Can you give me the "club" price?

August 31. Day 62.

This morning I took to the Temecula wine country by bike. The plan: discover what San Diego has to offer, after being away for ten years. And drink some good wine.

The first stop, La Cereza, aka "cherry" in Spanish. My first thought: So this is how Americans do wine. So far, I've been to wineries in Mexico, France and Connecticut. (Connecticut!? Indeed. My senior year in college, we took a bus trip to a nearby winery, where we learned that every U.S. state produces wine -- including Alaska. I had a final paper due the next day, on Hamlet, and after an evening of more than modest sips the paper was one of my most, er, creative efforts. Ok, fast-forward to 2008...)

La Cereza clings, I hope, to the lower rungs of the California wine hierarchy. Basically, it was impossible to get to the wine, as the tasting room was bloated with: huge plaster angels. Awful paintings. Various wine and not-wine trinkets, like: serving platters and funny napkins and decorative cherubs, lots and lots of fake flowers. Oh yeah, and people, too. So many people herded up against the counter and each other, yammering. The point was to sell sell sell, whatever the hell they could. Yay, consumerism. Yay, Temecula economy. I think I spent a total of 30 seconds inside, enough to buy some water because I was dehydrated from the bike ride, and then I ran outside for fresh air. And the wine? I didn't make it to the counter, so, technically, undrinkable!

Next stop: South Coast Winery. The gewurztraminer was decent. Fairly aromatic, and it disappeared fast in Mr. A's glass -- two good signs. But the chardonnay, recommended to me as neither too oaked, not lacking in personality, smelled like sulphur. Ok, I'm being downright mean. To be fair, it was more like isovaleric acid. Anyway. I took a few drinks and decided to stop compromising the pizza, which was actually good.

Final stop: Alex's Red Barn, which was a few minutes off the main road. Already promising. I locked my bike, which seemed a silly urban precaution in this pristine setting. A few visitors walked out, and the owner greeted us herself. During the tasting, we chatted about wines, the quinces and asian pears in her garden, Germany (her homeland), how they're only open on weekends (unlike most other wineries there), how shiraz and cabernet sauvignon usually get listed on menus, bike riding and her pets. Pleasant, not pushy. The last tasting, a sherry, was caramelicious.

I glanced at the prices and noticed they were different for "wine club" members.

"How does this club work?"

Two bottles per month, free tastings, yada yada. Not interested. Moving on.

"What about offering the club price to a new customer? For getting an introductery bottle. Two bottles?"

She squinted at me, perhaps unsure if I was actually asking for the club price or if I didn't understand the club rules.

"So you'd like two bottles today, at the club price, and then next month you'll start shipment of two more bottles?" she asked.

"No, I mean, for a new customer, who isn't in the club, but may want to join the club one day, just like a little welcome discount?"

"I'm sorry. I can't do that."

"Can't" is such a European way of saying "won't," and this winery was closest in style to the one I'd visited in France. We got a bottle of the sherry anyway, since it was good. Plus, I want this place to last.

Gained: Nichts, again.

Can I check out your kitchen?

August 30. Day 61.

What is the difference between ordering a cafe au lait and ordering a coffee and adding your own half and half? I realize what the definitions are -- the former has steamed milk and, sometimes, a splash of foam -- but when the two drinks sat upon my table, they were the same color, had an identical texture and smelled the same. I decided to do a blind taste test, closing my eyes and sampling a teaspoon of each. Results: Same taste. Exquisite.

This evening, you see, I entered a sugary, caffeinated wonderland called Heaven Sent Desserts. Waiters carrying trays of chocolatey goodness past my table walked briskly enough to be efficient, but just slow enough so I could a good close-up of the other options.

I had been torn between a raspberry chocolate souffle and a gigantic malted chocolate trifle with caramelized bananas, and went for the banana option only because I wanted to save the raspberry one for a special occasion. Today, I needed me some comfort food.

When it arrived from the refrigerated viewing case, I took a few chilled spoonfuls, cutting vertically through whipped cream, malted chocolate mousse, marinated sponge cake and caramelized bananas. Once it warmed up, everything got gooeyer, softer, fluffier. And I knew. I could never leave this place, ever. I would just sleep in a booth, plug in my laptop and write my entire dissertation, here. Friends who came to visit and eat cake could bring me clothes, and I'd chomp my way through their entire menu until next spring. Breakfast: a cappuccino and croissant or madeleine. Bread pudding for lunch and a cookie for dessert. Dinner: anything from the main case, with a side of brownie.

Hey, I've been househunting, but maybe I need to think outside the box.

As the waiters rushed in and out of the kitchen, I became aware that this thing on my table, this object, this bliss delivery mechanism, came from somewhere. It was assembled on a counter by human hands. I could see some action behind a swinging door, and suddenly I wanted to know.

My waiter happened to be walking by just then.

"Hi again. Would it be possible to see your kitchen? I'm not a baker or anything. I'm just curious."

"Oh, I can't let you tonight, 'cause the owner isn't here. Sorry!"

Damn. Something makes me think they won't let me sleep here, either.

Gained: Nichts.

Can you waive my late fee?

August 29. Day 60.

Irresponsible. Sloppy. Lazy.

I know, I know, I know.

I was supposed to pay my car insurance bill on August 13 and only got around to doing it today. Terrible!

When I called to pay with a phone check, the agent explained that there's a $7 late fee included in the total. For a second, I felt like I deserved it. (Refer to opening line.) And then I decided I didn't.

"Can you please waive that?" I asked. No explanations, no eyelash batting or ingratiating excuses.

"Ok," she said.

Wow.

Thanks, AAA! By the way, these people gave me the lowest annual rate by far, after I compared between three or four companies. Hey, I'm all about spreading the word about good peeps. And making the bad ones squiiirm.

Speaking of evil merchants, today I helped a friend draft a letter to a Venetian antique dealer. A week ago, she bought a ceramic menorah from Antichita Al Ghetto, assured by the dealer of its authenticity, only to discover on Google that it's most likely a contemporary Moroccan inkwell. Her credit card company will refund the 110 Euros but told her to send back the item and ask for a refund in writing. At the end of her letter, I slipped in a line that said, basically, "If you don't cooperate I'll report you to the Italian IRS and the Venetian tourist authority." (I was tempted to add, "You will also be the featured Evil Merchant of the Week in a dazzlingly popular new U.S. blog which has millions of daily visitors from all over the world," but I realized that would be a slight overreach. No one from Burma has checked out this page yet.)

Either way, I doubt they'll be intimidated, since it takes a lot more than a transatlantic threat to make an Italian merchant sweat, I suspect. But, worth a try.


Gained: $7.

Can I try your cheesecake?

August 28. Day 59.

An anecdote: I was relaxing on the terrace of a wine bar yesterday evening, when one of the two older men sitting next to me addressed himself to my person.

"Are you alright? You look angry."

"I'm just pensive," I said, smiling now to make up for my sober expression.

Why? Why did I smile instead of saying, "Actually, my husband died" -- as my dinner companion later told me she wants to say, after getting the very same line countless times. Why didn't I say, "I don't see you smiling." Why do men expect women, especially young women, to be bubbly and sweet all the time? Do they smile softly while walking their dogs, feeling excited about life but too shy and delicate to express these complicated feelings? Do they hum to themselves in line at bank, thinking of the delicious carrot soup they'll make tonight for their loved ones? Anyway.

A word of advice: I came across these tips about salary negotiation in academia, which translates to many other fields. Sensible, and gets right to the point.

And, and asking: I went to The Living Room, a student haunt by SDSU decorated like -- you got it. At the counter, the sacher torte immediately beckoned, with delicate dollops of raspberry jam peeking between layers of chocolate sponge cake, all snuggling under a blanket of ganache. But I started chatting with the cashier about her favorite dessert (the berry cheesecake) and whether she gets to eat for free (only if she's lucky.) Ultimately, the sacher won. One of my core tenets: never say no to raspberries and chocolate.

Between Mr. A and I the torte quickly disappeared, but was I in the mood for something more? I was still thinking about that cheesecake. Could I commit to a whole slice? Should I really indulge in two desserts? Or stay calm, avoid the midnight calories, save a few bucks.

I ended up opting for a compromise: Sample the cheesecake, to get the flavor without the commitment.

"Here's a rather strange question," I asked the cashier. "I'm thinking of getting a slice of cheesecake, but would it be possible to sample a sliver first?"

"It's pre-cut," she said, staring at me as if I were some kind of compulsive cake eater who goes around asking for free samples all the time.

Fair enough. But perhaps prefacing with "strange question" wasn't a good move. After all, I shouldn't bias people against me before I ask. At least let them think I'm crazy after giving me what I want... Note to self.

Gained: Nothing, though sometimes, being told no is a good thing.

Could you please stop hovering?

August 27. Day 58.

Today's asking occurred shortly after dawn. What an easy day this will be, with my daily asking completed before I've even had time to check my morning emails!

I woke up, as I mentioned in the last post, on the couch, after falling asleep in a taquito-induced torpor. Last night I went to dinner with A&K at Casa de la Rosas, a mexican place in Old Town. I don't know what they stuffed their taquitos with, but within half an hour of finishing dinner my eyes were droopy. We went for a walk, followed by chocolate-mint tea at Extraordinary Desserts, and as we discussed marzipan and the pursuit of happiness, I rested my head on the stucco wall and started imagining it was a soft, downy pillow.

After dragging myself to shelter, I collapsed on the couch and woke up with a start. Seven hours later.

I was refreshed. But hungry.

"Want to get breakfast?" I asked Mr. A, who was getting ready for work. (No, that wasn't my asking. That was just a question.)

He immediately got a slightly wild look in his eyes, a look that says one thing alone: Denny's!!

An hour later, as I was munching on my final fries and snatching bites of his pancakes, the waitress came with the bill. Mr. A slid it in front of him and brought his pen to the tip line, as the waitress stood next to him, watching. He stopped, slightly uncomfortable, and she waited patiently.

"Would you mind coming back later, or can we drop the receipt off at the register?" I asked.

"Sure, I'll be back in a little." I hope it wasn't rude, and I'm sure she was in a hurry and probably didn't really care about the tip itself. But it felt like she was rushing him.

Gained: Comfort to multiply in peace, for a guy who's a much more generous tipper than I am (but didn't you already know that?)

Drop the rent by $50?

August 26. Day 57.

Yup, it's actually August 27 -- I was intending to write last night, but I fell asleep on the couch at 10 and woke up this morning! So, today will have two posts.

Yesterday, the house hunt continued, and I saw two attractive options: a studio and a 1 bedroom cottage. The studio was listed for $800, and the cottage owner said the price is negotiable.

Dilemma: go for larger space in a slightly off central location, or get a really cool space in a good spot, but less square footage? I'll have to figure that out later (or sooner), but in the meantime, I asked the studio manager if the rent was flexible.

"It's below market value," he said, practically cutting me off. But he was a decent guy, and we had hit it off as he showed me the place. He'd traveled to Europe and South America while working as an archaeologist, and now he'd retired to this building. It was old and storied, with a courtyard and bright pink walls, a cross between Miami and Mexican revival. Half a century ago, crackheads used to roam the hallways. Clint Eastwood once filmed a western there, allegedly burning part of the building. Now young professionals were swooping in and out as we stood in the lobby, talking.

"I realize it's a nice place, but my budget is tight. I'm a good tenant, I'd take great care of the place, I'm reliable, responsible," I tried.

"You gave me a good vibe. I can't make any promises, but I'll talk it over with the owner."

The plan: Drop off my application with a hand written note, to show what a lovely tenant I'd be, especially for $750. And meanwhile, decide between two possibilities with different advantages.

Gained: Nothing yet, but I'll keep you posted.

House hunt haggles

August 25. Day 56.

Please let me indulge in 5 seconds of shameless marketing-- not for myself, but for readers!

From Boston:

I was totally inspired by you a few weeks ago at the
farmer's market to bargain down the price of some end-of-the-day corn. I only saved $0.50, but you know, it's the principle. :)

From Ohio:

It's totally rubbing off! I saw a late charge on my credit card, called up to say I'd been traveling and hadn't received the bill. She took off half, but I persisted with you in mind. If she can take off half just like that, surely she can take it all off: "Are you sure you can't remove the entire charge?". And then she took it off! Gained: $40. (Though I am of the opinion it shouldn't have been there anyway.)

From California:

My mother, analyst by day and jeweler by night, told me she talked down some strands of beads for her next creations. (Ok, fine, it's my mom.)

Awesome!! Thanks for writing. As I hear of future askings, I'll add them to this list. I wonder what we can gain together by July 1, 2009 -- the end of this experiment?

My own asking today is still a twinkle in my eye. More soon.

UPDATE: I saw an apartment today. A really great apartment. Two bedrooms, dining room, hardwood floors, right price, right neighborhood. Only drawback listed in the ad: I'd have to split a $100 monthly cable bill. But I rarely watch TV. (Well, I do watch some shows online -- House, Grey's Anatomy, and various nostalgic reruns; but I get my news from the internet and, gasp, papers. I just don't have time to be at these channels's beck and call.) So, I owed it to myself to find out if...

"About the cable, I don't really watch TV, so I wouldn't be interested in sharing that. How would that work for you?"

"Oh. Well, it's expensive. I mean, it's like $100 a month. I didn't have it before my last roommate, but once she got here and we got cable, I started watching more TV. I could do without Showtime, but I have to have my other shows. And there are lots of good movies."

"Netflix?" I tried.

"We get that too. But I never watch them. See? There are four here. We got them a few months ago. Live four months ago. 'Galapagos.' I forgot we had it. Movies are easier to watch on TV."

"So, you're only looking for someone who would split the cable with you?"

"Yeah."

Maybe I could have coughed up the extra $50 per month -- it was a really great place, actually -- but I couldn't imagine living with someone who talks as much as she does. In ten minutes, I'd learned about her job, her roommate's job, how far away her mother lives (4 miles), what highway she takes to work, the location of the Starbucks she once walked to (Laurel Street) and something about how her roommate eight years ago was psycho so she changed the look to her bedroom.

Gained: A refocus of my priorities as a renter. Up a notch: tranquility.