An introvert’s guide to Italy (and Italian wine) in the era of Covid-19

It’s been an incredible journey

 

By now, you’re pretty sick of staring at the screens. The Zoom calls, the virtual wine dinners, the Instagram Live events. You’re tired of the “stories” that Facebook hoists on you mercilessly like robo calls from the latest MAGA-PAC. Inotherwords, you want to go back to Italy. But there are a few problems, the first not being Covid19. You’re an incurable introvert. So, what to do?

How to die with an empty wine cellar

When I first starting out buying wine to collect, it was slow going. I’d recently moved to a new state and town, was a single dad with custody of a toddler and was working in a restaurant. Money was tight. I had a little space under the stairs of our apartment, but it was in no way perfect for storing wine. But I wasn’t thinking about collecting, let alone perishing.

A life in wine, interrupted

How does one go from experiencing the great wines of the world, on a regular basis, for decades, to a world now so quiet and tranquil that the idea of rushing around the country, the world even, sitting at a table and taste 30 vintages of Giacosa, seems not only like a dream, but like another life? 

The man who visited every winery in Italy

In Italy, there is a most amazing fellow. He is 93 years old, and from the age of 18, his sole goal and activity has been to visit every winery in Italy. So far, he’s racked up 27,565 winery visits, and even though old age is catching up to him, he figures he has another seven years, when he turns 100, to cover all 30,000 wineries in Italy. He has done what no other person has done, yet alone even imagine doing. It has been a hectic pace, averaging one winery a day for the last 75+ years. One for the record books, our fellow traveler has been regarded in Italy as both a crack pot and a genius. Fellow genius Albert Einstein once said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” Conversely, E.B White was heard to say “Genius is more often found in a cracked pot than in a whole one.”  The following is an (imagined) interview I made with this most unusual man, known only as Gegè.

We Asked 13 Winos: What Will You Be Drinking on Election Night?

A playful spoof on a popular post and series, meant only for fun

This is, without a doubt, going to be one of the most important and intense elections in America’s history, with a countdown of less than a week to go. With certainty, the final result will be probably days, if not weeks, away from being known on election night. And the tug of the neighborhood liquor store will be alluring.

Seeking guidance on which libation to open on the night of November 3^rd (and beyond), we curated winos from around the world to share the brews and ferments they plan to pop open in these times. No matter if they are bowing to the Made in America wine or downing a strong classic brew, these winos offer expert tips on what to consume when the situation calls for a little fortification in the drinks department.

Where my father's footsteps end

In my dotage, I’ve become a bit of a numbers guy. How many bottles of wine in my cellar? What time remains of summer? Days left until the election? And so, I looked back to see my father’s life, and the days he had on earth. And a couple of days ago, the days in my life surpassed his.

Now, I’m in now way claiming victory. It was a relief of sorts. Just like when I turned 34, and chanced upon living longer than Jesus. No, I’m not comparing quality or sizing myself up against a messiah. I am just noting, in the course of my life, those moments when it seems to be a milestone. And when I became older than my dad would ever be, it stirred the compost.

Dino Illuminati: A Remarkable 90 Years in the History of Italian Wine

(photo, courtesy of the Illuminati winery)

This whole cycle of life thing here on earth, it’s a peculiar one. It goes slow, then it speeds up, then it slows down, and then it seems there just isn’t enough time to finish anything. I cringe when a memorable character in Italian wine dies – and with it an outpouring of obituaries. Sometimes they read like a resume, and sometimes they take their cues from the perspective (and biases) of the scribe.

But why wait for someone to die to celebrate their life? Why not beat the drum while their heart is still beating some of that fine red Italian blood?

Which brings us to a figure whose life in Abruzzo has most definitely left its mark for the better. That person is celebrating his 90^th birthday, Dino Illuminati.

Palate Pressure: Which Wine Will Suffice?

Lately, I’ve been creating spreadsheets. Lists of things I’ve done or collected. Like food in the freezer. Trips to Italy. Master photo-files. And, of course, wine I’ve gathered over many years. I do not lack for anything in the wine department, although I’d not turn down anything from Burgundy. But I have some to enjoy. Piedmont has a strong lobby in my cellar, as does Tuscany. But it’s not about what I’ve amassed. Rather, I am more concerned about what I’m going to do with this stuff. Look, this is not Marvin Overton’s cellar we’re talking about. Or Ian D’Agata’s. But I find I’m just not putting a dent into the red wines in the cooler and the cave.

A Passage from the Dead Tree Scrolls

There’s a wine article sitting on my desktop that is going on four months overdue. It’s almost finished, just needs a little editing. It will generate revenue if I go the last step. It is destined for a newspaper; you know the kind a little boy used to get up early in the morning to deliver on his bicycle? But, for the life of me, I cannot find my way to finish it.

I have run up against a wall. Call it relevance. Or maybe timeliness. During this period which we find ourselves collectively in, I just find it hard to justify writing about something like a particular wine when there are so many more things swirling above us, this amplitude.

I waited for you at the train station, but you never showed up. So, I guess I’ll go to Tuscany without you.

It was a long shot, for sure. We had casually talked about meeting in Rome and taking the train to Tuscany. It was over a couple of bottles of wine. And then we stayed up late. And then? Do you remember? I think I do, but it could have just been a dream besotted by too much Frascati. If it was a dream, it was lovely. If it wasn’t, why aren’t you here?

The folly of youth. Of hope. Of expectation. And the letdown. It was a pattern for much of my 20’s. Probably much longer. But all those years now melt into one passage of juvenescence. And when it comes to Italy, it’s tinged with a romanticism that either wasn’t there in the first place, or if it was, it was only in my imagination. Now, in 2020, those fanciful anticipations have been rendered inappurtenant by larger forces of destiny. We’re in a social hurricane and firestorm the likes of which we have no idea when it will die down. So, we barrel down and go in, deeper inside. Where it is cool and dark, yet still filled with light and hope. The hope of innocent youth as re-imagined in this timeworn biped vessel.

A letter, found in an abandoned home, next to a stream of unconscious and constant agitation

[Editor's note: this letter was unsigned inside an envelope on the desk of the empty home. It could be the letter was written by the owner of the home. But we have no idea who lived there as all records disappeared after the Great American Passage in 2021.]

Dear Italy,

What I am about to write to you might not be welcome. After all, I am merely an imperfect American. And we all know now that Americans are finally being leveled by their own foolish acts after all these years. Finally, the chickens have come home to roost.

And that is what I am writing about to you today – home. Yours. And ours. Let’s start with yours.

Dismantling the First Mountain

The life of a career. It’s a curious ascent. One spends so much energy in getting to the top of the mountain. To be the best. Number one. To master your craft. And to represent all that you stand (and climb) for the best that you can. To spend years climbing to the peak. To sacrifice any number of things, material and personal, in order to behold the sunrise at the summit. And then?

Everyone’s gone to the moon (or “We’re here and they’re not”)

As we beat the month of August, once more, to death, September howls like a newborn that was cast away into a dumpster. No one hears her little cries to a universe unprepared and unattended. For Italy, as for much of the world, has been abandoned.

How many times can one walk the beach between Alcamo Marina and Castellammare del Golfo in the shortened summer days of September and feel any of the hope one felt in May or June, when the Linden trees were in bloom on the Adriatic? Now, in New York City, at Fifth Avenue and 54th Street, at noon, an eerie and similar scene mirrors Sicily. An unattended world. Where has everyone gone?

Italy, a beacon for continuity in the realm of magical thinking

Yesterday a young friend called me from Italy. Not just anywhere in Italy, but one of my favorite places in Italy – San Benedetto del Tronto – on the Adriatic coastline. And not just anywhere in San Benedetto del Tronto, but from the bar at the Excelsior Hotel. And there he was with a dear old, friend, Piero, the bar manager. He was alive. He was well. And he was reflecting the sunny life of summer in Italy. It made my day.

A most unusual Ferragosto

Ever since I have been decamping to Italy, almost 50 years now, the middle of August (Ferragosto) signaled a time to recharge, rest, play, sun, eat, drink and love. I cannot remember a time in my life when that cycle has been interrupted for so many Italians, and really, anyone who is in Italy in this moment. 2020 - It has been a most unusual Ferragosto.