Wine is different.
Does wine love you back? Does it miss you when you stop drinking it? No more than the chatbot misses you when you close the browser.
But for a long time, I couldn't parse the animate from the inanimate connections and emotions associated with them.
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| The three wines that began 2026 so well |
I used the day as an opportunity to liberate some of my older wines. Seeing as the new year ends in a “6” I opted for wines from years ending in “6,” namely 2006 and 1996. Three wines were picked.
I considered switching over to Substack. They have better analytics and push from the platform, versus the necessary pull from the legacy platform, Blogspot, which even its owners AI representative (i.e. Gemini) claim has become a digital ghost town. Maybe so. Or perhaps it's like a vintage sports car that just needs to be cared for. While it doesn't have the bells and whistles of the newer models, it still can get up and go and eventually get you somewhere. That's where we've been going for the last twenty years on the wine trail in Italy.
2025 was a year of reckoning and remembrance. I wrote on average, a post a week—each one a conversation I needed to have, either with myself or with you. Looking back, they organized themselves into five distinct streams, which I am re-sharing with you below.
This almost year-end piece organizes some of my more notable posts from 2025 into five thematic streams. It's a way to see the full range of what I tackled this year.
I'll be back next week on the official day, the 20th anniversary date, with some thoughts and reflections and possible directions (maybe even some predictions) I plan on taking in 2026. In the meantime, enjoy the encore presentation, and Merry Christmas, y'all.
I was in my local Italian market last week, picking up olive oil and pasta. A woman nearby stood staring at the wine section, Brunellos lined up like soldiers. She looked lost. I asked if she needed help. She did—looking for something specific. I found it for her, pointed out a couple alternatives, and moved on.
Walking away, a thought flickered through my mind: "I bet she doesn't know she just got advice from someone who spent forty years working with Italian wine." I laughed at myself and kept walking toward the eggs. What a ridiculous thing to think.
But it raises a question I've been chewing on for years: what actually makes someone an Italian wine expert?
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.
Nothing wrong with any of that, I suppose. But that's not the Italy that's stayed with me for fifty-some years. The Italy that changed me wasn't the one I planned. It was the one I stumbled into when I got lost, when I let go, when I trusted a stranger's gesture instead of a guidebook.
Italy reveals itself differently. Not when you grasp at it, but when you open your hands.
Are you ready for Italy? Or are you only ready for the Italy you've already decided on?
So here are five experiences for your surrender list. Understand this: these aren't things to collect. They're ways to fail by tourist standards—and succeed by Italy's.
From the "Oops!... they did it again" dept.
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| Family outing Old California circa early 1930's - Nonna bottom right |
Marion Nestle doesn't believe in breakfast. At 89, this nutrition expert who's spent decades exposing the food industry says most of the research claiming breakfast is the most important meal was sponsored by cereal companies. Kellogg's and General Mills needed to move boxes. They manufactured urgency. We bought it.
But nobody marketed the meals that actually mattered. My grandfather's brick bar-be-cue in old California. Every Sunday under the grape arbor. Probably the first place wine touched my lips. Those traditions—gathering, sharing a meal, an anonymous bottle or two of wine—they're gone now.
Retrieved from my spam file 😉*
I made my way to the cellar. Cool stone underfoot, a single light carving shadows from the darkness. My cousins were already there, not doing much of anything. Just present. Just attending. We didn't talk much. Didn't need to. The wine was holding court - that gentle gurgle and hiss of wild yeast doing ancient work in wicker-wrapped demijohns that might have held our great-grandparents' wine.
Not literally. Not yet. But the vines are telling a story that contradicts oodles of years of wine history. Barolo is sweating. Chianti is scrambling. Prosecco is looking nervously at the thermometer. Meanwhile, on a volcano in Sicily and in the forgotten hills of Basilicata, indigenous grapes that have spent millennia dealing with heat and drought are suddenly looking like the smartest bet in Italy.
For the first time in modern wine history, the center of gravity is shifting. Not because of fashion or critics or investment. Because of physics. Because southern Italy—the part that was always too hot, too rustic, too other—turns out to be the part that already knows how to survive what's coming.
But here's what you won't see: the unspoken contract. The implicit understanding that this week in Chianti, these meals, this business-class ticket, comes with an expectation. Not a requirement, mind you. Just an... understanding. You don't bite the hand that flies you first class and puts you up in a restored monastery. That would be ungrateful.
Is this journalism? Marketing? Or something murkier that we've all agreed not to examine too closely?
Ten years I wrote 5 Italian Wine Regions to Watch in 2015. Ten years - long enough to age a Barolo, to see a vineyard replanted reach maturity, to watch trends rise and fall like the tides at San Benedetto del Tronto. So what did I get right? What did I miss? And what does the murky sphere tell me now?
