Making my way down a row of vines, I run my hands over each individual grape, loving the feel of newly forming wine under my fingertips.

“Is there anything like an early harvest?” Blair sighs, walking up behind me.

I shake my head. “I was just thinking the same thing. I forget how peaceful it is out here, among the rows.”

She picks up a certain cluster, popping a very premature grape off its vine. “They’re bitter as shit this early, but I always like to taste them. Even now, you can tell if it’s going to produce a good vintage or not.”

We’re touring some of the local wineries that lay in the mountains and valleys around campus, an early spring trip that our Vine Science course requires. I don’t mind whatsoever; wine tasting and touring a bunch of beautiful land? I would do this all day.

“I don’t mind either way; we don’t get to do this much in Paris. Or even London. Living in a city, it’s hard to get out to the country to a vineyard. It takes a bunch of tube connections, or a train ride, and even then, you have to coordinate to get to the actual vineyard. Here, you have them right in your backyard. If I was here for a longer period of time, I’d tour one every single weekend.”

Blair tilts her head. “I guess I never thought of it that way. Damn, Mason, you’re getting all emotional on me … I forgot you were leaving soon.”

I smile, a bittersweet grin. “Don’t worry, you can come visit me in Paris.”

A pang hits my heart, one of sadness. I’ve gotten close with Blair over the last few months, taking all of our courses together and just having such similar views on the food industry and on life. I’ll miss her.

“You bet I’m going to be surfing on your couch until I can land a top sommelier job or something and then those Frenchies won’t be able to kick me out.”

I laugh, heading back up to the building that houses the tasting room. It’s still chilly out here, and I need a good dark red to warm my veins.

“So, one more year and then what?” Blair holds the door open for me, and we spot our classmates.

The vineyard’s tasting and office building is an enormous renovated barn, split into rooms done up in rustic decor, with twinkling white Christmas lights strung around every rafter. The floors are unfinished wood, a little dusty as if cowboy boots stomped all over them for years. The tasting room is one big open concept, with counters set up all around the floor for different groups to taste at the same time. Small stands of fudge and cheese are set up next to each counter, so that customers can sample wines that change on the palette after food is introduced.

“Well, first I have to get through the loads of work next year that the Sorbonne will bring. In my final year, I have to apprentice with a top chef somewhere in Paris … I’m not an easily frightened person but the thought of being under a master French chef makes me shake in my knickers.”

Blair laughs, setting herself up at a counter and picking up the tasting menu. She circles eight wines, and then shows the employee. “Oh no, not your knickers!”

I give her a gentle shove. “Piss off. Anyways, then I have a rigorous, twelve-course final exam served to all of the professors. I have to showcase my knife-work, the use of different cooking techniques, plating, wine-pairing, and even dessert. Which I am bloody terrible at, so the majority of my summer will be spent researching baking and pastries.”

Circling the eight wines I’d like to taste, I smile at the employee who begins to uncork bottles and pour them. My mouth waters as I watch the red and white liquids splash into glasses all lined up in a row.

“Well, at least there is nowhere better than Paris to discover the best pastries. Let me ask you this, and know I don’t mean it as an insult. You have one of the most famous men in the world as your dad, and he makes boatloads of money. You don’t have to work a day in your life, so why do you? And secondly, couldn’t he just buy you a restaurant to run?”

I chuckle, because I assume most people think that way as well. “I don’t take offense, but most people don’t understand who my father is if they think like that. We came from nothing; my parents both worked two jobs, and my father hustled to keep his dream of being an actor alive. He’d run to casting calls on his lunch break, he worked overtime to pay for the littlest amount of coaching or headshots. While he is happy to fund my lifestyle, it also comes with expectations. That I attend school, get a degree of some kind, improve myself. My parent’s biggest fear is that I’ll end up back where they were before my father was discovered.”

Blair nods, and understanding blooms in her eyes.

I continue, sipping my first glass, the sharp notes exploding exquisitely in my mouth. “And for me personally, I could never sit back and be one of those socialite, trust-fund princesses. I was right there alongside my parents, grinding for every scrap when I couldn’t even afford a new pair of jeans to go to school in. If I allowed my parent’s money to fund any and everything I did, I’d feel like a totally daft cow. How stupid would I have to be not to want to build something of my own? It’s just lazy if you ask me. Plus, if there is anything in the restaurant industry that completely blackballs you, it’s not earning your stripes. Clawing your way up, showing your skills … that’s how you build a bloody successful career.”

On her third glass, Blair swishes the glass and sniffs it. “Here, here! I agree, though you can’t expect the respect if you don’t work for it.”

“Exactly, see, I knew there was a reason I fancied you. But after graduation, and the grunt work, I’d love to open an upscale junk food restaurant. Which sounds like an oxymoron, I realize that, but I think it would be so fun. And a little bit more relaxed than these European restaurants who are doing small plates of such thinly sliced beef, you’re basically paying to leave hungry. I want to serve macaroni and cheese croquettes, lollipops of fried chicken, bangers and mash as egg rolls, nachos with marinated duck. It will be a posh little lounge with frothy drinks that have cotton candy or something in them. Just a fun ambience and delicious, simple food.”

I sigh, feeling great to tell someone about my restaurant idea. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, and while I know it will take a couple of years to amass the respect and contacts to open it, it’s something that is always in the back of my mind.

“That sounds freaking amazing. But enough shop talk, let’s get drunk. It’s our assignment, we need to work very hard on it.” She holds her glass out to me.

Laughing, I clink my glass with hers. For now, I can relax and enjoy my last days of American freedom. Before the real world comes rushing back up like the ground at a descending airplane.