by Al Drinkle
The sun shone upon an idyllic village along the Rhein River, not unlike the unnamed one serving as the setting for Turgenev's Asya. Vines and blossoms alike were bathed in late-April luminescence and the bees had erupted into a blissful cacophony of assiduous buzzing. A rental car parked in front of one the village's esteemed winegrowing estates, and four travel-weary Calgarian wine professionals stepped into the courtyard. We were breakfasted, caffeinated, barely hungover, extremely excited and we didn't care who knew it.
The best vineyards of the village are on precipitous, red sandstone slopes where little other than the grapevine could thrive, and it's borderline essential that the resulting crop fetch luxury prices in order to justify the inestimable amount of labour that goes into the farming here. We were there to taste the new vintage, but more importantly, to make human contact with the highly-thoughtful, innovative and environmentally-progressive people whose ancestors have toiled upon these hillsides for over 650 years. Such a longstanding interconnectedness with a specific, natural place is unfathomable to us city-dwellers.
Admittedly, nobody needs expensive wine from distant continents, even if the flavours are jubilantly singular and inexplicably different from the wine grown on the neighbouring hillsides. Yet these inscrutable messages from nature are hugely important to us because they interrupt endless existential crises with little glimpses of provocation and inspiration. So we hop on airplanes and search for meaning—perhaps you burn fossil fuels for equally self-indulgent reasons. But sometimes we get more meaning than we bargained for, and each time we're better off because of it.
On this particular visit, profundity arrived in an unexpected way. After a tour of the vineyards, an exploration of the ancient cellar and a comprehensive tasting of both new bottlings and mature vintages, tantalizing aromas began to waft from the small kitchen of the winegrower's home. A large table was informally set in the courtyard, and abundant vessels of simple, tastefully-prepared food began to flow from the house. It turns out that a family of Ukrainian refugees who were staying with the winegrower had prepared lunch, and we were welcome as guests.
We were invited to sit and relax as the dishes began to work their way around the table. The sun beamed upon us, the birds sang, the bees buzzed, and while we sat amidst a team of steep-slope farmers and a family who had recently escaped their war-torn home-country, us wine-obsessed Calgarians began to recognize our obsessions as conspicuously inconsequential. Chewing food and engaging in small talk became daunting tasks as we battled the waves of emotion.
I'm always fighting for meaning in life, but meaning becomes a quaint luxury in light of other priorities, such as the fight for life itself. I'm grateful for the reminder of just how lucky we are, and for as long as I live, I will never forget this lunch.
