When it all gets to be a little too much, when the heat of the day goes from tepid to searing, when all this running around and shuffling and commotion becomes just so much noise and distraction, I pull in. I want my own little vision of Italy to wield its power over me. I don’t want to worry about whether or not I speak or understand the language well enough. I never will. I’ll never be an insider in the language of words department. That’s for other people with those talents.
No, the little universe of Italy that’s wrapped around my heart and mind is a place somewhere in the middle, with rolling hills and a nearby beach with salty water and the setting for the happiness that Italy represents to me. My Italy isn’t perfect but it’s damn well near, and it works just fine for me.
My Italy has endless fields of vines, trellised any which way; it doesn’t matter. Because no matter how they are arranged on the stalks the grapes that come from them will turn into a wine that isn’t judged by the alcohol or the pH or the residual sugar or the character of the ambient yeasts that are attracted to the berries hanging on those stalks. It just doesn’t matter. They are perfect for me and my needs and they have been for as long as I can remember.