In hotels, I've sipped wine with friendly British and Australian forty-somethings.
I've sipped gin and tonics opposite dreamboats and deadbeats, sociopaths and social workers, models and morons.
But since I was not pregnant, very old or very young, and was strongly tempted by the promise of an eggnog more superb than anything else I had sipped, I decided to give it a go.
Second, I had sipped, sniffed and slurped my way through seven strong samples of the auction lots (a set of samples costs an astonishing $225) without remembering to spit.
IN Saratoga I've sipped the waters, in Montecatini I've had dense Tuscan mud slapped on my face, and in Yalta a skin-searing sauna and sea-water dunk left me tingling for days.
Was the secret to Tyrolean identity locked away in this picture of a battle from a distant past, I wondered, or could I find it, instead, in the mountain passes I had crossed, the wine I had sipped in the typical wood-paneled havens known as stuben and the love for the land I encountered in everyone I met?
I've sipped and swirled Champagne and Cognac in France, Guinness in Dublin and Scotch in — where else — Scotland.
Although, I used my paddle as a perch, I wiggled and wobbled, as if I had sipped too much wine.
Never mind that she looked like Dobby with a fright wig and sounded like The Duke, I had sipped 7Up at her table in Myrtle Beach.
Before the Tequila Mockingbird episode/cocktail I had sipped a nice Wigle Rye whiskey on an empty stomach, which is enough to get me started.
