I. Distractions In 1987, when I was 18 and a dollar was worth more than twice as much as it is today, I started reading magazines: M, Esquire, GQ. Nearby, in our somewhat cultured Texas town, a new bookstore opened in a cavernous space that had formerly housed the shag-carpeted roller skating rink of our childhood. Through the front windows, which had before been darkly tinted to give the place an alluring den-of-prepubescent-iniquity vibe, now streamed bright, clean light, showcasing a look and layout that would become the interior design gestalt of today’s national-chain, big-box book superstore. The rows upon rows of open, dustless shelving bearing a veritable warehouse of volumes; the ceiling hung with its industrial innards on display; the enfilade of check-out cubicles; and the wall – the great wall – that displayed a preposterous-to-behold assortment of glossies, quarterlies, journals, newsweeklies, fanzines, tabloids, almanacs, and all other flora and fauna of magazines arrayed upon a rack perhaps 50 feet long.  I went in there to look for a book. I liked books, and, one day, I was sure I wanted to write one. But I got distracted and bought a magazine instead – that August’s issue of GQ, which still stands out in my mind as a thing of formative significance. At that time, the zeitgeist was defined by a Walkman-wearing version of the American Renaissance Man – the highly-ambitious, status-obsessed, money-motivated, health-nut known as a Yuppie. No magazine positioned itself more authoritatively in defining this new sociological creature’s lifestyle than GQ, and it did it with whiter teeth, snappier suspenders, better accessories, bigger polka dots and more caffeine in the ink of its display copy.  I remember that issue less for the photos by Richard Avedon or Steven Meisel, the words of Martin Amis or Frederick Exley, than for this: Erzeugerabfüllung. It was one of the longest, strangest strings of letters from the Roman alphabet I had ever seen. Neither did it seem designed to come out of someone’s mouth. But there it was in Alan Richman’s Wine & Spirits column, accompanied by a lovely still-life photograph of his topic: two bottles of Riesling Kabinetts on a white, sun-dappled tablecloth. Richman’s main point – made almost 35 years ago – still holds true: estate-bottled, table-quality German wines remain some of the least expensive, most delicious wines in the world, chiefly because – then as now – the labels, as he wrote, “cannot be understood by anyone who is not a part-time oenophile, linguist and cartographer”. One US dollar in Richman’s pocket, as I have already said, bought what roughly two-dollars-and-fifty-cents does today; what he was on the hunt for was a good dry white in a range that would now cost somewhere between 12 and 30 bucks, and he easily accomplished that by finding a dealer in New York City who carried a good selection of wines from the Mosel and Rheingau. At the time, I didn’t know the meaning or significance of any of this, but it staked a claim in my brain. The only wine I had ever tasted was the one served at our Episcopal church during Eucharist on Sundays. The flavour it had was of a strange, super-concentrated jam that somehow warmed your upper body. Even as a young kid, I liked it. But the adjectives these German bottles were squeezing out of Richman – “citrus-like”, “honeyed”, “tart-sweet” – weren’t close to describing what was in that chalice, even if you believed in transubstantiation. Was it because Richman’s wine was white, and the parish’s was red? Perhaps, but both colours of grape juice bottled by Welch’s tasted pretty much the same to me. No, I sensed there was something – a lot – I had to learn, and, along with the romance and beauty of the labels, and the contextual air of well-bred taste and cultural with-it-ness featured on the other pages, this, I feel sure, was the decisive moment, the true origin point, when I came to believe that among the many extraordinary things that make life worth living, not just words but wine reigns at the top.  I warned you about distractions, didn’t I? Because that would be my excuse for now informing you, as a quite apropos footnote, that, yes, there was something unusual about our church’s Communion wine. It was, as I have confirmed with the church, actually port (Taylor’s Tawny, to be more accurate), cut, according to tradition, with water. There is a good and fascinating reason for this. In 1701, when the War of the Spanish Succession kicked off, France also became an enemy of England, and its wines, as a result, were no longer made available for import. The Anglican Church searched for and found a replacement, the fortified wines of its new ally, Portugal, and port continues to be an acceptable option to pair with the Host.  II. Distillations A satisfying story, not unlike a satisfying life, is one that surprises you with the mystery of its unfolding. A thing pulls in a certain direction long enough to reach the proximity of something else which then turns toward a new destination. I had actually gone into that bookstore, as I said, to look at books. But I came out, even though I didn’t yet know it, with a different compass point. Within a few years, shortly after graduating from college, in 1992, I got hired by The New Yorker, where I stayed for almost nine years. I then met my future wife, who wisely laughed at the thought we might be able to survive in New York City on my meagre salary, so I went to Vogue, and soon after became the founding editor of Men’s Vogue. After 23 issues, and four years, the financial crisis laid an axe to many magazines, including that one. Eventually, I took on the editorship of Town & Country. Then, finally, in 2016, I moved up to Esquire, the magazine, as it happens, that didn’t offer me a job when The New Yorker did, and became that storied magazine’s editor in chief, until – well, you best read about that in The New York Times.  As far as distractions go, magazines were a good one. They made me who I am, gave me a tremendously worldly education, honed my taste, introduced me to all manner of accomplished people, required me to build quite a wardrobe, and paid me pretty well to do all of this, often with a glass of wine not far out of the picture. There was really no other way I would have ever got to taste all the bottles I have (a lot of the big names people whisper about from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Champagne and also Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa). I built a modest cave à vin of my own by buying the Smith Haut Lafittes of the world way before hedge-fund hoi polloi ran up the prices, and by having access to rare offerings, like 12 bottles of Fiorano, the legendary white wine Alberico Boncompagni Ludovisi, prince of Venosa, made before ripping out all his vines. I smelled the musty perfume of Margaux in the cellar as I watched the workers rack the wine by candlelight. I lured Jay McInerney away from the Wall Street Journal to become my wine columnist; and I once stood in Bordeaux’s town square, tight on 2002 Pétrus, trying with great focus to commune with the statue of Michel de Montaigne while my French friend, a true oenophile, extolled the majesty of the Big Mac’s special sauce.  As the editor of a magazine, curiosity is your profession, even to the point of distraction. Editors – writers, too – are prone to it. It’s a hazard of the gift, and having a jumble of ideas, if you’re any good, is key to making a magazine of any real intellectual or creative daring. Now as a husband and father of three, working from home and trying to be ‘present’, and a still youngish former editor and occasional micro-influencer trying to stave off the solitude to fathom and plot the next phase of a fruitful future, this skill of mine, the strength of which became even more magnified over two decades, is something of a family project.  The way I most often hear the word ‘distraction’ now, for instance, is when it’s being hurled at me in verb form by my wife or daughters accusing me of being more of a phone-enslaved screen vegetable than they are. (I respectfully disagree.) But it’s a sore point for two reasons. One, what I did as an editor is, in a nutshell, now what a smartphone essentially does. Not very imaginatively, of course, and not with taste or charm or originality, but with a bloody, money-grubbing ruthlessness that stalks every step of our digital peregrinations and doesn’t give a twist if the algorithms that are its brain make us its slave by retrofitting our attention spans for kindergarten.  The smartphone – not the former me or any of my fellow kind still in the media biz – is now the true croupier of culture, dealing out a targeted shuffle of Pavlovian temptations to the point of daily mental exhaustion. And, though this thing is in many ways my personal nemesis, I am, against every fibre of my being, too often its obedient servant. Aiming not to live according to the famous line by T.S. Eliot – “distracted from distraction by distraction” – I recently decided to at least take a serious inventory of my favourite ones, both those of the pre-digital sort (tennis, The Walking Dead, checking the mailbox, my sock collection) and those of the post-digital sort (the any and everything I do because my phone wants me to). Then I caught myself watching tennis on my phone and realised this might be harder than I thought. It’s enough to drive a person to drink, thank god! With that in mind, I like to keep a special something for the occasion around, in this case – what else? – two bottles of Riesling Kabinett, for it had struck me as more than a little weird that I’ve probably tasted fewer than a handful of German wines in my entire life. Part of the reason is that those I had were bad, and, like a lot of other simpletons about this great wine region of the world, I’d come to think of Riesling as a cloying elixir equal parts green Jolly Rancher, apple cider vinegar, and hairspray. This, I knew, was wrong, not true and, in terms of wine equity and inclusion, on the wrong side of history. But, if you happen to live in a place like I do – a bourgie swathe of Connecticut bordering New York City where the shops cater heavily to Cali-Fran-Taly banker’s tastes – it might take you a few stops to find what Richman recommended, an erzeugerabfüllung (estate-bottled) Kabinett (wine made from grapes with a minimum must weight/sugar content) Riesling, and when you do it will probably be coated in a fine sift of years-old dust. I bought a green (Mosel) bottle for US$16 and a brown (Rhine) bottle for US$20, both handsomely labelled. I opened them a few minutes ago and took several investigative swigs. The words bright, invigorating and snappy came to mind. One is indeed sweeter, and, though not my usual jam, it is tamped by a pleasing peachy tartness, and the classic overtone of honey isn’t making my palate feel doused with syrup. The other example is, as Richman said so long ago, a very finely layered creature with mineral clarity and an echo of baked bread, something a gluten-free person like me finds particularly appealing. A rather obvious thought: why haven’t I been buying this instead of throwing a ton of endless money at affordably bad white Burgundy, which is mostly a product aimed at fulfilling a desired outcome, like White Claw hard seltzer? III. Words But don’t let me get distracted, again. A writer really has to be careful about such things. Just think about it. Unlike, say, a painter or musician or actor or photographer, the process of writing requires zero physical exertion, no chance to score an endorphin release while sitting staring anxiously at a blank page. Of the many things in life that vie against the counter intuitive impulse to be glued to a desk, Cyril Connolly, in Enemies of Promise, his classic study of the things that distracted him (and others) from becoming a great writer, names the temptations but does not say much about why they’re so deeply tempting to someone who would otherwise be sitting alone in an empty room. Praise, money, fame, social prominence, affairs and journalism are the most common boltholes, according to Connolly, who, as a famously late sleeper that married three times, might have also added the bliss of unconsciousness and excessive alimony. In 1938, the year the book was published, he would never have imagined how hard the task might get without a cigarette. Smoking is a death wish, I know, but when you want to off yourself for still having a hundred pages to go, being able to snap open a nice lighter, flick some ash, stub a butt and inhale some lungfuls of focus-enhancing nicotine must have been kind of helpful. Connolly also doesn’t have much to say about drink except that artists who drink to excess do so “out of the consciousness of wasted ability”. According to that, the 20th century’s most famous literary alcoholics – Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Styron, Elizabeth Bishop, James Joyce, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner – might have left behind even greater treasures than they did. Because Ernest Hemingway did almost everything with more gusto than any of his peers, including running up his bar tab, as a drinker he belongs in his own sentence. He is the novelist who most romanced a good drink or nice bottle of wine as one of life’s great pleasures. Who didn’t want to have a vermouth with Jake when reading The Sun Also Rises? (Don’t, it’s gross, at least if you order it at one of those kiosks in Montmartre where the bottles are hung upside down with spring-loaded dispensers.) Or, track down a bottle of Valdepeñas, Hemingway’s favourite variety of Spanish wine. Or, get a drink at the bar named after him at the Ritz, in Paris, and then go somewhere on the Left Bank to order “a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine”.  In the early work, he is not boastful about drinking so much as he is the possessor of an unusual appetite for a good buzz. He is also, like Connolly, aware of the need to keep writing separate from drinking, and drinking within his control. It is hard to read the first paragraph of A Moveable Feast, in which he describes an “evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness”, except as a kind of terrifying admonition to himself. It is tragic that he didn’t heed his own advice. Late in his life, Hemingway became fond of rum daiquiris at the Floridita, his favourite bar in Havana, which might explain his taste for a prose style that soon became too often cloying self-parody. In one of the most extraordinary drinking sessions ever committed to words, in the roman à clef Across the River and Into the Trees, a 50-year-old Hemingway, who was smitten with a teenage Italian countess from Venice, fictionalises his infatuation with a last muse. In one stretch (that covers an evening-to-dawn crawl from Harry’s Bar, the grill at the Gritti Palace, a gondola and a hotel room), one half or another of the couple imbibes: one scotch whisky and soda; six Montgomery Martinis (15 parts gin; 1 part vermouth), two of which are described in size as ‘super’; a bottle of Capri Bianco; two bottles of Valpolicella; two bottles of Roederer Brut ’42; and two bottles of Perrier-Jouët. That is, I suppose, one extreme, and, clearly, not one to be tried at home.  The other might have been espoused by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great critic and lexicographer. As a young man, he’d drained “many a bottle of wine” but loved port especially. (Perhaps Johnson, a devout Anglican who was born in 1709, in the midst of England’s 14-year war with Spain, also first encountered port as a boy at the Communion altar.) He describes himself to friend and biographer James Boswell as having been “apt to go to excess in it”, adding that, “therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it”.  Boswell, who worried about his own dependence on alcohol, even keeping a journal of his intake in an attempt to enforce moderation, argued for a third way, which some of the Romantics later adopted. Wine, he claimed, “produces truth; in vino veritas”. Hoping to persuade Johnson of his point, Boswell once convinced the critic to come down off the wagon for just one glass of claret, so Johnson “might judge, not from recollection, which might be dim, but from immediate sensation”. Boswell reports what happened after the glass was emptied: “Johnson shook his head, and said, ‘Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men,’” adding, “‘A man would be drowned by it before it made him drunk.’”  That actually reminds me of something I think I forgot to mention about Riesling Kabinetts – they’re also highly admired for their low percentage of alcohol. On that note, I think I’ll have another glass.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Jay Fielden, former editor of Men’s Vogue, Town & Country and Esquire, recalls how a magazine column on wine, read in a Texas bookstore, shifted his ambitions beyond journalism and set him on the path to becoming a writer of books.

Former Esquire editor-in-chief Jay Fielden reflects on magazines, writing, Riesling Kabinett and the distractions that shaped a life in words and wine.

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

Unlike many wine-lovers, I came across Occidental before Kistler. I worked for a company that imported some of its early vintages – and they were like nothing I’d ever tasted. These translucent Pinot Noirs glimmered, but their pastel-pale shade was nothing but a nudge and wink at the Burgundies that inspired them. Aromatics leapt from the glass – floral and febrile, but it was the vivid, intense, crystalline purity of the palate that I found so beguiling. Seeing where these wines are made – on the brink of the Pacific, where ocean breezes lash at the vines, and thick fog grasps the dramatic, undulating landscape – only made them all the more enchanting. Even today, 18 years after Steve Kistler first put down vines here, the region is sparsely planted – with Occidental one of a handful of pioneers of the outer reaches of the Sonoma Coast. The area was long deemed too cold to ripen fruit, with dairy the main industry – and fields of grazing cattle and sheep are still interspersed with plots of vines. Occidental’s vineyards – now 85 acres in total – now neighbour those of Platt, Littorai and Joseph Phelps’s Quarter Moon site, sitting at 500 feet above sea level – a modest altitude when you consider some of Napa’s mountain districts have parcels above 2,000 feet. But it’s their proximity to the ocean (which is just five miles away) that makes the climate here so cool – and damp. Leaf-pulling and spraying are key to managing disease pressure – unfortunately making organic farming almost impossible. “We want the purity of fruit to shine,” Catherine (Cate) Kistler says. She joined her father, Steve, six years ago, working as his Assistant Winemaker – just one element that makes the venture a true family business. Not in the way that Walmart or Ford are a family business, but in the hand-to-mouth, everyone-mucks-in, this-is-both-their-livelihood-and-legacy kind of way. It’s a “tight little universe” where they work, live and farm, Cate explains. This is one reason that Steve stepped away from the iconic winery that he’d created in 1978 – Kistler had shifted and grown, becoming something larger than he’d ever anticipated, or necessarily wanted.  Kistler had humble beginnings – with Steve making the wines in what was essentially a wooden shack, and living upstairs. That building – up in the Mayacamas – was consumed by the fires in 2020, and today Kistler works with around 300 acres (including their own vines and those farmed by growers for them). The investment of Bill Price (a man whose first major move in the wine industry was buying, and later selling, Beringer) has added further gloss to a winery that has become one of California’s cult names. If that makes it sound like there’s been wholesale change, that’s far from the truth – a clear succession plan has ensured only the gentlest of evolutions at Kistler, and ensured the producer maintains its position at the top. Jason Kesner – who describes himself as a “vine and yeast shepherd” – is the man at the helm today. He joined the team in 2008 (aged 40), working alongside Steve for close to a decade before taking the reins.  Although born on the East Coast, Kesner grew up around wine. He moved out to California aged eight, where his mother had taken a job as Head Microbiologist at Robert Mondavi, and his soon-to-be stepfather worked as VP of Vineyard Operations – the smells and sounds of a working winery firmly familiar. Despite his early initiation to the industry, he studied cultural anthropology and left both the area and industry. He was eventually lured back, working first for Francis Ford Coppola (the man behind Inglenook’s revival), but in a non-wine role – managing his special projects. Via Coppola’s poker games, Kesner connected with Pat Kuleto and ended up planting vineyards for him, before finding himself at Hudson (his “graduate school for Chardonnay production”). This prestigious name features on bottles from the likes of Aubert, Kongsgaard, Cakebread, Failla and Ramey – and Kesner got to work with all of them, growing top-tier fruit for 34 clients, including Steve Kistler. And Steve was different. He was, Kesner says, “very, very focused”, “hyper-intelligent, borderline genius” and – along with his business partner, the late Mark Bixler – thought about things on a different level. When the duo started Kistler in the 1970s, working with a single clone and single sites, no one else was doing it – with his unparalleled energy and intent, Steve created something profound. Although Kesner had already worked closely with Steve at Hudson, it was only when he arrived at Kistler in 2008 that he realised how differently Steve operated. “I had jumped into a different timeline and a different pace,” Kesner tells me. “Steve and I had conversations that, quite literally, spanned years.” These conversations would be picked up each vintage, just a handful of sentences on a topic expressed until the next season. For Kesner, this long-term vision was what set Kistler apart: “It’s not about the people who are doing it at the moment. It’s about everything that’s come before and it’s about everything that will come after.” The Kistler evolution has been slow, but it has happened – past their phase of “embracing the cocaine ’90s” (“If you weren’t, you weren’t paying attention,” Kesner says), with a shift toward earlier picking, native ferments and reduction in new oak (from 50% down to around 38% across the range today) – but without sacrificing the seductive, silken style that defines their Chardonnay. “Our job is to polish the jewel,” Kesner says. “The diamond doesn’t need to be re-cut.” The vines are also gradually gaining in age (currently averaging a spritely 35 years), which is only improving the wines further. Kesner is continuing Steve’s work and the philosophy remains true to the original concept. “The best and highest use of a given site is when you're guiding it, not driving it,” he says, pointing to Mother Nature (rather than Bill Price) as the ultimate boss. He loathes the title “winemaker” – fully aware that it’s an entire team behind Kistler. “There are 56 people who are dedicated to the production of these wines. They’re out there pruning in January and then they’re going to be out there picking for this year in October. And it’s because of that really powerful group of people that we’re able to do what we do.” Meanwhile, out on the coast, Steve is continuing his own quest for terroir. Occidental, Cate tells me, is all about exploring “what this ridge means”. The yields at Occidental, overlooking the Pacific, are tiny, maxing out at around two tons/acre. The work is painstaking, with careful canopy management and spraying to avoid mildews, and steep slopes that need to be hand-hoed to manage the weeds. And, as at Kistler, the Pinot Noirs here are all made identically – so it is the site, rather than hand of the maker, that shines through. Be that though it may, it takes exceptional talent to make wines like this. “[Steve] is yet again 30 years ahead of everybody in California,” Kesner says. “It might take the American palate a while to catch up with them, but I firmly believe those will be recognised as some of the best Pinot Noirs in the world. Hands down.” Steve’s an elusive character – and seems happiest tucked away in his remote corner of the Sonoma Coast, away from the limelight. “He’s not a man of many words,” Kesner says, although suggests that working with Cate has drawn him out of his shell a little. Cate talks about him unsurprisingly lovingly, but doesn’t shy away from admitting there are challenges to the “weird and wonderful world” of family business. Harvard-educated, she’s quick-witted and sharp, and has clearly inherited her father’s passion for wine. Not only is he clearly deeply embedded in everything Occidental, but his interest goes beyond vine-growing, with what I suspect is an enviable collection of his own, from the alluring line-ups of Grand Cru Burgundy that I’ve glimpsed on Cate’s Instagram. It takes something rather extraordinary to be willing to give up your name, to start from scratch, all over again, with a new winery and new vineyards. But there’s a reason that his longtime vineyard manager (Ruben Molinar) and cellar master (Raymundo Abarca) left Kistler with Steve in 2017; and it’s a tribute to the man. Now Molinar and Abarca’s children are working alongside Steve’s – and the family is growing. But Cate and Steve don’t want to create Kistler 2.0. They’re developing another ranch, but they don’t want the project to become so big that they’re no longer doing most of the work themselves (“We’ve seen that movie,” Cate jests). The first vintage of Occidental was only 2011, but the wines are already making their mark. Steve’s legacy at Kistler lives on, safely being shepherded by Kesner and his team, but it’s also being re-born at Occidental, and set to be carried forward by Cate. “Wine is my dad’s world,” Cate tells me. And it’s quite a world – one that anyone tasting his wines is fortunate to be part of. Browse all Occidental and Kistler listings, or read more about California

Kistler’s Chardonnays are the stuff of legend – but now Steve Kistler has a new project, Occidental, crafting Pinot Noir on the outer reaches of the Sonoma Coast. Sophie Thorpe explores the winemaker’s legacy and these two very special estates

Kistler Chardonnay is the stuff of legend – but now Steve has a new project, Occidental. We explore his legacy and the two special Sonoma wine estates today

Kistler & Occidental – site expression in Sonoma

In pursuit of Sonoma’s true identity: Kistler and Occidental

Hudson-Shah

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Manually set prices will be overwritten. Already listed wines are not affected.

Updates all unlisted wines to current market price.

Set all at market

represents all the wines you currently have in your Portfolio that aren't stored with us. Press the

My cellar

Name

Net price

New portfolio available

New portfolio

You do not have any invoices at this time.

shows all the items from your Portfolio that are currently on the market.

On sale

shows all the items you currently have in your Portfolio. You can perform individual actions on them from this page.

Overview

shows any items that are currently awaiting user action.

Pending

This is the dynamic estimated value of the item with trading margin removed.

This is the amount of profit you will receive if your listing sells.

Pre-authorised payments enable automatic transactions on your behalf, ensuring seamless and hassle-free payments. This allows recurring charges, subscriptions, or scheduled payments to be processed without manual approval each time.

The number of cases you wish to place on sale

Your catalogue item will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Your catalogue items will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Before you request delivery, you can adjust the quantity for each item in your selection below.

* At time of sale a 15% trading fee will be deducted from the final sale price.

Total estimated value*'

The fixed custom price you wish to sell each item for.

Split into {caseSize} individual {bottleSize}cl bottles.

Title

shows all the items you currently store with us. These items can be sold.

Available for sale — items stored with {name} eligible to be listed on the marketplace.

Profile

This item is at Vinfolio, available for storage or shipping. For more information on shipping and handling visit vinfolio.com/shipping

This item is at FINE+RARE HOME Hong Kong, available for delivery or local pickup. Most Hong Kong deliveries can be made within 3 working days, an exact date will be available when arranging delivery. International deliveries have longer lead-times, please contact us for details.

Wines sold en primeur will be released from the producer after bottling, typically 18 months after the so-called campaign ends. Upon arrival your wine will be stored at Vinfolio in our temperature-controlled warehouse until you decide to take delivery.

We will source this item at the guaranteed price from our network of suppliers and arrange expedited shipment to FINE+RARE.
 The lead-time depends on many variables, but 2-4 weeks is typical for expedited sourcing.
 Once your order is confirmed, we'll keep you updated on its ETA.
 Every item is checked on arrival by our expert team, with photographs available on request (please note that charges may apply).

When a wine is on "pre-arrival", it means that we have a confirmed order on the bottles from our supplier and we are simply waiting for the winery or distributor to ship the wine to us. The delivery timeframe for pre-arrival wines varies significantly, depending on where the wine is coming from. We will notify you once they arrive at our warehouse and, at that point, you can decide to arrange shipping or list them for sale.

Hudson-Shah

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