Flashes of Panic

It’s grape season. Or, it’s slightly past grape season. Since returning from Japan, I’ve been continually noticing the scent of grapes on my runs—not just while running through vineyards but in the middle of the woods in Amherst, last night in the Breakheart Preserve in Wakefield, this morning on Battle Road in Lexington. I can seldom pin down the source of the scent, but suddenly the air will smell thickly and unmistakably like grape juice. (I’m running, and therefore probably thirsty, so grape juice comes to mind rather than, say, jelly.)

Last week our coach picked clean the grape vines in his back yard and brought “the last of the grapes” with him to our workout, then sent them home with us. I had a few I hadn’t consumed before I going to Germany, and I thoughtlessly left them out on the counter while I was gone. On my return, the container (and, consequently, the trash afterward) smelled strongly of wine.

Now Playing: Closing Time from Feeling Strangely Fine by Semisonic