I am so tired this morning that I cannot get out of bed. My body aches, my mind is tired, and my eyeballs ache too. Maybe I'm hung over, but I didn't drink that much. Maybe I'm malnurished. I knew I was tired last night, but I am even more tired now after 8 hours of sleep. I cannot possibly do anything till noon. Margaret senses my distress and leaves me to sleep in while she heads out to check out some "Enatecas", which are "wine libraries", which do tastings of various Barolo wines. Before leaving she we agree to meet up by 2:15pm in order to make it to a 3:30pm private tour of a the Malvira winery, which 30 minutes away.
While Margaret has the wine tasting experience of a lifetime, I lie in a coma. By noon I feel strong enough to sit upright and imagine moving. I eventually shower and dress. I hit the streets ready to explore on my own. I phone Margaret to tell her I will meet her at 2:15, but she is already walking directly toward me. I wander Barolo alone in the bright early-afternoon sun, taking clever pictures with my Olympus XA film camera. I finished off last few shots of the roll of Tri-X (black and white film) in the camera, and switched to a roll of color. The color film is necessary, for in the full light of day it is the rich, warm reds and oranges of the town... and the greens of the rolling hills... that are most visually interesting.
At some point I wander down to the church by the castle, in order to check out the "Pictures of Frida Kahlo" exhibit that is on display in a church annex. It's odd that an exhibit of Frida Kahlo pictures should be found in the tiny town of Barolo... but so be it. Odder still is that it is free to enter. I wonder if it's the same Frida Kahlo I'm thinking of. The exhibit is supposed to open at 2pm, but that time comes and goes and the doors do not open. Other visitors arrive and then leave, discouraged and confused. I have to leave soon myself, to meet Margaret by 2:15. It looks like I'm going to miss this opportunity. Such is the flow of life in Italy... time moves at a different pace.
I meet Margaret at the appointed time to drive to our vineyard tour. The drive there is not without drama, as the Vineyard has no known address. Rather, one goes to an intersection somewhere in the adjacent town and then drives half a mile up the road looking for a vineyard sign. As if by a miracle Margaret locates it, and voila, there we are.
The owner of the winery conducts a tasting for us, consisting of 5 whites and 5 reds. Margaret is thrilled, and asks many detailed questions and takes notes. I participate too, though my commentary is pointless. We are then shown the barrels in the wine cellar, where the owner does a "barrel tasting", whereby he pulls the cork out of a barrel, extracts some wine into a tube, and then pours it into our glasses. Much ooohing and aaahing follow upon this, and more questions… then onto another barrel. Oddly enough, the wine in the glass that we do not finish is not thrown away, but is poured back into the barrle. I'm assuming my germs are all over it, so I wonder by what magic process my disgusting cooties don't land in someone's expensive bottle of wine.
Eventually we come back out of the cellar, and the owner invites us to the top of a large hill, where he sits us down at his very exclusive resort, complete with a service of water and espresso (for Margaret). He tells us about resort, and his family, and their wealth, and their success... and how great it is... and how tremendous it is. Margaret gushes while Michael blushes. I feel unworthy of the royal treatment, though I keep my regal manner in tact, so as to not crack under the steady gaze of the waiter. Serious handshakes with eye-contact and Grazie's come pouring out of me, as I put on my best well-bred, rich American demeanor. And so it was.
We drive away duly impressed by how fantastic it all is. Margaret is psyched by how well she comported herself in the presence of the wine king, and I agree. She asked many excellent questions, and knew things... and impressed the man so much that he extended the tasting beyond what he might have done for someone not as sophisticated. Plus he showed us his exclusive resort mansion, and sat us down to water glasses like we were Columbian drug lords. What more could we want.
Margaret is utterly set on eating at Rosso Barolo that very night when we get back... and we do. She orders tagliatelle with black truffle, while I slum it with some gnocchi bolognese. It's all so good. At least mine is. I ask Margaret to let me smell the truffle, which she kept telling me smelled like dirty socks. But after smelling them... I have to apologize to dirty socks everywhere. They only smell like dirty socks, if the socks were left in a pile of garbage for 3 weeks in 90 degree weather. The phrase that best sums up the odor is... "That's nasty".
After dinner, Margaret locates herself on the small terrace that overlooks the courtyard where we had just eaten. She is in love with this terrace. It is just he sort of cat-like perch she didn't get in Rome or Florence. From here she can spot birds and mice and drink wine and feel like a pampered royal. I sit with her and philosophize about the nature of it all.
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