The rocky heights of the village of Saint-Jean de Minervois in France’s Languedoc indeed regularly produces grapes each year, subject to the universal vagaries of Mother Nature. In St. J de M, the celebrity grape (historically) here is the Muscat Blanc à Petits Grains, or just Muscat for short. Gorgeous, floral, exotically-scented sweet wines are synonymous with the village, but in this remote hamlet, more strange and wonderful things are to be found.
I begin writing this just before 5 a.m. It's a beautiful time of day when the few humans stirring might be particularly dedicated partiers, inordinately early risers, or just nocturnal. Excepting those whose vocations summon them involuntarily from their cozy beds, these hours are for the curious and the pensive. The world breathes differently in the early morning, sharing tranquil secrets with those who wish to discover them.
These days, we often experience a sense of the loss of time. This bouleversement of points of reference and daily markers can be unusual, if not somewhat unsettling. It seems that story time (which is almost always) is getting a refresh. Fiction or documentary, fairytale or hard-core journalism. Story upon story. Here’s one I’d like to share. It’s one that can perhaps give you an insider’s knowledge of the workings of a small, independent wine shop called Metrovino, and our place in the big wide world.
“The greatest pleasures of traveling are finding a sage hidden behind weeds or treasures hidden in trash, gold among discarded pottery. Whenever I encountered someone of genius, I wrote about it in order to tell my friends.”
- Matsuo Bashō
It was 8:00 a.m. and I was out in the sun raking the dead grass out of my lawn. Wearing a T-shirt with an image of Baudelaire and the slogan "Get Drunk” emblazoned upon it, and applying myself to the lifelong pursuit of comprehensive ear damage by blasting nauseatingly catchy '60s girl-group pop through my headphones, I dragged my green bin around the yard collecting the little piles of debris. I was even relatively well-rested and amidst this exceptionally domestic and mundane activity, I almost forgot how weird life has become.
