I had to laugh. I was back in El Paso, Texas, coming down the stairs of the hotel. On the floor was a fortune. I stopped to take a picture of it, thinking it might have some meaning down the road.
The road, the trail, the dog days of summer and the search for more converts. Silence finally blankets my space. No ranting, no heated passion, just peace. Maybe a chance to rest before the next day appears with the sun.
Yes it is successful, but it is a slog through a pool of Jell-O shots.
The little seaside town in Puglia caught on fire in late July. The cool aquamarine water couldn’t save everyone. There was tragedy, even in Paradise.
In El Paso, a man at a wine dinner calls me over to his table. “Where are you from? You don’t sound like an Italian.” I told him where I was from. “That’s not where Italians live.” This guy was getting on my nerves. “I’m from a place that sounds like Firenze, but its down near Abruzzo, that wine you were just talking about. I’m from Forenza.” Oh really. Here’s a man telling me I’m not an Italian (I’m not, I am a grandchild of Italian immigrants) and then he doesn’t even know where his people are from. Forenza, between Potenza and Rionero in Vulture. That would be Basilicata, chum. That’s the kind of nonsense I hear daily, when it comes to Italian wine. E la nave va.
Some time at home with friends and family. A nice Slow Food pot luck dinner, with all kinds of interesting wines from Germany, Italy, France and California. Nothing so bold or dashing, but relaxing and life-affirming. A quiet slice of life.
The rag-tag group of old guys who I taste wine with from time to time. Last week we took our time through a flight of Meritage wines from California. Pleasant, some better than others, but nothing bad. Interesting to note, the Opus One we had, an 1988, was 12.5% alcohol. The newer wines from this century were 14.5% and up.
I have taken to wearing a tuxedo with shorts at wine tastings. I don’t know why. Perhaps the influence of the Southern beaches, where life is casual.
Some of you might be disappointed in the direction of this web site and these postings. Perhaps the schedule of three serious postings a week has finally taken its toll. Maybe I have run out of things that are interesting to write about. I know the young guests have put some life back into this old blog. The “intern”, Beatrice, has a voice and when there is a contribution from that camp, it seems to get lots of hits. And Arthur and his odd couple, now known as Ziff & Dale, I hate to tell you, but it gets even more traffic. So the blog is evolving and changing. And I’m just staring at the sky, waiting for my next plane to land, so I can catch it to another place to spread the gospel of Italian wine according to me. It's like going to Disneyland everyday.
A dashing and bold adventure, indeed.