe there would be a giant dormitory, or a high school gymnasium we could sleep in, or -- heaven forbid -- wineries would provide housing at a cost for their interns.  Unfortunately, as Napa is a major upscale vacation destination, short-term temporary housing is almost impossible to find.  I used Craigslist for the first time and feel lucky to have found one room to rent in a two-bedroom house, where I share a bathroom and kitchen with the owner.  First, I'm only here for two months, and most landlords want a minimum of three months; also, the location is great, as I'm in St. Helena, which is central in the valley and only 10 minutes away from my winery.  While the city of Napa has more available and affordable housing, it's 30 minutes to the south, and, thanks to all the winos who come here for tastings, traffic on the two-lane highway can be nothing short of a parking lot, especially on weekends.  To highlight the difference between Wall Street and wine intern life once again, take a gander at my current living space:

Home sweet room in St. Helena

Yes, folks, that is a double bed, and yes, that is my blankie that I brought with me from Venice Beach.  Contrast this with the room at the hotel I used to stay in whenever visiting my recent Wall Street mothership in Manhattan.  Mind you, this is the living room of my hotel room; you're not seeing the bedroom, bathroom, or wardrobe area.  Rooms at the London NYC, are generously-sized, especially for Manhattan.  Not to mention that on every stay, the London's staff would spoil me with fruit and chocolates in my room and extra booze if I ate at the bar, plus I would run into the likes of Mario Lopez or that curly-haired skinny guy from Glee whenever I exited the elevator.  But don't worry, I'm over it.

My luxurious London NYC hotel living room

OK, on to intern nightlife!

I know I'm not a college student anymore, but when in Rome...  I had heard from a 24-year old former harvest intern, John, (yes, at the tender age of 24, he has moved on to a career in wine marketing) that Thursday night was "intern" night at Ana's Cantina here in St. Helena.  I had emailed John before I moved, when I was considering renting a room in his place in south Napa, and, while I ultimately didn't become his tenant, I did suggest we meet up during my stay.  And what better place than his former stomping ground and bastion of intern fun, Ana's Cantina.

The infamous Ana's Cantina in St. Helena

Ana's has been described by Yelpers as "a dive bar," "a BOMB ASS bar" (I'm assuming that's a positive review) and "the only bar" in St. Helena.  I can attest from my Thursday night experience that it's a mix of all three.  I guess it's the intern hangout because it's the only affordable place on the main drag of pricey St. Helena -- they only serve beer for dinner.  John explained to me that all newbies to Ana's must A) stick a dollar bill onto the 10-foot ceiling, and B) sing karaoke.  For those of you who know me well, you'll know that, for me, "A" was much more difficult than "B," since you don't have to get me liquored up for me to open my pie hole and start singing.  Aim, however, is not one of my strong points.  Thankfully, however, when my dollar bill (wrapped around a roll of duct-taped quarters and with a thumbtack poking through) ricocheted off the ceiling and into a crowd of beer-drinking interns, no one lost an eyeball.  My second launch was successful, and that, plus my karaoke rendition of Madonna's "Like a Virgin," made for what I think was a crowd-pleasing intern night at Ana's.  Will I be back?  Not if I have better options on a Thursday night, although I do realize this is the only bar St. Helena.

My dollar is up there somewhere!

Aside from Ana's, what may well be my only weekend off during my harvest internship was made up of what I believe is integral to every intern: mooching.  My amazing parents, who live just two hours south of Napa Valley, drove up under the pretext of having lunch with me on Saturday, although really I think it was to make sure I hadn't lost my mind and that I wasn't living with the Unabomber.  I had asked my parents to bring towels, tupperware, and a coffee mug (hellooooo freshman year at Stanford!); they outdid themselves and brought what every loving Chinese parent does: food!  Before I left for Napa, Dad even tried to give me money.  I nearly cried.  I of course didn't accept the cash, but give me a few months of living on Capt'n Crunch and sardines on toast, and I think I may learn to swallow my pride.  Anyway, they treated me and my fellow wine intern, M, to a lovely lunch at Cindy's Backstreet Kitchen here in St. Helena before driving home.

Lunch with Mom, Dad, and M at Cindy's Backstreet Kitchen

That evening, John, (the former wine intern whom I had met on Thursday at Ana's Cantina) invited me to crash a UVA alumni event at the winery where he had once worked as an intern.  Never mind that neither of us went to UVA -- John said his former boss told him there was an interesting guest speaker and that there would be decent (read: free) wines poured.  Thus began my weekend of party crashing and mooching off people other than my parents.  After hearing the speaker describe Viriginia wines and his vineyards at Monticello, I moved quickly to what was left of the free Failla, Zahtila, and Round Pond wines, nodding and smiling at UVA alums and shouting, "Go, Cavs!" at anyone and everyone.  When that event was done, I checked in with my friend, Tara, whom I had met when I still had money and was a diner at the restaurant in downtown Napa at which she worked.  Tara had told me earlier that day that she would be attending a wedding in St. Helena.  By pure chance, I happened to know the happy couple -- I'd met them both last year at the winery at which Lauren, the bride, was working.  The wedding reception was held at her husband's family winery, Kelham Vineyards.  I arrived just as the wedding singer (an Elton John impersonator who had been dropped onto the estate via helicopter after the ceremony) was finishing his act.  Fireworks were bursting over the winery, giving me enough light to grab a glass of Kelham Merlot with one hand and a plate of strawberry shortcake in the other, and to set off searching for Tara.  Having quickly found her, I ate, danced and drank into the wee hours of the morning with the other lucky guests.  Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson, eat your hearts out.

I have become a wedding crasher.  Congrats, Ron & Lauren!

Sunday completed the trifecta of my party-crashing: Tara had invited me to join her at her Mom's place at the Silverado Country Club, where we would then walk to a few local wineries.  I arrived at the appointed time, only to find out I had crashed a birthday party for Tara's mom.  Despite my horror that I had arrived to a party empty-handed, I quickly felt welcomed by Tara's lovely family and got over my shame with a few glasses of wine at two tasting rooms nearby: Whetstone and Del Dotto.  If you haven't driven up the Silverado Trail, which runs through Napa Valley parallel to the much more crowded Highway 29, it is one of the most beautiful roads I've had the pleasure of driving.  The ride home from the Silverado Country Club -- with the rose-colored sun setting over the hills of green vineyards -- reminded me how lucky I am.

 The trifecta of my party crashing: a birthday tasting for Tara's Mom at Whetstone

This weekend reinforced my strange transition from Wall Street to wine.  I am so used to picking up the check for clients and to treating friends and family to meals...as well as for paying for tickets at wine events!  I can't say I'm 100% used to it, yet.  But, Mom and Dad, if you're reading this, A) you are the best parents a girl could ask for and B) you know where I live if you want to drive up with more food.

Wall Street to Wine: WTF?

So it's only the end of day two on the job, but, here are the major differences I've found between my old and new jobs so far.

1) Attire
Eight years ago, when I arrived for my first day of training at Banc of America Securities in New York City, I realized I had forgotten to pack a belt.  I rushed out during our lunch hour to look for something inexpensive but still fashionable, choosing Ann Taylor as an appropriate store.  I found a bit more than just a belt, and came back to class toting a large Ann Taylor shopping bag.  The girl in front of me, Bree, a snooty blonde, spotted my bag and said pointedly, "you came all the way to New York, and you went shopping at...Ann...Taylor?"  She then tossed her hair, spun around, and never spoke to me during the entire week of our training course.  "Sh*t," I thought, "she's right!"  As a result, I blew my first paycheck on a Marc Jacobs dress and my first pair of Manolo Blahniks at a Barney's warehouse sale.

Bree definitely had a point in New York.  There were plenty of women in Theory suits and Jimmy Choo shoes, but it turns out a I needn't have worried working in L.A.  When I arrived for work in L.A., sporting a new suit and Blahnik heels, my boss, Suzie, met me wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a "Rehab is for Quitters" t-shirt.  But even the laid-back nature of L.A. is black tie compared to winery wear.  Working in wine, it's important not to wear anything you care about.  In fact, I'm wondering if I should wear anything at all.  Today, I was tucked in the fetal position inside our Chardonnay bladder press, hosing and scrubbing it down with water and various chemicals.  It was basically like being trapped inside a washing machine, only thankfully it was unplugged and therefore not spinning around.  It was 100 degrees outside, but it felt like 150 degrees inside the press, not to mention I was hosing it down with hot water.  Before that, I had been using a pressure washer to blast gunk off plastic bins, feeling like Al Pacino with his M16 in Scarface, only I was drenched from head to toe and was squishing water as I walked, as my new black waders were about two inches full of water.  Point is: working in wine, don't bother shopping at Barneys or Ann Taylor or maybe even wearing clothes.  Steel-toed boots, yes, clothes, no.

2) Physical activity
On Wall Street, my ample behind was nursed and coddled for years in  ergonomically correct chairs behind a trading desk.  I only left my comfy seat cushion for restroom breaks, and the only activity I had was picking up phones and trying not to break them when frustrated.  Over my past two days at the winery, I did not sit down once except during our half-hour lunch break.  We are constantly lifting, pulling, pushing, flipping, and cleaning.  As F, our winemaker explained, and as I am quickly observing, working in a winery is 80% sanitation and cleanliness of equipment, and most winery equipment is really heavy.  (According to F, the other parts of winemaking are 15% perspiration, 3% winemaking, and 2% beer-drinking.)

3) Lifestyle
Yes.  Well.  All my friends working in wine, be they sommelier, wine journalist, or wine salesperson, told me not to get into wine for a reason: there is no money.  In Wall Street, there is plenty of money.  One hedge fund founder I went out with on a blind date told me, "if someone's only making $500k in this business, he must really suck at his job."  Yes, when working on Wall Street, I could afford good wine, and, better yet, I could expense decent bottles and dinners to the company, but for the past three years, I have felt miserable driving to and from work.  And my office was in Manhattan Beach, where I was driving down the coastal highway alongside the beach each day!  I know it's only been two days working as a harvest intern, but I am so phenomenally happy, it's ridiculous.  I was so tired yesterday, I fell into bed at 8pm, but not before thanking the good Lord for this job.  However, I'm not kidding anyone; I'm paid hourly, and if this job were annual, I would be making less than 1/10th of what I could make on Wall Street.  I moved out of my two-bedroom condo by the beach and have stuffed myself into a one room rental, sharing a bathroom and kitchen with a nice landlady in St. Helena.  I'm living off PB&J and tuna fish sandwiches, and I'll be out of a job in two months when my internship is done, wondering what to do next.  So it's definitely stressful, and I'm no longer waving in expensive bottles of wine or planning wine tasting tours in France.  But, despite it all, I'm happy.

P, another harvest intern, blasting fermentation bins with the pressure washer.
Note the bright sun (e.g. overwhelming heat).  It's about 8:30AM.

First day of (getting) school(ed)

So, tomorrow's my first day on the job, and all I can think of is what we used to say on the Street whenever we were working on something big; namely, "don't fuck it up."  


I've definitely visited my fair share of wineries, and last year I even volunteered on weekends at my friend's winery in Santa Barbara County, but I gotta admit: I am freaking out.  First, I feel like the world's oldest intern.  I'm 35, to which many of my friends in their 40s or 50s will respond, "Oh, you're still a BABY!"  But let's not kid ourselves here.  When I interviewed at the winery, I met the other harvest interns, and one of them, T, was 24 and yet had worked 5 harvests around the world.  So I am not only old enough to have been his babysitter, but I'm also WAY less experienced.  Egads.  All I can hope is that the old saying of keeping my mouth shut and eyes open (and not falling into a vat of fermenting wine) will help me not to screw things up.  


As nervous as I am, when I was driving up to my new temporary home in St. Helena today and passed the "Welcome to Napa Valley" sign, I couldn't help but feel excited for this total career change.  I'm like a 35 year-old freshman on the first day of high school!  Let's hope I don't get pantsed in the hallways.

Unshackling the golden handcuffs

So, after nearly a decade in a Wall Street sales job, I'm finally hanging up my heels and HP calculator and pursuing my passion: wine.  The founder of my most recent company had claimed back in '08 he would create an investment bank to "rival Goldman Sachs."  Well, he must have decided he had as much fun as he could stand in investment banking, 'cause he canned us all and went back to focusing on the hedge fund he started out of his Harvard dorm room 20 years ago.  However, rather than mourning the fact that I will no longer be selling toxic assets to savvy institutions, I realized the firm did me two huge favors:

1) it gave me the kick in the pants I needed to start my career in wine
2) it laid me off just in time for the 2011 California harvest.  Woohoo!

But before I was able to unshackle myself completely from the golden handcuffs, I had a few moments of wavering.  Wall Street is like the mafia.  Just when you think you're out, they suck you back in.  The day after I got laid off, I got a job offer from a competitor for the essentially the same sales position. What to do?  Continue making a decent living schlepping bonds from a cushy Manhattan Beach office,  or potentially live in a van down by the river eating hot dogs and drinking Zima while trying to work my way into a wine career?  I didn't cave, though.  I figured: I'm 35, single, with no kids, and if I don't give Plan B a try now, it ain't gonna be any easier at 45.

Perhaps there are no randoms in life, as two days after I got whacked, I was hiking in Santa Barbara and struck up a conversation with a couple hiking the same trail.  They just happened to be the owners of a winery in Napa, and I just happened to be headed to Napa the following week for a girlfriend's birthday.  While I was there, I was able to squeeze in an interview with their winemaker.  A few weeks later, and I am the neophyte addition to their harvest team!  I was so excited when I got the offer, the first thing I did after thanking the good Lord was to purchase a pair of waders (note, if you go to Home Depot, do not look for rubber boots, look for a white box about 7 feet above your head which contains mismatched and dusty rubber boots with dead spiders inside).  I have a feeling A) the new waders will be necessary as I hose down the winery, and B) my old galoshes with the English rose motif would've made me the butt of endless jokes.

So, here goes...I'm off to Napa in a week!  Woohoo!

Celebrating my wonderful friend's birthday with other wonderful friends

My sweet rose galoshes, which definitely will not be coming with me to Napa