A few years later I took a train from Mexicali to Mexico City - three days, stopping at every stop. More ugly Americans, unconscious and insensitive to the culture hosting them. Downright rude, and when drunk, dangerous.
Over decades and many trips to Italy, France, Greece, Spain, and Portugal, I witnessed too many times the embarrassing and unconscionable behaviors - the attitudes, the mores, of American tourists. Fortunately, I blended in and took a side view to their ignorant ways.
But now, the Ugly American has come home to roost. There's no escaping their thunderous ubiety in the United States, no security in the homeland from the hordes of somnambulists roaming the countryside and city with their oversized vehicles and their propensity to disregard the law. Just try going through a green light without checking if stragglers are racing through the red. It happens all the time. Turns out the ugly American scaled perfectly - from loud tourist to national ethos.
What does that have to do with the wine trail in Italy?
This year started with fire. The town where I was born, the last home I lived in in California - leveled. And now as the year ends, what a year it has been, living under disruptive and chaotic leadership that seems designed to keep us perpetually off-balance, perpetually at each other's throats.
As I rapidly approach twenty years of writing on this blog - two decades on the wine trail trying to make sense of what wine means beyond the bottle - I keep coming back to the same question: what is wine for? Not the commercial product, not the points and ratings, but the thing itself. The ritual, the slowing down. Wine as civilizing agent - not because it makes anyone drunk, but because it requires patience. You don't gulp good wine. You don't shout over it. It demands you pay attention, that you acknowledge you're part of something larger than yourself.
Italy taught me this. In the countryside, in the cellars, at tables where strangers become friends over a bottle, wine creates a space where civility isn't just possible - it's inevitable. You can't rush a winemaker. You can't bully terroir. The vine doesn't care about your politics or your schedule. It does what it does, and you either learn patience or you learn nothing.
And now wine itself is under attack from neo-prohibitionists who see it as nothing more than alcohol, a public health menace to be warned against, restricted, taxed into oblivion. They miss entirely what wine has been for millennia - a civilizing force, a bearer of culture, a reason to gather and remember we're human beings, not just consumers or demographics or rival tribes.
When I'm in Italy now, I see something we've lost. Not some idealized past - Italy has its own problems, its own divisions. But there's still a shared understanding that meals matter, that gathering matters, that taking time with a bottle of wine isn't indulgence, it's civilization. It's the opposite of what I see at home - the inability to slow down enough to see the other person across the table.
Maybe wine can't save us. Maybe nothing can. But after forty years of watching how wine brings people together in Italy - not just Italians, but everyone who shows up willing to learn, to listen, to slow down - I'm not ready to give up on the idea that the rituals we've abandoned might show us a way back.
The ugly American abroad was always embarrassing because they refused to adapt, to respect, to learn. The ugly American at home is tragic because we've forgotten we once knew better. We built a country on the idea that we could disagree without being enemies, that there were standards of behavior that transcended politics, that civilization meant something.
Wine won't fix the polarization. It won't make people civil who've decided incivility is a virtue. But for those still looking for a roadmap back, still believing that how we treat each other matters, the wine trail offers something: proof that patience still works, that attention still matters, that sitting down together with something worth savoring can still create the space where we remember how to be human with each other.
It's not much. But it's something. And right now, I'll take it.
