Wine, family love, and other rants
It was sort of mid-2015. Guess I?
Living in Sao Paulo for almost a decade, my dad was already used to coming and staying in whenever there was some corporative event that interested him.
Throughout the years he already had seen me in many different states: from heartbroken who stated to be “the love of my life” to just a recurrent change of jobs. That’s like a normal Tuesday in Sao Paulo.
In mid-2015 he arrived as usual at the corporate fair but Dayse, my so-called BFF was my flatmate. I mean “so-called BFF” because everything is torn apart when the first apartment’s bills came in. Sao Paulo being one of the most expensive cities in Latin America is easy to see 10-year friendships turned apart by bills. I gave a blind eye to that just because she was precious to me. As a friend, non-blooded sister, and confidant.
You may wonder: what does that have to do with my father coming over to a corporate event? It’s easy: before 18 y-o my father’s family engaged us to be wine-acknowledged as a way to seem “intellectually superior”. At some point, my mom — who didn’t like wine whatsoever -, bought a book about how to become a sommelier, just to seem “fit” to my father’s family. Even after 25 years of marriage. Go figure.
The point being is: that in August of 2015 me and my dad drank. Awfully. I mean awfully not only because of the heavy amount but just two Latinos put themselves up to “enjoy Concha y Toro” Cabernet Sauvignon in the heat of the tropics. Such a colonialized mindset.
Even with the poor choice — we could’ve gone for any Chardonnay in the supermarket -, we kept on going. Three bottles in. Until this far my father was already asking me to never tattoo my face nor become a lesbian. Apparently, for a boomer, both things were related. Go figure part 2.
Almost 1 am Dayse came back from her date with the so-called “it-boy” and it was a disaster. She joined us in the wine open bar and drank her sorrows up. My father, as usual, acted like everything that happened — her getting dumped -, was pretty obvious and pointed out how couldn’t neither her couldn’t prevent it by only being silly and easy to be “carried away”. After all the boomer talk the only thing left to us was to drink that warm Sauvignon and do what millennials used to best: dance themselves free, as James Murphy mentioned at some point.
My almost 60-yo dad saw two almost 30-yo millennials dancing and singing out loud Suburbs from Arcade Fire there’s like no hangover tomorrow. And we danced. And jumped. And that was one of the most freeing moments that I experienced alongside my father.
Dayse never paid me back all the months that I had her as a “”””””flatmate”””””, and even got angry-ish when I asked for it. The boy that she was hanging out at the time — the one that we danced about -, dumped her anyway, for what she called a “wannabe Brazilian Lena Dunham”.
My dad became even more distant from me and my sister every that’s passed. All therapy bills were paid by ourselves, of course.
Rants apart, dancing 2000s indie rock outstands even the most rooted relationships at this point. And yes, some Chilean wine should always be prescribed as social — and emotional -, lubricant. It was sort of mid-2015. Guess I?
Living in Sao Paulo for almost a decade, my dad was already used to coming and staying in whenever there was some corporative event that interested him.
Throughout the years he already had seen me in many different states: from heartbroken who stated to be “the love of my life” to just a recurrent change of jobs. That’s like a normal Tuesday in Sao Paulo.
In mid-2015 he arrived as usual at the corporate fair but Dayse, my so-called BFF was my flatmate. I mean “so-called BFF” because everything is torn apart when the first apartment’s bills came in. Sao Paulo being one of the most expensive cities in Latin America is easy to see 10-year friendships turned apart by bills. I gave a blind eye to that just because she was precious to me. As a friend, non-blooded sister, and confidant.
You may wonder: what does that have to do with my father coming over to a corporate event? It’s easy: before 18 y-o my father’s family engaged us to be wine-acknowledged as a way to seem “intellectually superior”. At some point, my mom — who didn’t like wine whatsoever -, bought a book about how to become a sommelier, just to seem “fit” to my father’s family. Even after 25 years of marriage. Go figure.
The point being is: that in August of 2015 me and my dad drank. Awfully. I mean awfully not only because of the heavy amount but just two Latinos put themselves up to “enjoy Concha y Toro” Cabernet Sauvignon in the heat of the tropics. Such a colonialized mindset.
Even with the poor choice — we could’ve gone for any Chardonnay in the supermarket -, we kept on going. Three bottles in. Until this far my father was already asking me to never tattoo my face nor become a lesbian. Apparently, for a boomer, both things were related. Go figure part 2.
Almost 1 am Dayse came back from her date with the so-called “it-boy” and it was a disaster. She joined us in the open wine bar and drank her sorrows up. My father, as usual, acted like everything that happened — her getting dumped -, was pretty obvious and pointed out how couldn’t neither her couldn’t prevent it by only being silly and easy to be “carried away”. After all the boomer talk the only thing left to us was to drink that warm Sauvignon and do what millennials used to best: dance themselves free, as James Murphy mentioned at some point.
My almost 60-yo dad saw two almost 30-yo millennials dancing and singing out loud Suburbs from Arcade Fire there’s like no hangover tomorrow. And we danced. And jumped. And that was one of the most freeing moments that I experienced alongside my father.
Dayse never paid me back all the months that I had her as a “”””””flatmate”””””, and even got angry-ish when I asked for it. The boy that she was hanging out at the time — the one that we danced about -, dumped her anyway, for what she called a “wannabe Brazilian Lena Dunham”.
My dad became even more distant from me and my sister every that passed. All therapy bills were paid by ourselves, of course.
Rants apart, dancing 2000s indie rock outstands even the most rooted relationships at this point. And yes, some Chilean wine should always be prescribed as social — and emotional -, lubricant.
