Few experiences can be as confusing or intimidating as an afternoon spent wine tasting in Napa Valley. The pinot noirs, merlots, and cabernets; the austere tasting rooms staffed by mean-looking wine pourers; the flocks of wine connoisseurs adroitly swirling and sniffing their wine - it's enough to make you want to strip down to your underwear and run around playing "Louie, Louie" on a kazoo just to lighten the mood a little.

Since kazoo playing is generally looked down upon at most wineries, my friends Eric and Jason and I simply did our best to try and fit in with the wine tasters around us. We swirled, we sipped, we nodded thoughtfully and stroked our chins to make it seem like we knew the difference between this and the boxed wine we'd had the night before. Or the cherry Kool-Aid we'd had with lunch.

We actually did OK to begin with. We went to several different wineries, acting serious enough to pass as somewhat knowledgeable wine drinkers. We just made sure to bolt for the door whenever anyone asked us a wine-related question or caught us chugging chardonnay or whenever we began to get a case of the giggles.

At one winery we actually got the undivided attention of a French-accented wine pourer named (of course) Jean-Pierre. He became quite helpful once Jason made it known he wanted to buy a bottle or two. He poured two cabernets for us, side-by-side, so we could compare their quality. We swirled, we sniffed, we drank, and Jean-Pierre's eyes brightened as he awaited our verdict. A hush fell over the room; the pressure mounted. This was the precise moment when I discovered that - thanks to our long day of wine-tasting - I was quite drunk. My palate was shot. "Guys," I whispered in a not-quiet-enough voice, "I can't tell the difference."

I made a hasty exit to avoid the chuckles from those around us. My friends made their purchases and found me outside cowering behind a tree. They decided we'd had enough wine tasting for one day. To wipe the air of pretentiousness from ourselves, we went to the area's finest burrito stand for dinner. Here there were no thoughtful nods between bites; we simply stuffed ourselves with cheerful abandon. We went to a local dive bar for drinks, and all was right in my world. This was where I fit in, where I could relax. There was no need to worry about acting proper or pretending to be knowledgeable about wine - or anything else for that matter.

I sat back and smiled as Eric came over to our table with our first round of beers. He set the pints in front of us, but there was a slight problem - one was Bud, the others were Bud Light, and he couldn't remember which was which. Without a word I sipped one, then the next, and then the third. I nodded thoughtfully, stroked my chin, and finally had to admit - "Guys, I can't tell the difference!"

BILL ZUCK, a Foxboro native now studying in San Diego, can always tell you what kind of wine you're drinking - as long as he can read the bottle. You can reach him at wcz78@yahoo.com.