My Dear John Letter to Moscato

It was bound to happen sooner or later. This was never meant to be forever. It’s 3AM and I don’t even know where to send this, you’re not at home. You haven’t been home in ages. You’re on the constant prowl, looking for new places, new people, new conquests. You don’t need me anymore. And quite frankly, I have moved beyond you, little Miss Moscato.


When we first met in the Langhe hills, it was my first time. You were lively, you had wit; you were young but balanced. And oh so sweet and pretty. When you came into a room, everyone turned to look. Your personality effervesced into everyone’s heart and soul, making it your room, your party. Why you chose me, I’ll never know. Looking back, I don’t think you did. You were looking to a bigger audience, a larger prize. I was just there along the way. Yeah, you decided to stick around, play the charade, but you had wandering eyes, you were looking at fields afar. No one could hold onto you.

But I played along, thought you were still the country girl from the rolling hills. When our lips touched, you were still sweet and bright. Maybe I was addicted to you, your charms, your liveliness. Maybe it was your simplicity. But then the city folks got to you. Then you got all juked up with sweetness and power and lost your sense of place.

I walk into a room sometimes and wonder why you moved on. Your cousins are still here, Nebbiolo, Barbara, Dolcetto, even Brachetto. But when I ask if anyone has seen you, they all give different answers. Nebbiolo says, “She’s in Puglia.” Dolcetto says you moved to Oltrepo Pavese. Barbera says she last heard from you in Sicily. And Brachetto says you moved to Bakersfield. Bakersfield?

One thing for sure, we are over. Our fling was just that, a simple little superficial affair. But you took it to mean you were more than God ever intended you to be. You thought you were a superstar. But the folks that are lining up to have a taste of you tonight will move on to the next hot thing.

Now they are dressing you up with peach, with strawberry, even with coconut. Coconut? Yours was the beauty of perfect balance, of simplicity, of life. And they had to weigh you down with molasses and gold. You are no longer what it was that made you desirable. You have become cheap and flaccid. You did this to yourself and now you are suffering from success.

Your cousins in Sicily message me. They never saw it coming, things move slower down there on the islands. They just thought you were trying out new things, but they never imagined you would go the way of all flesh. Your friends in the Colli Euganei saw you come through. Thought you wanted them to come along with you to Venice, to Moscow, to LA. But they weren’t moving in your circles, they didn’t even try to stop you.

What can I say? Maybe you sent me your letter already and it never got to me. Or maybe your actions were your letter. Whatever. We’re done. I have a new love anyway. Another hillside beauty, but one who never lost her soul or her sense of place. I’m spending time this summer further up north with Miss Riesling, and I will get over you. I will.

written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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