Once Upon a July

It’s my month, definitely my month. This is the period when I take a breather from the daily grind, crank back, calm down and tan up. Often there is some beach time on the Adriatic. But this year, it’s all done as a remote viewer. There’s too much going on here. The wine trail in Italy must wait. And maybe my month as well might need to be put on the back burner.

I went looking for signs of economic life in America, in the restaurants, in the markets, in the liquor stores, in the lakeside dancing spots, looking for hope that the America I grew up in was still there. Maybe a little dented, bruised, but not down for the count.

The thing is, it looks like all across the globe, except for the extremely wealthy, we are in a pinch. Italy is in a crunch, things there are expensive. Across America, East Coast, West Coast, flyover country, there are signs not only that things are slowing down but the people don’t seem be able to recognize what we’re in. My 94 year old mother commented to me today, that she thinks this could be worse than the Depression she went through as a young American. My mother, who is paying almost $5 for a gallon of gas.

And folks at farmers markets, selling their organic berries, still think Barack Obama is a foreigner or a Muslim? We are standing in the square at High Noon and this is one noir moment in our history.

And what is the Italian response? From Italy, it seems that silence is what they are serving back. I am astonished that they think this would be an appropriate response. Like the cat that sits in the corner and pretends to not see you, thinking if they don’t look at you, you will think there aren’t there. Invisible. Not culpable. Unbelievable.

I have been reviewing wine lists across my region and am amazed that no one has thought to re-adjust their mark up so that folks could actually be persuaded to get in their SUV’s and go out to dinner and possibly order a bottle of wine. Salespeople all across my region are telling me, in places both reasonably priced and high end, things have slowed down, body count is down. Except in Afghanistan.

Listen, you buy a bottle of wine for $25, you charge $90. Wrong. You charge $60, maybe, and give the diners a break. They are already taking it in their tanks; find a way to bring them back in. Because if you don’t, you might not be able to get them back in, even if you charge only $50. It’s heading that way, faster than a brushfire in Southern California.

Here’s a sign of the times. We have 700-800 cases from a winery in Puglia, the wine just showed up. Suits on Stockton Street decide to move the wine over to another house. Happens all the time. This here now is fresh wine, retails for $11-12. Although a year or so ago the same wine could be found for $9-10. Anyway, I get to offering this wine for $5 for the whole lot, way below cost. Don’t know why, maybe to slow it down in its next life cycle, maybe to give a friendly account a deal. Now here’s the shocker. I run it by a couple of accounts across the state and the wind-up is, they can’t take it all. Yes, it’s a good deal, they admit, but cash flow or body count is low. So, no deal.

That, my friends, is not a good indication. For any of us. Not for the bio-dynamic, free-range, sulfite-free crowd and not for the let’s go get some K-J at Cost-Co crowd. I have been talking about this for a while now and folks are just trading down, not one or two price points, but more. Hey, Rumsfeld and the Pentagon tried it, and didn’t that work out real well for all of us? Now we have a whole country looking for something from somewhere cheaper than China? Good luck.

Is it all doom and gloom, sky is falling, badder than bad? Of course not, but the signs are all there.

A bunch of Italian working men go into a club at then end of their shift, have a beer or a whisky. Talk about their lives, their family, their women, their goomadas. At the end they all go home, where their kids and their wives are waiting for them, water boiling on the stove, a pot of sauce simmering, some pork riblets in it to thicken the sauce and supply some meager protein. The same story across the country for two, three generations. And then, no more, it’s gone. They’re gone, the people, the traditions, the hopes the sauce, the boiling water. The goomadas. La commedia è finita.

Forty years later we stare into screens, looking for meaning, searching for our simmering sense of belonging to something on a Sunday night in the middle of the desert on a hot night in July.

Yep, definitely my month.

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

The Hill Country Interview

Guest interview by Beatrice Russo While Alfonso is finding his bliss on his very little own island, he has given up the blog to me, once again. Before he left, we sat down in the Texas Hill Country, where I interviewed him. BR: Did you start out wanting to be in the wine business? AC: No actually I wanted to be a gypsy-freelance photographer. I went to New York in the mid Seventies, lived in Chelsea, did a little part time work at the New School and assisted for a photographer. BR: What happened? AC: I am a westerner, like to see the sunset and the horizon. New York in 1975 was pretty depressing. I moved back to LA. BR: What was the wine scene like when you arrived in LA in the late Seventies? AC: It was fresher, cleaner than where I had just been. I started working in a restaurant in Pasadena, called The Chronicle. It had a fabulous cellar, mainly California wine at the time, but I was exposed to some of the great winemakers at the time. Pasadena was just a little too conservative in those days. I remember the night Jimmy Carter won the election; some of my customers were pretty upset. They looked at me with my longish, curly hair and started blaming me that the country was going down. BR: What did you do? AC: I realized I was in an environment that wasn’t healthy. My son had just been born and I was full of hope. The prospect of serving up Ridge and Georges de Latour to a bunch of miscreants motivated me. So I worked in Hollywood across from Paramount studios on Melrose. It was a happening place. Wine was coming down from Napa we had French wine on our list, there were a lot of stars coming in. It was just a brighter place. BR: So you opted for Italian wine. AC: That came after a while. I was living in Dallas, working at a great old Italian place, Il Sorrento. They had this little room up in the attic that was tem-controlled and had all kinds of old bottles of Barbaresco, Barolo, Gattinara, Amarone and Vino Nobile in there. I was tired of selling Piesporter and Bolla Soave so I asked the sommelier to give me a list and some prices. I went to town. Folks like Stanley Marcus and Terry Bradshaw came in, along with the wealthy set in Dallas, looking to have an experience. It was the Eighties and oil and money was flowing. BR: Were you surprised by the public reaction to Italian wine, or by their eventual mass acceptance? AC: A lot of people travel to Italy. So they are looking for a way to recreate that experience. After a while Italian wine just seeps into your bloodstream and it becomes a natural part of your life. I am constantly surprised and disappointed at the same time. BR: Half-full, half-empty, which one is it? AC: Both. I was recently in a new Italian spot; they had spent millions on the place. But when I looked at the wine list, I wanted to puke. I saw wines on the list that were marked up five times. I mean, who’s gonna spend $170 on an ‘03 Brunello in these times, especially when they can go down to Cost-Co and pick it up for $49. There still is an imbalance out there. That’s the half-empty part. BR: So what did you do? AC: I told my server that I had to leave, personal emergency (it was, to me) and we went back into town. Walked into a little place that makes great pizza and pasta and uses some great locally sourced produce. Sat down ordered a bottle of a cool red, a dry, real Lambrusco for $34, and got back on track. Twenty years ago we would have had to just buck up and drink the Bolla. Not these days, even here in flyover country. BR: Yeah, what’s with you and that flyover comment? I read it on the blog lately. AC: It’s a reference the East Coast folks make to where I hang my shingle. The midsection of the country. You know, where we can still see sunsets and horizons and have a back yard and a garden. BR: You have a unique style of writing. How did this blog thing come about? AC: I have written stuff all my life. I wrote a novel (unpublished) in 1979-80. When I was in Palermo in 1971, I remember writing poetry on the typewriter in my uncle’s library. In those days Italy only used 22 of the 26 letters, I think. So my poetry was a little strange. After my uncle took me around the streets and ruins of Sicily, I read everything I could get from Sicilian authors. This is my basis in blogging. It uses wine as a buoy but launches out as far as I can go, even sometimes in to Borges country. BR: You lost me there, AC. AC: I’m not surprised. BR: Did you ever feel that you had tapped into the Zeitgeist in some special sort of way? AC: This is starting to sound like Dylan’s Rolling Stone interview, Beatrice. Are you talking about the way the blog has been going? BR: Yeah. AC: As I look back on it now, I am surprised that I came up with so many of them. At the time it seemed like a natural thing to do. Now I can look back and see that I must have written those posts "in the spirit," you know? Like "The Endless Italian Summer" or “The Meltdown” -- I was just thinking about that the other night. There's no logical way that you can arrive at posts like that. I don't know how it was done. BR: It just came to you? AC: It just came out “through” me. D.H. Lawrence wrote a poem called “We are Transmitters,” that said it all. BR: You have been doing posts, as far as I can tell, three times a week for two years now. What's going on here? AC: Well, The tail is definitely wagging the dog on that one. I don't know what to say; I'd love to slow down, but the tap is on and the stuff is flowing. So I'm just going with the flow. BR: Have you ever considered moving to Italy? Where you might feel more at home? AC: I considered that back after my wife died. But then I thought about being in Italy, where they’d always treat me like a stranger on a Sunday night. I’d rather not have any illusions about my isolation. Texas gives me space and I like the out West places well enough. No, I’m not bound for Italy, not looking for a convent in the Marche to redo anytime soon. BR: So, tell me a secret, AC, something that you have been keeping all to yourself. AC: I don’t know about that, Beatrice, how about a little dream? BR: OK, yeah, sure. AC: I’d like to slow down on this blogging thing, ‘cause it just seems to have a bit too much of a hold on me. I have other stories in me, like my science fiction side. All those years I spent throwing the baseball in my backyard with the old Italian who used to work for Rod Serling and the Twilight Zone, I guess. I also would like to write a book about a wine personality. I mean one of the John Steinbeck, larger than life people. The kind of person the common man could identify with. BR: You got someone in mind? AC: Look around you, here in the Texas Hill Country; vineyards, Bar-B-Q, all kinds of people running around here. There’s at least two or three books scattered around this crowd. Three that I know of. But there is one I am working on. Wait and see, Bea. You gotta practice your patience, young lioness. BR: Thanks, AC. Comments to me here:Beatrice

Which Island?

Where is this island? (otherwise referred to as "Isola da Cevola")

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

...and the Horse You Rode In On

Guest commentary by Beatrice Russo

You know the saying? Well, in these parts it’s pretty much “Adios MoFo” when it comes down to this.

I’m looking at decisions made in the name of “industry consolidation” and I just gotta think about the poor salesperson on the front line who is just getting ready to lose 30% of his or her income because some suit in some suite in some city made an executive decision. OK, fine, this kind of stuff happens everyday.

But now they are messing with the Italians. There and here.


I just got back from an extended leave at work, traveling and working for a group of wineries. And then I come back to crazy heat, gas guzzling cars, snipers on the tollway and general mayhem in urban America, complete with Darth Vader syndrome.

When you go to Vinitaly and talk to a winemaker about their vineyards and their wine and their philosophy, and if you happen to break bread with them or close down Bottega del Vino with them, you form a bond with them. In America it’s a bond that is often breached. But in the world of Italian wine, there are relationships and the code of hospitality. And when someone, high in a building overlooking a world far removed from their reality, pushes a button, somewhere it affects those relationships and those bonds. And in the Italian sense, it is something so foreign to the way they do business that I am unable to find the words. But I will press on.

Let’s just say, in a calm voice, I am pissed. I am seeing everything in front of all of us shift dramatically, changes, like we have no idea, are coming. But when someone fulfils their obligations and then gets their feet cut from underneath them, in these times, them there are fighting words.

When are the little guys going to ever be able to get out from under the shadow of the elephants, whose dance of death above us is blocking the sun and causing many of the normal joe’s to suffer? These same joe’s who toil, day in and day out, who sacrifice time with their kids because they need to deliver some cooking (box) wine to their account on the way home on a Friday night. And what do they get in return for this vigilance? They get spat upon by the titans of the industry who go to bed at night between their 600 count Egyptian cotton, in their overpriced condo’s overlooking a bay somewhere out west.

Italy has fallen under the spell of the industrial marketers. So now it isn’t just the Micro-Oxygenators we have to concern ourselves with. Now we have to be on the lookout for the Macro-Expectators, these gurus of the new age with their million dollar salaries and their flatulent bonus programs, which they get when they serve up the shaft to the ground troops. Hey, who needs Iraq, when we have Baghdad by the Bay?

They say small is beautiful and IWG sez he is going to be on the lookout to find ‘em small, grow ‘em small and keep ‘em small. Safety in numbers? Why not? You lose one, no big deal, they’re like a bus, hang on and another one will be right by. You can catch the next one.

Hey, Italian wines are complicated creatures, what with all the different things to remember and to know. Today I was trying to figure out one little hill in the Barolo district and it nearly drove me nuts. But I did find out, and now I know. And you know what? Knowledge is power. And when it comes to Italian wines, the suits in the suites could give a rat’s keister about this kind of low-level stuff. Doesn’t interest them, doesn’t keep their 80 foot power boats filled with gas. Doesn’t let them live in the lifestyle in which they have become accustomed to. Entitled, they are? Nah. They earned it, fare and square. Don’t believe me? Just ask ‘em. Or ask their PR wonk or their lawyer or their botoxed trophy wives.

I think about any of those little winemakers on a bricco or a poggio who have spent lifetimes developing their soil and their wine and their craft and then these huge marketing companies come by, spout out some crap about the US market, give ‘em a big order, pay up front and bingo! They just sold their souls to the devils in Baghdad by the Bay.


Yeah I know this is obtuse and blurry and I am not going to explain any deeper. And they said, back in the day, suffice it to say, the little guy better look out, because the behemoths are prowling and devouring. Italy, wake up, they are in your vineyards and your boardrooms. They will steal you blinder than Garibaldi plundered the South.




pix by Leonardo, the old dead Italian guy
(who outshines these new geniuses by a millennium)


Comments to me here:Beatrice

Bea is Back

And she's got her rant on. Next in the queue.

We Don't Call it Terroir in Texas

Looks like this is shaping up to be a Staycation-Summer here in Texas and that ain’t all that bad. At least we have real good red meat and long highways that take us into interesting places along the wine trail. It’s airplane (and bus and train) free and yes there’s a little work involved, a lot of sun and plenty of family and friends. Life is good. Witness one of the wonders of Texas, our group’s Terroir-child Gia, who is just about as happy with the Texas dirt as the vines and all the rest of the stuff that inhabits this crazy-wonderful state.

Blanco Texas is somewhere between Austin and San Antonio and in the summer, there’s always a little river rolling and a hillside to set upon and let the breeze cool one off. A little wine, and a little more wine and it isn’t too bad. Sure it isn’t Ischia or Lago di Como, but it is the life we have chosen.

After a Friday night marathon of restaurant visitations with “those who review”, whereupon we had sashimi for apps, pizza and mussels for secondi and gelato for dolce, I got up at 4:30 AM to make the trek to the Texas Hill Country. Around 9 AM I rolled into Austin to pick up the IWD, where she had a perfect espresso waiting for me. A block away we stopped at the Taco Shack for a prima colazione, one Espresso and two breakfast tacos later we headed for Blanco. It was shaping up to be one of those perfectly beautiful sky-full-of-Texas days. Hours later I’d be walking the vineyards with Giulio and we both remarked on the unbelievable quality of the Texas sky. Something about there’s always a cloud or two in the sky but the sun was always shining.

As we rolled into Stout Vineyards, there was a whole bunch of folks getting after the nets which were being put over the Syrah vineyard to protect the fruit from the birds. We had to do it this weekend, ‘cause Guy is heading to Washington D.C. for an Under the Texas Winemaking Tent event, on the National Mall during the July 4 week. He’s giving a talk about Texas terroir. Like Guy says, “We don't call it terroir in Texas, we call it dirt.”

The birds were angry and I caught a couple of the crazy ones dive bombing the vines, even though the grapes were a ways off from good eating. Actually, in this vineyard, harvest is looking to be around August 10-10 at this point. A good five weeks. Eight year old vines on caliche and all kinds of tough soil, good ventilation, great sun, but on those 4 acres maybe 2-3 tons a fruit will be delivered to the winery. A lot of work, but a lot more love. This is the love child of Mast Somm, Guy Stout, who is Texan through and through. He was busy that day unrolling bird netting and cleaning out irrigation lines, handing out clothes pins and watermelon.

Smile, Devon, look like you're enjoying it.

Our goal that day was to secure all the vineyards with the netting to protect the fruit from the birds. It was hot work with a lot of crouching and bending over. I am not a farmer and whenever I go into the vineyards I gain a lot of respect for those who toil in the fields. It’s punishing work. I am sore in places I forgot existed in my body.

No Ma, it isnt Gitmo

Yeah, this is kind of a momma-mia blog today, but hey, sometimes the wine god takes us into their hands and we are merely their slaves, building their pyramids and in return be rewarded with friendship, good wine, conversation, more wine, food and more food, a soft place to sit and with a little luck a cool breeze when it is all said and done.

Two thirds-way through the work a kind gent brought us some Chicken and Brisket from Riley’s Bar-B-Q in Blanco. Giulio and his wife Stacie brought an amazing Macedonia (fruit salad) and a brand spanking new rose from the Maremma from the Tenuta la Badiola estate. This was a wine that Alain Ducasse, chef at accompanying restaurant and spa L’Andana, asked the winery to make to go with his food served at the restaurant. This rosato called Acquagiusto. Italian rose from the Maremma, it doesn’t get any better.

Giulio in Vintage Polo Seersucker with the Maremma Rosato

Back to the vines, nothing like a little wine, some Bar-B-Q and watermelon to get one ready to go back to work. Wrong. I was wrangling for a nap, but no slacker am I, or my colleagues. So a few more hours and the job was done. The vineyard was wrapped up like a Christmas present.

Now we could unwind and have fun.

Guy has a funky barn and extended patio, more like a shed, but it works just fine. Devon Broglie from Whole Foods brought some vino and Giulio brought some Dolcetto and Barbera. Guy had a ton of NZ wines and other assorted outcroppings from some discarded warehouse. Tracie brought a Verduzzo tradizionale from Friuli and I gathered a few specimens. Anibal Calcagno of Brenner's Steakhouse was part of the party, a young somm from Houston who took notes and was too polite to correct one of my more erroneous assertions. We were rolling into the comfy padded chairs under the shed in the breeze. Life is good.

Master-Somm Farmer-John Guy and Italian Blogger-Principessa Tracie

Baby Gia entertained us with her little girl antics. Everyone’s child should be a Gia, a happy to be there soul. Love that little one, thanks momma Stacie and poppa Giulio for bringing her with ya.

What else is there to say? A long night that ended with Canadian ice wine somewhere just shy of 2 AM. Almost 24 hours nonstop.

Driving home today from Austin, I was fueld on espresso ( the Taco Shack was closed on Sunday) but it was alright ma. I just set my sights on Big D and the pool in the backyard. Somewhere along the late afternoon I made it into the cool waters, where my little piece of Texas sky was waiting for me.

Sitting here now back home listening to John Fahey strum his guitar, all of Texas is ripe with tomatoes, melons and soon, figs and grapes. This ain't such a bad place. It beats sitting on a slow train.


Isn't that just the prettiest little baby girl you ever did see?

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

Lessons From Our French Cousins

Texas is very much like France, in that it is of similar size and very independent thinking. California and Italy share similarities in land mass, climate and lifestyles. Nothing exact, but some parallels to think about.

Tonight, after a wonderful outdoor concert by the lake, I decided to pose questions to an Italian who is very adept at getting to the French people and obtaining what she wants, to give us some insights into their way and their successes. And quite possibly, how we can learn from our French cousins, things that can make us stronger and more nimble in today’s changing world. Of course, the answers come from the same place as the questions.

Q. Carla, you have adopted France and French ways. In fact you have married the most powerful French man in our time. Can you give us some insights as to how the French mind works and how we as Italians could approach the world in this new time, in ways that would be relevant and appropriate?

A. First, there are more similarities than differences. The macro view is to tear it apart and see how different we are. But if you look at how the two countries live, we are much more alike than not. We enjoy fresh food, prepared in a simple and clean manner. We like our wines fresh and unadulterated with not too much alcohol or wood. We like our clothes fashionable but well made and in a timeless manner. And of course we both are passionate and obsessed with living life with all seriousness and devotion.

Q. Lets talk about the wine. France has a long tradition of winemaking that is famous all over the world. So does Italy. What can Italy learn from their neighbors?

A. For one they should keep their private business behind closed doors. Both countries have a saying that goes like this: If it is meant to be done in the bedroom, then it should be kept behind the bedroom doors. There are private passions that shouldn’t be paraded around for the world to see and judge.

Q. How so?

A. Lets take wine scandals. There are laws and then there are those who think they can make something better than the law will allow. This is all a matter of opinion, unless the aspect of safety enters into the discussion. But when Bordeaux has a conflict, they discuss it in chambers and seek to fight it out, hammer out the points and come to a compromise. It isn’t perfect, but after all the discussion, there is consensus. They arrive at a solution.

Q. And Italy differs in which way?

A. Italy treats these matters like an opera, like a public forum, not realizing that their image, the perception, is altered and sometimes to the detriment of the overall goal of the community.

Q. France is struggling though, recently, with dock strikes and work stoppages. Right now as we speak in the port of Marseilles, there are 29 oil tankers prevented from entering the port. How much more public than that can one be?

A. I cannot speak for the politic, except to say the workers are striking to protest privatization, the inevitability of the modern global world economy. That is more a problem of short sightedness and also the French aspect of pater-familias, whereby the state takes care of their citizens. In the US I believe they call that entitlement programs, and that is no longer economically viable. But it is human nature to try and get as much as one can for as little as they are willing to pay for it. The economies of the world now make that kind of attitude and position obsolete.

Q. That’s a pretty heavy statement from the first lady.

A. One thing the French have long realized is that the world is a stage and to be players on it one must take risks. The Italians do as well, but is usually for a shorter term goal, at least in recent history. But like Catherine di Medici and Napoleon Buonaparte, who both had roots in Italy but shaped so much of the modern history of France, the French understand borrowing and adapting other notions into their culture to make it better and brighter. And then to claim it as their own invention. That’s why they do so well with wine; they understand the art of self promotion.

Q. Restaurants in the US claim to be French or Continental and then you go inside and they have pasta and simple fish dishes and everything seems more Italian than what is proffered.

A. Also in France. Robuchon in Paris makes a wonderful Carbonara, and Savoy has a chicken that Tuscan has inspired. Gagnaire, well he is still very French, but his food is not without their Italian influence and sensibility in terms of bright and simple perfection.

Q. One last question. Where are you planning on going this year for vacation?

A. As you know last year the vacation was in America. But this year I am hoping for a little time back in Italy, perhaps an island like Panarea or Sardegna. My friend Carol Bouquet has a nice place on Pantelleria and Giorgio (Armani) is also there in August. I also like the Isola del Giglio. But Corsica is also being considered, especially since that region is so sensitive and suffers from their loss of identity with France. But we shall see.

Q. So we won’t see you in Texas this year?

A. Not in the summer, but after the elections, you never know. We shall just have to see.

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

Bursting the Bubble

A little less than a year ago I wrote this post, about a friend of mine who was mentoring wealthy friends in his neighborhood on how to live. Since then, some of those people who live in that neighborhood (in Dallas it’s called “the Bubble”) have had to readjust their lives somewhat. Sell a Ferrari or two, downsize to a Maserati and a Land Rover. Move from their 12,000 square feet home to a smaller 8,000 size. Maybe only a month in Aspen in the summer, rather than the whole season. Or opting out of spending August in Sardegna to scale down to a few weeks in the yacht off Portofino. Yes, life is rough for the alto-borghese, here in gli Stati Uniti.

Several folks have asked me to guide them in the appreciation of wine, life and things Italian. They have asked me to set them up in Sicily and Sardegna this summer. They are cruising in mega-yachts that offer the comfort of things recognizable while in a world they aren’t so familiar with. Why even go to Italy?

I find it to be a futile exercise; why not stay home? The money is familiar, the language is recognizable, the food doesn’t challenge one’s idea of what food should be, and there are always inexpensive fruity wines from out West that they can stock up, from their local big box. What more could one ask for? That’s what we have been fighting all these wars for in the last hundred or so years, so we could protect our way of life.

Well, that bubble is bursting, big time. Everywhere you look, the paradigm is shifting. Everything is changing. Everything.

Where do we start?

Let’s take simple wine, everyday stuff. On another wine blog, this one with a post about a wine that costs less than 3 bucks, check out the comments. It’s pretty amazing what people can talk themselves into.

Saturday we had a family reunion at a park in central Texas and the rule was no glass. So like a rule-abiding citizen, I brought this box wine. When I came up to the event, some of the folks thankfully had some Giuseppe Cortese wines from Italy (part of the family has the name Cortese). I felt a bit of a fool hauling my box wine. Then I saw jugs of wine that I took for Carlo Rossi. Actually, some of the family just re-used the bottles for their home made sweet red and slightly-drier rosé. The rosé was refreshing and simple.

Back to the box wine. In the shade of 95° F weather, it satisfied the need for a liquid to go with the Italian-style baked chicken. I wasn't embarrassed to say I liked it in that moment, or did I talk myself into it?

Driving the car downhill and slipping it into neutral, why not? At the bottom of the hill there’s the inevitable red light. Who needs a Ferrari in this kind of time? You’ll get home at any rate. Or the doctor will call you up and interrupt the plans you’ve made for your life with the news that you have brain cancer. And you must shift gears, just like that.

Last night, while a dear old friend was breathing his last breaths I was lying in the pool staring up at the sky. My sparrow hawk family was foraging for dinner for their fledglings. The bubble is a circle in three dimensions, and the circle of life continues.

So while we try to find a wine to like for under $15 the stuff of life passes me by, as I shift down to 60 and head for the slow lane of life. There’s just too much going on to worry about a fuel surcharge or a foolish brother trying to wrestle money from his newly widowed mom.

Yesterday I decided to take a walk around lunchtime. I was escaping the cube farm, which was cold enough to force me out into the Texas heat. I went out walking, when colleagues passed by me coming back from lunch. Moments later, one of them called. “Is everything alright?” “Yes, I’m okay, just trying to thaw out from the office.” Maiden voyage in these parts, to actually be walking around, like some kind of modern day Vespucci. Breaking out of the bubble.

People are telling me they have to downsize from three homes to two, from a Ferrari to a Maserati. But on the trail I am seeing people who are trying to decide if they should buy food or gas. One person told me they could buy a foot long from Subway for $5 everyday, and eat it for lunch and dinner, and they could exist with a budget of $150 a month for food.

In El Paso and Las Vegas the gas stations are restricting purchases to $50 and $75 per transaction. Sounds like rationing to me. $75 to fill up a truck, half the monthly food budget for the new paradigm. Scary stuff. And we’re worrying about touring a winery in Sicily or Sardegna with some psycho-pop culture guru? Is that "living a life that is more in tune with your "authentic" self (who you were created to be) or your "fictional" self (who the world has told you to be)?"

Maybe it’s a little like the lawn chair man, tying helium-filled balloons to his chair, and when he is ready to come back down to earth, he bursts them as he needs to. So you sell a Mercedes or a condo in Florida and come back down to earth. You go to Wal-Mart and buy some Chardonnay for under $3 or you head to your local Piggly-Wiggly for boxes of chicken and chardonnay. The paradigm is shifting. So are the currents. Hang on to your bubble before the winds of change blow it away.

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