Wine Grand Journey
A Day on Italy Wine Grand Journey
There’s nothing typical about it.
The only things fresher than the fruit on this plate are the beans that were ground for this coffee. How many days is this trip again? 365?
An in-depth exploration of the International Herald Tribune in a chaise lounge by the pool sounds tempting, but after three espressos, I’m ready to ride.
Tucked between the vines, the wine growers of Barolo seem to treat each Nebbiolo grape as if it were royalty. I’m starting to understand that whole “King of Wines” thing.
They say the Guinness tastes better in Ireland. Turns out Gaja’s Barbaresco tastes better when you’re drinking it with Angelo Gaja’s daughter, in her cellar. Who knew?
Beppe and his truffle-hunting dog, Diana, are either the most authentically Italian locals I can imagine, or the best-cast method actors I’ve ever seen. Judging by the number of truffles Diana’s sniffed out, I’m guessing the former.
An extended ride through the vines sounds tempting—but not quite as tempting as that hotel spa. How do you say “massage” in Italian?
Good thing I rested this afternoon. Turns out the only thing better than an outdoor Italian feast is a little dancing after dinner to work off the pasta. (Actually, better make it a lot of dancing—I couldn’t not try the dessert.)
Ending the day with a grappa under the stars is a tradition I could take home with me. Although I bet it’s not the same without the 12thC castle and an astronomer on hand.
Back at the hotel, I again pass on the Herald Tribune in favour of tomorrow’s itinerary. Dreams consist of olive oil waterfalls and rivers of vini rossi. Bellissimo.