As is typical for a wine professional (I trust you can overlook my loose application of this word), I used to play in a punk band. In fact, I still do but at some point living in a van with a bunch of malodorous drunk guys got a bit tiring. It’s been much better for my finances and potential for repose to relegate puerile music to recreational-status, and instead spend the majority of my time in a beautiful shop with well-groomed and less conspicuous dipsomaniacs.
The feeling of invincibility can inspire in one actions almost akin to somebody on the purposeful path of self-destruction. Though the impudent mindset of a person who feels indestructible seems to be the complete opposite of someone acting out of self-loathing or despair, with both dispositions comes an inclination towards forfeiture of personal regard.
This morning at the conclusion of my bike ride, I saw an elderly man walking his inconspicuous-looking dog and for reasons I can’t explain, I was inspired to observe. It struck me that this man probably has a story, perhaps an interesting or even inspiring one, despite the fact that his apathetic face belied this.
One of the most beautiful things about wine is that it can (and should) be representative of its place of origin. The most rewarding wines are bottled stories of a hallowed setting in a particular growing season and the most articulate grapes can reliably communicate subtle variations in soil-type, aspect, altitude and mesoclimate.
