“Life is a journey, not a destination.”

Ah, that old cliché.

It occurred to me recently that this sentiment could be applied to more than just life.

Beer, for instance.

In my youth, beer was about the destination: Getting hammered.

Preferably in the shortest and most economical way possible.

But only with beer. Cheap wine was for winos. Wine coolers were for women. Distilled spirits were for people who had drinking problems. Beer was manly.

The final decision was how to balance the cost/taste ratio. Certain beers, in spite of their more economical prices, I felt were beneath me. That they were for more desperate, less responsible people.

Miller Genuine Draft was the swill of choice back in the day. A unique black and gold label, a series of advertising campaigns that appealed to young men not unlike me, and regular specials at the local liquor store.

Something happened between then and now. Working for a living gave me more discretionary income, and a lack of friends in college reduced the need for alcohol in substantial volumes. I began to experiment with some of those more expensive beers. Hey, I was worth it. Samuel Adams Boston Lager (or maybe it was the ale) was starting to make noise in the marketplace. To top it off, my friend Ron started brewing his own beer.

You could do that?!

I started reading more about beer, learning about the styles that had pretty much disappeared in the US because of Prohibition. Microbrewers were springing up all over. I even fooled around with brewing my own.

Fresh beer is the best beer.

Beer now was no longer a means to an end. It was the end. I found that a good beer was simple enjoyment in itself. The color, the aroma, the feel of it in my mouth, the flavor and where it centered on my tongue were now things that I noticed and enjoyed. (Unless it’s bad beer, then it’s not enjoyable at all.)

How I have changed. I almost always drink beer from a glass. (You can’t get the full aroma while you’re drinking it, otherwise.) My beer glasses are used only for drinking beer, and they’re washed by hand. (There’s “clean” and then there’s “beer clean.”) A six-pack can last me for a week or more. (I remember the days when a six-pack might not last me an hour.)

Am I old? Would the younger me have no frickin’ idea what the now me was going on about? Probably. But it doesn’t matter.

Drinking a beer is a journey to be savored. Reaching the bottom of the glass is always something of a disappointment.

If you’ll excuse me, I’m thirsty.

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