|'Ron Antiguo de Solera' Translation: 'Kick-ass fucking rum!'|
|God DAMN, that's good.|
And yet, this tale was almost one of tragedy. After an 11-day sejour in the Republica Bolivariana de Venezuela, I flew home solo, leaving my sometimes popular wife in Caracas to spend a few more days with the familia. Upon opening my baggage, I discovered that the bottle of 1796 we procured had not survived the journey home. In the suitcase, resting among the shards, was an unapologetic note from US customs. My bag had been rifled through, re-packed all willy-nilly, and sent on its merry way. I beheld the shattered remains of the Santa Teresa and I wept. I wept as I washed the rum out of our clothing. And then I wept myself gently, gently to bed.
Happily, my wonderful, beautiful, sometimes popular wife surprised me with another bottle of the 1796, one who enjoyed a much safer flight back to the States. Tonight, Santa Teresa joins 8 companions on our bar.
|The Fellowship of the Rum|
Every time we drink, we shall remember their fallen sister.
Happy new year, everyone.