Triste è quel gioco, dove si teme il fuoco.
She looks out the window as the train speeds to Verona. Her mobile battery is dying. The little wrinkles at the edge of her mouth are showing, the collagen treatments no longer reach to the corners. Her hair is coiffed but fashionably messy. She has dark glasses on, the fashionable ones that have the gold logos on the edges of the lenses, guarding the eyes like a pair of lions. She is bored to death.
She was probably a beautiful young woman, but the excesses of affluence have erased the character from the face leaving only a hollow attractiveness. She was born with good genes, though, and all the gold and silver talismans have protected her from bulging out beyond her fashionable black dress. But she is not happy.
She has lost her significance. Sure, she is wealthy and she skis in the chic spots of Switzerland and France and summers in Sardegna or Panarea. But she doesn’t have anything to live for. She has no purpose, other than to assuage the desires and the whims of her husband and children. She is getting desperate.
One can only put on so many pretty clothes, perfume and jewelry. And then something deeper must kick in. And so it is with our dear Italian wines. Revved up fruit, charred wood and fancy labels can only take the industry so far. There must be something deeper, call it character for lack of a better word. But as our lady is finding out, none of us can escape the scythe of time, and if we wish to contribute a deeper meaning to the history of life and wine in Italy, it won’t come by hiring the best wine consultant to run your winery or the best chef to run your kitchen. It will take some heavy lifting and a desire to be part of something greater than one’s own self.
It isn’t enough to just be a millionaire.