The Alacrity of Hope

 “Well, this sure has been one doozie of a year.” How many times, at year's end, have you murmured that to yourself, over the past dozen or so years? Let me see, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012. I could go on. 2016. 2018. And now, 2020. And yet, I remain one gullible and hopeful sonofabitch. 

5 of the greatest Italian wines (that I want to drink in 2021)

♫ It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas ♫

When one is marooned on an island, you have a lot of time to think and imagine all kinds of future scenarios. One of my favorite things, vinously speaking, is to look at wines that have aged for a decade or multiples of a decade. In 2021, that would mean 2001,1991,1981,1971,1961 and so on.  It provides a neat measure to time with regards to how these little living things inside (and outside) the bottle are doing.

Another aspect to this exercise is also to use those years as a personal reference. Maybe you were born that year, or married, or a child was born, or someone died. Anything that would be considered a particular landmark in time. It gives context beyond just the wine and the score it received.

I have had every one of these wines before, and while they are considered iconic wines, especially in regards to the prestige they proffer to the greater world of wine, they also imprinted my sensibilities towards an unabashed conviction that Italian wines are as good as any (e.g., French) wines in the world. It was not the case when I started out. In fact, I spent much of my early career expending my most persuasive capabilities in an effort to dispel the myth that Italian wines were somehow inferior to other wines. Now, not so much, as Italian wines are finally the darlings of the sommelier and collector universe.  The mill of God grinds slow but exceedingly fine.

The current state of Italian wine in the world

I remember as a kid, going to a birthday party. I was living in the desert of Southern California, Palm Springs. And the parents of the birthday child were proud Mexican-Americans. The food was great (they had a fabulous restaurant), the music was cheerful, it was a fun, fun party. And to top it off, after the birthday girl opened all her presents, we all took a swing at a stuffed piñata shaped like a donkey.

When all the kids took their swing, the poor creature finally burst opened and all manner of shiny and sweet things flew about the field and we all scrambled for the treasures. I don’t know why, but that memory reminds me of 2020 and Italian wine.

Everyday Italian Wines for Everyday People in Extraordinary Times

For some, this is a way with a deep-seated furrow. The road often taken. The commonplace. The not-so-out-of-the-ordinary. But predictable? Not necessarily so. Wine is a living, breathing, evolving thing. And with that, even an ordinary wine can act extraordinary in these unprecedented times.

That was how I started out with this odd holiday, Thanksgiving. Like Columbus Day, Thanksgiving has come under fire by some who see it as having racist origins, representing a celebration of the conquest of Native Americans. I get that. I also know we, as a country, need something to unify us in this time of discord. I don’t think cooking a bird or smoking a ham will save us, I’m not that naïve. But I do see people finding ways to make moments for peace and serenity. And if celebrating Thanksgiving in the old way that the story was told to us is behind the times, can we not shift from that to a less highly charged observance? We cannot go back and undo what the Anglo-western world did to the indigenous souls here in America. But we can recast the day with thoughts of gratitude and clarity. No, we Americans aren’t the greatest nation the world has ever seen. We aren’t even handling something like this pandemic as well as many other nations on the planet. We have failed miserably. But we cannot shirk away and pretend that all that came before didn’t. We must admit, even concede, that we are not great again, and we must start over again, with the hindsight that we didn’t do it right, all these years. We must change now.

Doctor Notti on Italy, wine and the intergalactic dust storm of 2016

On July 18, 2016, an intergalactic dust storm - Mendacium Collocatio – plowed into earth, broadsiding North America. It modified the brainwaves of half the people it hit, and created synaptic disruptions in them, for which we are just beginning to understand the ramifications. It also appeared that those who were affected also acted as transmitters of turmoil, impairing about 20% of the people they came into contact with. It was during a hotly contested political campaign, and this was not noticed for what it was. It was thought at first that the activities of people were aroused due to their emotional connection to one or the other candidate. We are only learning now that was not the case. The earth had been hit with the equivalent of 15,000 kilotons of this cosmic micro dust, 10,000 times more powerful than the bomb that exploded over Hiroshima. And while the dust storm didn’t spread toxic and lethal radiation like a nuclear blast, it nonetheless caused widespread disruption. And it has been theorized that it made the human population on earth more susceptible to dormant viruses lying in wait, creating a confluence and causing a Perfect Wave scenario. The last time this planet experienced such a Perfect Wave was 66 million years ago.

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.

#TBT - Master Class in Indigenous Wines ~ As Taught by a Donkey, a Rooster and the Spirit of Place

#TBT - from the archives

There are aspects to life that don’t travel so well on the road. One of them is the lack of interaction with creatures other than humans. Maybe it is a pet, or the birds in one’s back yard, any number of life forms that constitute the daily connections one has, sometimes not even thinking about it. The other, if one is so inclined, is the interplay one has with nature, the grounded lifeforms that don’t move. Maybe it is a tree, or a bush, a plant with fruit or vegetables. And while traveling, those elements that form part of the identity of one’s life, be it only an inner one, they aren’t able to be packed into the suitcase.

Taking one's place along the river

“All we are not stares back at what we are.” - W.H. Auden

What are we looking for? Whether it is in a vineyard or a desert? In a lover or in the mirror? On the road or self-quarantined? What do we expect to find? What has been lost? Where is this all leading to?

You’re staring at a TV screen for months and the story is laced with fear and woe. The next day, you’re sitting behind a windshield, and the landscape of the great American West is cascading by you at 60-70-80 miles per hour. Inescapable though, is the hope that “the crisis” is far away. The land, the great healer, is now weaving the tales, and it is long, and hot, but endurable. I say this with gratitude, that one can witness this other side of the world we live in.

The valley between the mountains

"Gone to look for America"

The assistant at the hotel reception desk in Farmington was Navaho. He bore familiar marks of his tribe, even shielded by a mask. He was friendly, asked me where I was from and where I was going. “Made it here from Texas. Dallas. Heading to the Pacific Northwest. Hoping to make it as far as Elko, Nevada today. Ruby Valley nearby, great place.” His attention had wandered after Dallas. Maybe he had other things on his mind. In New Mexico, where Native Americans are 9 percent of the population, they make up 75 percent of the state’s deaths. And with Covid19, that number wasn’t decreasing anytime soon, from what I witnessed the day before.

I was in for a long haul today and needed to get on the road. I had several states to plough through.

Looking for another mountain

"Gone to look for America"

Driving through the Texas Panhandle seemed interminable. Speed up, slow down, pass through a little town. Bogdanovich redux. And repeat. Until the border. The further north and west one goes in Texas, the more red-hot it gets. And flat. Not to say there’s no life out there. There must be some life worth preserving, why else would everyone need a gun, as the endless billboards proclaim? That part of Texas is locked in a scenario that time has passed by. Every town is portraying their version of Mayfield. Everyone’s parents are Ozzie and Harriet. There is no pandemic. There is no need for a mask. Move along, nothing to see here. Leave us alone. Go back home. Leave it to Jesus.

Finding a new Italy while "gone to look for America"

It must have been on the last leg of my road trip around America, when I realized the Italy I was missing was passing by me at 75 miles an hour. How could it be? I wasn’t in Piedmont or Tuscany, Sicily or Abruzzo. I was somewhere between Utah and Colorado. It was the American West, not the Old World. There were no ancient buildings. But there were scores of ancient rocks, mounds, mesas, mountains. It was a bit disconcerting. There were no plethora of wineries, although there were the occasional ones.

No, it was something else I had tapped into. It was the road. The trail. The journey.

Gone Fission....

Going off the grid for a bit. Nothing's wrong, just need to step away from the world and dip my pole in cooler waters - the rods have heated up and we're approaching critical mass.

Gone to look for America...back soon.

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

wine blog +  Italian wine blog + Italy W

What a Jesuit priest, a Zen monk and a Yaqui shaman taught me about life, wine and Italy

From the archives

“There is a crack between the two worlds.” – Don Juan Matus

In time, the perception of things as they are and as they seem are two sides of a wall. Spending one’s life piercing that wall is the work of ones who aspire to a simpler existence. People run around looking for all manner of things they think will fill their life with meaning, from fame and acceptance to wealth and material objects, from power and influence to a total abnegation of the corporeal and worldly. Three influences during my time of earth helped to re-shape and reinforce an inner sense that I was instilled with at birth. And as I walk the wine trail in Italy these influences have been instrumental in directing my attention towards destinations that these teachers intended.

The love of your life

Well, here we are. Some of us are alone. Some of us are riding this out with others, maybe our loved ones, friends, family. It doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere for awhile. Well, actually some of us have already vacated the premises. But for those of us who are still keeping the faith (and believing the science) let’s go back in time, back to Italy or wherever your heart desires. For this is about your heart’s desire. This is about the love of your life.

A Gen-Del Futr’spatch from Italy, Post-SARS-CoV-θ: "We Made It Through!"

Dateline June 16, 2080 – Father’s Day

Dear great-great grandfather,

I am writing this to you (or it is meant to seem like writing) because when we learned we could travel in time, or rather we could go back in time, not forward, or rather we could send things back in time, not ourselves (yet), this seemed like a good time send this communiquést.

First, Happy Father’s Day, for without you, I wouldn’t be here. Secondly, thanks to the advances that have been made in the last 60 years, we’ve been able to finally get past COVID-79 and hopefully a few years of breathing space.

A Pool, a Piano and a Painting

The times have a way of changing what one thought was important, once upon a time. Now, more than ever, the highly charged and emotional turmoil we find ourselves immersed in has illuminated abstract concepts, like legacy, fairness and respect. Along with more mundane things, like a pool, a piano or a painting.

The short answer? Not right now...

The longest period of time that passed between trips to Italy was in 1997. I hadn’t been back since 1992. Now, it has been a little more than a year, but who knows when we can return?

Looking at pictures from a livestream of Venice, it appears almost like it was in the 1700’s. Not many people, no large cruise ships in the water. A quiet, lilting kind of image, Venice has gone back to being La Serenissima. I’d love to see it like this. But not now.

Lost & Found - A letter from great-grandfather in 1920

During this down time, I’ve had the opportunity to go through boxes and papers, organizing my office. One of the packets I ran across were papers from my dad. My mom gave them to me before she died. In this packet there was a letter written to him in 1920 from my great grandfather. It was in Italian and was written in a beautiful script. His handwriting was meticulous. I gave the letter to a friend to translate. This is what it said: