We Are Transmitters

Lately, when I sit in front of a blank screen with absolutely no idea about what I am going to write about, one word shouts out to me. Dogs. So today I am going to exorcise, pay homage, or do whatever I need to do to get this voice out of my head.

We have a coyote in the neighborhood and many nervous neighbors. I remember the days in the foothills surrounding Los Angeles, when I was in my twenties and I’d take Aunt Betty’s dog up in those hills. Aunt Betty had passed away and we inherited this old cocka-poo, Fifi. She had long black shaggy hair. So did I. They say dogs take after their owners. Well old Fifi and I were a pair. She loved to go for walks in the hills; it was her time to roam free, like the coyotes we would encounter. That dog would take off like she was a child of those wild ones that made their home in the sage burnished hills. She always returned, but I felt she came back leaving a part of herself in those hills. I know how she felt.

When my son got older than a few months, I’d put him in Aunt Betty’s old Falcon wagon with me and Fifi, and we’d head up into the hills for a walk. This would give his mother some time in the shop to get some work done. My son and I were born within blocks of each other, he in our little California bungalow with a midwife and me in a hospital surrounded by nuns and vineyards. The last I heard, Quentin Tarantino used the forgotten hospital as a set for Kill Bill. It is in an area that was a vineyard for old Los Angeles. On those days when we would head up Eaton Canyon to walk and air out the dog, it was hang time before getting picked by the wine gods to carry on the work that I do.

I believe in some kind of intervention, be it Divine or otherwise ordained by a power larger than all of us. Nature guides and leads us to what we must become and to where we must go in order to express that energy that seethes through our spirit. D.H. Lawrence wrote a poem, called, We Are Transmitters, in which he expressed that idea so beautifully.

Yesterday, a handful of Italian winemakers landed in Texas to visit Dallas, Houston and Austin and transmit their energy to these lands. Ambassadors from Bacchus, dressed in Prada and Gucci. Those stories will follow in days to come. That they are just coming here feels like the reinforcements that get through the lines, once in a while. And while the battle is on the floors of wine stores and in shiny leather booths in dimly lit, fashionable restaurants, the life I have chosen is getting a little bit of help from the ancient vineyards of Italy. Here we convene in Texas, from Italy and California to open bottles and talk to people about the art and the craft and the passion and the love of this concentrated, miracle-blessed grape juice. Funny thing.

How can anyone decide to go into this business and not want to embrace all that it represents from the history of thousands of years of this cycle? How can one not want to squeeze every last ounce of joy from the experience, the gift we have been given to gather and tell stories and open bottles and eat and drink and laugh and love? This sounds so naïve, and that coming from a vet who has been in these trenches for 25 plus years.

If you are in the wine business and you do not feel this I suggest you choose one of several options. It all distills down to this; Get it or get out. Life is too short to waste doing something you cannot throw yourself into 150%.

The other option is to go through the motions. Don’t answer your phone before 9:00AM or after 4:30PM or during the lunch hour, or when you are otherwise occupied. Don’t engage in the dance of the grape. Don’t wake up. Just lie there in the bed staring at the ceiling waiting for someone to rescue you. From yourself.

What about the dog? Well, old Fifi went on to join Aunt Betty, but that old dog had such a nobility about her, something I didn’t quite see so well, until all these years passed ever so quickly. She woke up every morning to answer the call of her destiny, to run with the coyotes, to be as wild as her nature called her to be. To transmit her dog-ness and to teach an old fool in a young man’s skin about life and calling. I will never forget her.

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

Choppin' in the Woodshed

A Nor’easter is bearing down on NYC, planes are arriving late and I am packed and ready to catch a 7:00 am flight, right into the middle of the Big Slushy Apple, tomorrow morning. Hopefully, I will get there in time for the events. Importer Vias is celebrating their 25th anniversary and the wine will be flowing at the portfolio tasting and dinner to follow.

Yesterday I spent the afternoon on the floor of a local wine store specializing in Italian wines. From time to time, I get in there and roll up my sleeves and sell some boxes, it’s really a lot of fun. Then when things slow down, I attack a section or two and try to make sense of the set. Back in the old days, when I was a retail rat, re-sets were a part of weekly life. So it is second nature to me. Yesterday I took on the Brunello and SuperTuscan section. It seems some of the distributor’s salespeople don’t know a Brunello from a Tignanello, fancy that?

OK, so this will be a short rant followed by some wine notes. Warning: This is not a short post.

I was really concerned to see folks in the store looking to buy wines, expensive wines, and they were having a hard time finding the wines that correlated with the shelf talker. When I got down and looked with a couple of customers, I even was having a hard time finding the wines. But now it is all in order. That will last about 2 days. It’s really a shame, because the salespeople who just throw a wine in any old place really do a disservice to many people. First, to the consumer, making it hard for them to find the wine. Secondly, to the hard working, never-take-a-vacation store owners, who invest money in product, only to see it be merchandised not in a user-friendly way. Let’s see, we’ll just put an Amarone in the Barolo section, where there is a hole. Or let’s put a Sangiovese in with the Montepulciano d’Abruzzo section. Thirdly, the salesperson is doing a disservice to their employer and their importer and their winemakers, because the wines get lost and all that hard work getting the wine to the front line gets hidden in a bunker, never to see the light of day. It has been like this for as long as I have been in the business, but it really is a primitive problem, one that online retailers don’t have to contend with. And friends of mine, who would rather hunt on-line than in-bins, don’t spend their money on wines we all have worked so hard to get out there.

Anyway, we just have to keep going back and setting it right. And that’s one of the things we do, when we be choppin' in the woodshed.

Now for the wines.

I did have a number of pleasurable moments with customers. People came up to me and said things like, “I want to buy a case of wine, give me what you like to drink,” or “I don’t care how much it costs, give me some big reds,” and “ I just got back from Italy and I want to know more about the wines of Campania, Basilicata and Apulia.” Music to my ears.

These five were some of my go-to wines this weekend. The store is like this wonderful artist’s palate with all these colors (flavors) and tons of folk wanting us to paint ‘em a picture. Can do. Good feeling. Visceral. Selling. Hunting. Bagging the catch. Yeah!



Brunello di Montalcino – Castiglion del Bosco
I put this wine in many hands for a couple of reasons. First, the wine is drinkable and accessible. So if folks want to try a Brunello, this is a great gateway Brunello. It tastes Tuscan, it has healthy fruit, it is not excessively expensive and it is really a nicely balanced wine. I met Enologist Cecilia Leoneschi at the Merano Wine Festival in November. She is taking on the old men in Montalcino and holding her own. I admire the owners for giving her rein. Cecilia brings her perspective to Brunello. That is, for me, a lighter hand, letting the grape come through, not wrestling it to the ground, but rather, gliding it into the bottle. One to watch for in the years ahead, Cecilia is young and in for the long haul.

Lambrusco Grasparossa di Castelvetro from Tenuta Pederzana
You cannot do better with a plate of salumi than with this wine. Chill it up a little bit, and start your engines. From the Grasparossa grape, I took a bottle over to a chef from Emilia-Romagna the other day. Now this guy has known me for years, but has rarely if ever acknowledged my presence in his world. When I handed the bottle to his son to give to him, you’d think I was his long lost cousin. His eyes lit up, he smiled, he liked me he really, really, liked me. I owe it all to this friendly little Lambrusco.

Get yourself hooked up with a Lambrusco like this. It takes the snob off the table. It’s subtle and bold, delicate and a romp. It’s a serious wine that laughs at itself. Go get you some.


Vermentino Vinga “U Munte” from Colle dei Bardellini - Riviera Ligure del Ponente
Long title for a white wine. I had a gent who was looking for a white with character, didn’t care how much it cost. “Hit me with your best shot,” was his challenge. I recounted my recent trip to the region, pulled it from the top shelf and handed it to him. “Take this home and don’t tell too many people I told you about this wine,” I said. He countered with the inevitable “Why?”

What can I say? They don’t make a lot? True. We don’t get a lot? True again. No, I had another motive.
I want most of it for myself. There is something about my attraction for this region that recharges me on the wine trail in Italy. It’s like a new Italy has just risen with the new day sun. It’s a revelation, it’s a wonder, and the wine embodies all that energy. All for under $20. You open the bottle and all of Liguria opens up with it. Fragrances, herbs, salt, high altitude old-growth, perfume, richness and serenity.


Re Manfredi Terre del Svevi Basilicata Bianco
While we were taking bottles off the top shelf, I also handed this bottle to the same gentleman. Where in the world of wine do you have the paradox of a landscape like Basilicata? Then take white grapes that were born and raised in parts of Italy where German is the mother tongue. Muller Thurgau and Traminer, hijack and sequester them in deep, dark, Basilicata. It is cold in Basilicata in January, but the grapes have found their winter home. There is fruit and that reminds me of aromatic West Coast whites from California, Oregon and Washington. There is forbidding landscape filled with rocks and stones and pumice and all sorts of impenetrable minerality. And the wine picks it up as the vine squeaks through the cracks in the earth. I have tried this wine with all sorts of food and am looking forward to the day when I taste it with cooking from someone’s aunt or grandmother from Potenza or Matera or Rionero.



Cadetto Rosso Nero d’Avola from Tenuta La Lumia in Licata, Sicily
The winery could be someone’s dream of a winery in Old California. Mine. But it is firmly rooted in Old Sicily.
This is a wine that has going on, underground, all sorts of mineral wealth. If it were in Texas, they’d probably strip mine it and be done with it, git us some Hummer fuel. But this is Sicily and that won’t happen. All I can really say about this wine is that when I open it and taste it, it makes me happy. It fires up all my synapses relating to some Sicilian-well-being molecules that reside within these mortal walls. I can taste the wine right now, there’s cherry and salt and rare meat and pomegranate and orange peel and Idiazabal and Mimolette and Canestrato. Who needs food? Just a little hard bread and one of the aforementioned cheeses- Happiness in Paradise.


Tomorrow, we head into snow and slush and delayed planes and Manhattan gridlock and more wonderful wines from the wine trail in Italy.

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

Fun Tina, Bar Talk and Fran's List

No animal was harmed to make this meal- Take that, Bertolucci

One of the conflicts about having a job and writing a blog is that sometimes there isn’t enough time to do it all.Yesterday was a long day. I got home after 9:00 pm. A reception for Italian trade, followed by chat sessions around the bar at Bicé.

What I really want to do is a list. But I have these pictures and they need to be woven in. I don’t know why, but that is the way my mind works. So let’s have at it.


Do we all secretly want to eat dog food in Hell?
I talked with one of my colleagues tonight, on the way home. He is worried about his daughter, because her dog found a tampon in the garbage and ate it. Of course, the dog got sick and had to go in to get unplugged.

Word to the dog – chase something that shows signs of life. Look at the cat chasing the mouse. Do you see a pattern here?

The list
1) Re: Sales - Find the live ones.


Is there nothing today’s chef won’t plug?
Recently Molto Nascario could be found blogging on a website called Serious Eats, called Mario Unclogged. That lasted about 15 minutes. Then he started his own blog and that lasted about as long as it takes to digest one of those hot dogs from street vendors in New Orleans. Yes, Reginald, as you say, "talk about a confederacy of dunces." Heaven help us if he starts hawking for Kohler.

Word to MM – you have enough money – now stop.

The List
2) Re: Livelihood - Sauté or get off the pot.


How many Italians can you fit into a Taxi?
In New York, or Buenos Aires, getting around town in a taxi is a way of life. In Dallas or Houston, not really. Out west, until the oil runs dry or the polar ice caps melt, we will continue to ferry folks around in SUV’s or Minivans. It’s all part of the heritage of the covered wagon culture. Heck of a job, Biondi.

Word to Mimi – you have enough money – now stop.

The List
3) Re: Knowing when to get out- before the cab starts rolling.


Vinitaly is in 82 days – Do you have a room?
Every year, on the day after Vinitaly, I go to a hotel I saw along the way, to reserve for the next year. And every time they tell me they have no room. That is the Italian Funk to me, and that is why Italians will be the last to know that they have collectively been complicit in the funkification of a great country.

Word to Verona – Vegas is watching - and waiting.

The List
4) Re: Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue – or lofty expectations?


Speaking of a blue funk
Lately, everyone I ask, Italian or American living in Italy, have all resoundingly opined that Italy is in deep donkey-doo. A young Sicilian, living in Texas, says it’s because they went off the lire. A Texan-now-Tuscan confirms, even though Bella Italia is wonderful, trying to get things done, without “cheating”, is impossible.

34-year-olds from Italy write me, telling me they want to move to South America. American youth write to me, telling me they want to go work for free in Italy. Who’s on first?

Word to 30-somethings everywhere- even though your parents raised you, in Italy and California, that they loved you just-the-way-you-are, the rest of the world didn’t sign off on that.

The List
5) Re: Having it your way – unless you’re a genius or your family has gazillions – You’re going to have to do it the old-fashioned way: You’re gonna hafta earn it – just like the rest of the folks on earth.


Did someone say donkey?
Whatever happened to the secret Italian wine project, Three Girls and a Donkey? Well the girls are still around, but the donkey got fired. Seems he didn’t want to carry wood down the hill. Thought he was a real estate mogul.

Word to donkeys who buy homes in Brooklyn and stop going to work- The bubble burst. And don’t you look ridiculous walking around your home town in a robe? What would your mother say?

The List
6) Re: Making money without working – It’s like those vibrating exercise machines from the 1950’s. If you don’t sweat you probably won’t last – not in this business.


Fun Tina
“When the legs go, I’ll stop wearing those short skirts”, was the word heard on the street. Well, the old man is gone, and the estrogen is running out. So drink your drink and dance your dance, 'cause it’s 1:50 in the morning and time for last call.

Word to young men looking to bag a cougar at the bar – Get back in your cage. Your nets are out of their range.

The List
6) Re: The End – it’s closer than you think.

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

In the Silence of the Desert

As a young boy I would sit out in the desert and talk to my old friend whenever my mom and dad were arguing or when I was alone and didn’t have anyone else to talk to. Growing up in Palm Springs was a gift. It was a small town (locals called it “the Village”), the night skies were breathtaking, and my old friend, Mt. San Jacinto, was considered an ancient and wise one by the Native Americans, the Agua Caliente Cahuilla tribe.

I would sit before that majestic pile of primordial rocks and pour my heart out, and old San Jacinto would talk back. Sometimes it would be in a dream, and sometimes it would be far in the future. But my meetings with the wise old man would be an important part of my upbringing and a source in my life for silent counsel and revelation.

From the years I lived in the desert and into the times when I would return, there have been special memories of events and encounters that oddly intersect some of my experiences on the wine trail in Italy. I’d like to share a few of them with you.

Capture the Flag
As Boy Scouts, we’d often camp around the desert. One place we camped was Chino Canyon, at the base of Mt. San Jacinto. I loved being a Boy Scout, for it got me away from home and feeling self reliant, an independence that, in those days, was a safe way to loosen the umbilical cord a little at a time. One of my favorite past times was playing Capture the Flag. Basically it is a free-for-all between two teams of boys, played in darkness. In the desert, if there wasn’t a moon, there were always plenty of stars to keep the night from being pitch black. We were two packs of wild boys, with few rules, intent on capturing players on the other side and ultimately, the flag. What I loved about it was the freedom, the uncertainty, with some fear of loss, and the thrill of victory. All this taking place under the desert sky, running around, not worrying about the snakes, tarantulas, scorpions, coyotes or bobcats. It was pure joy.

I liken it to a wine I had recently from Liguria, a Pigato. Also a desert dweller, in the semi-arid hills around Imperia, Pigato has that wildness and racy quality about it that is exciting and ultimately joy-giving.

Midnight at the Oasis
Another Boy Scout camping trip. This time we were at the 1000 Palms oasis. Surrounded by wind-whipped dunes and the occasional out cropping of Tamarisk trees. 1000 Palms always seemed exotic and mysterious to me. This time we were invited to a wedding ceremony of an Agua Caliente couple. I remember the music and the drums. It all seemed so natural, not like when we would go to Disneyland and see some watered-down re-creation of life in America before the European invasion. No, this was a simple ritual, performed with grace and respect. I loved it. I remember, for some reason, fried bread. And dates. After the wedding, we went back to our tents on the Western Front.

This time I recall a Franciacorta, a style called Saten, which is calmer and subdued. It has a nice toasty, yeasty nose, reminding me of the fried bread. And the silky quality of the Saten is a wonderful wine for a ceremony, even if it is only with baked eggs on a Sunday morning. Of course it would taste better if we were camping outside and cooking the bacon over an open fire.

Lost Horizon
Often we would hike up Tahquitz Canyon to the falls. Frank Capra made the place famous when he used it in a scene from his movie about Shangri-La. Frank was a Sicilian from the same village as my father’s parents. They spoke the same Arberesh dialect, so I have been told.

In the 60’s, hippies would go up to the falls, get naked and take LSD. I would go up there and film them. The 10 minute 16mm film I made has long since disappeared, along with some of those souls. But the place was so beautiful, and in the heat of the desert in the summertime, to walk a couple of miles and be able to take a dip in the cool mountain water was a thrill of nature. We were living in paradise.

What kind of wine from the trail corresponds with an experience like that? For me it would have to be a wine that would be white, cool and exotic. Something like a Malvasia from Lipari or a Torcolato from the Veneto. Just a little sip, not too much. Just a touch to rekindle such fond memories.

Engaging the Bruja
In later years after I had moved away, I went to a gathering in Palm Canyon. We had the baby with us. Somewhere along the way I got separated from the family, and in a little nook of the canyon, along the trail, a native woman approached me. She was young, like me at the time, and possessed an aura of power about her. She confronted me, not in an angry manner but as one alpha animal to another in the wilderness, testing the other's relevance. It was right out of Castaneda, but it didn’t scare me. It was almost like recognizing one of the creatures in the desert and knowing not to disturb its place. With rattlesnakes, one can sense them near by their unique odor, similar to heather, dust, a little mildew, rotting truffles and sage. The spirit woman wanted to know why I was here. I told here I was not here to disturb her or challenge her, merely to show my son the desert. I often wonder what happened to the bruja. Did we ever meet as children? Or was she a spirit, in the guise of a coyote or a spider, testing my will?

I am reminded of a Sicilian wine when I think of this memory. The wine is Lamúri from Tasca d’Almerita. Native red, Nero d’Avola, grown in sandy soils and tempered in French oak. Taking the indigenous desert daughter and confronting it with the wood of the Great White Father. Testing the will of the wine.
Lamúri, which means love in Sicilian dialect, reminds me of that moment in the desert when lightning struck.

I have never told these stories to anyone, but they make up a part of my core that is as important as my Italian heritage. It is my connection to this native land where I was born.

I have a childhood friend who is Agua Caliente. We have known each other for many moons. I think of her and remember her as a sister.

Sometimes when I dream I go back to the desert and visit my old friends, the shamans and the wise ones who watched over me when I was a young one. I also feel their watchful presence on the wine trail in Italy.

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

The Tango Lesson

OK, Italian winemakers, importers, suppliers, brokers and other hopefuls, listen up. Today we are going to have the tango lesson.

Recently a soon to be open Italian-styled restaurant decided that needed to know more about Italian wine. Over a period of a month, all of the local suppliers gathered up their samples and went about-a-courting.

Now, mind you, this is a group who seem to have their feet on the ground, most of the time. They have had successful businesses and give to charitable causes. They aren’t entertaining any grandiose ideas about conquering the Italian wine and food scene; they are just looking to open a nice place for the people in their area. They aren’t looking to do one spot as the concept model, with the idea of doing twelve more in a year. That’s a definite recipe for disaster.

They aren’t even talking as if they are or will soon be “the greatest”, another pitfall I have seen. All that’s left of those places are their matchbooks in my bathroom. They have died, and yes, not with a bang, but a whimper.

No, these folks are interested in change, and first in changing their ideas about Italian wine, and hopefully finding a style in their area that the local patrons will come to enjoy and appreciate. That’s what I get from hanging around them.

But there are so many wines to be tried from Italy and because the new place will be in an area where local folks consider the fine wines of the world to have names like Silver Oak, Screaming Eagle and Contoured Edge, wines with names like Camp du Rouss, Pergola Torte and Zanna are a bit “furrin”, and right now “furriners” are laying low.

Along with Italian wines they are also trying wines from everywhere else in the world.

That’s the background.

Today’s lesson is about the 150 or so wines vying for the eight slots available on the banquet and catering list. Eight. Period.

This day, in the dark of the early morning while the frost was still on the branch, eight or so of us vendors trekked out to the hinterlands of our urban sprawl and lined our foil covered wines up in rows so these Catechumens could be initiated into the sacred mysteries of the blind tasting.

The scent of a wine times 150 – now what are the odds that your wine will get picked? If you cringe at this kind of exercise, wake up, because this is happening everyday across the country, just like this, many times over. To get a single placement that may or may not bear fruit. I kid you not. It isn’t romantic, it isn’t pretty, nobody likes it, but it is one of the facts of life in these here United States, if you want to sell wine. So many wines aiming for so few slots.

So if you don’t like the odds, stay home under the warmth of your Tuscan Sun. Here, in the combat zone, it's cold and it's dark, no bright lights of "Dancing with the Stars". But this is the part of the business very few of us talk about. It’s the frontline of the battle fields, where we go daily to dance our dance as good as our wines will let us, hopefully with the form of a great tango dancer or ballet artist or even a Fred and Ginger. Yep, I’d happily trip the lights with F&G.


Capeesh?

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

The 35th of December

Today, in the parlance of the sales world, is the last day of the year. You see, in the wine business, we have this flexible view of the Gregorian calendar, and in order to reach some lofty goals, we have extended 2007 until today. It’s a new-math way to squeeze a little more out of the already hesitant retailers and the almost exhausted restaurateurs, who are entering a busy segment of their cycle for the next 3 months. For the retailers, though, stick a fork in them, they’re done.

It has been a rough, rough December. In my witnessing of the cycle of this wine business, this reminded me of 1990, right before we went into the first Gulf War. It reminded me of 1987, after the stock market crash of October. Also it was the beginning of an election cycle, always a year for conservative growth and sluggish tendencies.

So this is a bit of an industry wonks view, the state of the state of things. 2008 ain't gonna be pretty. Then again I had no idea 2007 would end this well.

December, though, has been the beginning of the downward spiral of the cycle, as I see it. The worrisome bit is, usually the alcohol industry rallies when the economy slumps. People self medicate. Witness the post-Katrina growth of business in Louisiana and New Orleans, especially. I’d drink more if it would make this 12 day headache go away. But that’s another story. The story this time is that people arent rushing to fill their liquor cabinets, in the same way as they used to.

I penned a quick email to another blogger on my way to tango lessons.

It’ll be interesting to see how the year 2007 will be viewed:

- By Italian suppliers
- By American importers

I'm seeing higher spikes in the sales increases, by dollars, than by cases, though only a by 1 percent. However, the sales in dollars, the money we take to the bank, vs. the actual cases, the actual stuff of wine, there is a disparity and it is growing. so while some of the importers will crow about what a great year it has been (not too bad) I wonder what the actual producers will say when they don't see more money in their coffers.

One of the interesting things about the weak dollar is that distributors sell less and make more. More money in the bank, because of the weak dollar? So why cry?

There is still the problem of those cases....and 2008 looming with an election year combined with inflation (we're seeing it out there in the hinterland) and, oops we're sending our illegal workforce back to where they came from....not too good for the restaurant segment.....

It’ll be a year that I'm sure many will be glad to be viewing from their rear view mirrors, from a financial perspective that is.

Gotta go, tango lessons in 30 minutes.... today's winner gets the bombacha...


Already new suppliers are emailing and calling for appointments. I looked at our inventory today and we have as much on order as we already have in warehouses. That would be a response to the price increases and an attempt to load up on already proven items in an attempt to forestall increases to the trade. Buying time by buying on time. Forget about just in time, this time. Roll ‘em in, hope like hell to sell them before the slow moving report sends them to Purgatory (close-out land).

And still more suppliers knock, wanting to get in. Please send 100 more great salespeople and 500 more great accounts. Then let's tawk.

Or, make sure the wholesalers make 30%, the retailers make 40%, and it still looks like a bargain to the consumer. Oops again, we’ve been wal-marted. Thank God wine doesn’t yet come from China in vast quantities. Then again, look at shoes. Or better, try to find a pair of shoes that aren’t made in China. Or ties. Better save your old clothes, get your shoes repaired and trek on over to Italy once in a while for replacements. Made in Italy by Bulgarians, Ethiopians or Chinese, now isn’t that better? Especially for those making them?

So what’s the re-solution, Watson?

Bear down, eyes on the road. Keep it simple, put down the machines. Look the customer in the eye (instead of the computer). Make contact, show commitment, dig in, feel their pain. Carry the load, no quick fixes, win hearts. Dance with your partners, speak the truth and never, never give up.




Feliz Año Nuevo!

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

Photos: Buenos Aires

All Roads Lead To...

My adult introduction to Italy was August 15, 1971. I had decided on my twentieth birthday in July that I would go to Italy by myself. So I bought a round trip ticket from Los Angeles to Rome for $900.00, a tidy sum then.

When I landed in Rome on that hot August day, and decided to try walking from the airport to the city, all it took was to get as far as the giant statue of Leonardo da Vinci, to convince me, backpack and all, that I should probably catch a bus.

Once I arrived at the Stazione Termini in Rome I decided to look for a place to exchange dollars for lire. Impossible, it was a national holiday, Ferragosto. It was also a Sunday. To make matters worse, Nixon had just devalued the dollar. I walked around the neighborhood of the train station, found a little pensione on the Via Palestro near the university and somehow managed to talk the landlady into letting me have a room.

I was excited and a little bit jet lagged, so I set my gear down and decided on a little nap. Some hours later I awoke to the sounds of an Italian television program in the kitchen. I thought I had slept for days, but it was probably 4 or 5 hours, just enough to keep me from getting on Italian time.

The kind landlady made me a plate of pasta and some vegetables, and offered a glass of red wine. How wonderful it all tasted. Here I was in a strange boarding house in a big city with people I didn’t know, who were treating me like family. It was a moment that really made me see Italy and Italians through a lens that I still sometimes use. We were only 25 years away from the liberation of Italy during World War II; perhaps the landlady took pity on the young American. It wasn’t that much money, I think with half pension it was about 1,500 lire, or $2.50 a day. My room I would have to share if someone else came in. But it never happened that anyone else came to that pensione in August.

Walking around Rome during the day would be my introduction to Italy. And I walked everywhere, with my cameras, photographing everything in black and white, Tri-X film, with my Canon rangefinder cameras. I was living the dream of a young man to be a street photographer, and Rome was my canvas.

From the Villa Borghese to the Fontana di Trevi, the Sistine Chapel to the Baths of Caracalla, there was no backdrop that I wouldn’t shoot in the blistering heat and humidity of Rome in August.

In that time the city was quiet, many people out of town in cooler places. Just a few tourists and the workforce of Rome, who stayed behind to keep the city running. Many shops were closed for the month, but there was enough life in the Eternal City to get a feel for a place that humans have inhabited for thousands and thousands of years.

Even though I don’t get to Rome so often these days, I have an affection for the city that took me in as a young man, without lire and without being able to speak much of the language. I had my Michelin guide, my cameras and my desire to learn about the country of my grandparents. This would not be my last trip to Italy, but rather the beginning of many visits to Italy and to Rome.





Notes on the photos - they were all taken in Rome in 1971 with my Canon rangefinders.

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