A Novice Explores Wine

by William Powell

For example, if the experts and specialist publications are to be believed, there is such a thing as wine travel.

The Novice and the Journey

Although I am revealing myself here as an almost laughably amateurish novice, I have to admit: it sounds nice. However, I also immediately learned that it does not mean simply going somewhere and being pleased to find wine there.

That would have been my definition, and it would have meant that every trip I had ever taken was a wine trip. Apparently, though, they weren't.

Yet drinking wine on holiday is quite an experience in itself. And one that distorts your perceptions. My father's neighbour once fell for this in particularly spectacular fashion after buying a very cheap red in a supermarket in Tuscany and then sitting on a hill drinking it. On a balmy summer night. With a gorgeous girl. In the heart of Tuscany!

Of course it tastes fantastic there — even Domestos with sugar would probably have tasted fantastic.

Back in Germany, the poor fellow then pulled quite a few strings to recreate the experience.

How to Recreate the Experience

Inviting the girl over and hoping for a balmy night was one thing (and, despite a few obstacles, the easier part) — getting hold of that wine was another. When the internet offered no way of making the desired product appear as if by magic, he put so much pressure on his trusted drinks merchant that the latter made enquiries with wine importers he knew and — after some time, several visits from his irritating customer and many phone calls — actually tracked down the wine and had six bottles delivered by express to the Bavarian-Hessian border region. But instead of €2.49, as in Italy, the stuff suddenly cost €11 a bottle, of course.

Still, that did not really bother my father's neighbour, because he was so close to satisfying a little bout of longing that he considered the whole thing almost priceless.

Money Well Spent

For a while, at least … more precisely, until the first sip, when he realised that even €2.49 had been too much for the swill, and that perfect moments are simply not made to last forever, but draw their magic from their fleeting nature.

Sadly, I could not console him by pointing out that €66 was money well spent for such a deeply philosophical insight. Perhaps, though, it was also because the girl never got in touch again after that evening.

Better Honesty Than a Headache

Perhaps I should have told him about my own special wine experience on holiday — but I don't know how funny he would have found the story. Giorgos, the owner of the Greek taverna, didn't find it funny either, after all — although I do hold him partly responsible for the whole incident.

It was my first time in Greece, after all, and I had told him I didn't know much about wine.

Unfortunately, Giorgos didn't understand much English, and my Greek is still limited to Kali Nichta and Kali Mera. When he eventually discovered that I had never drunk retsina, he insisted on treating me to a glass.

Old Wine — Now What?

But the moment I felt the first sip on my tongue, I was one hundred per cent convinced that he had poured me some wine that had gone off — by mistake, I hoped. Who on earth comes up with the idea of adding resin to wine, anyway?
Not me!

Naturally, I was suddenly gripped by panic and thought the mouldy stuff might upset my stomach. So I jerked round towards the hedge beside our table and spat the stuff out in a high, though not particularly aesthetically pleasing, arc.

Disgusting, Revolting

Yuck, honestly. To my surprise, Giorgos became absolutely furious, jumped up and waved his arms wildly, shouting in Greek.

I couldn't swear to it, but I think he was on the verge of smacking me.
Alarmed by the owner's loud antics, several other guests finally came to our aid who both spoke better English/Greek and knew what “the problem” with retsina was.

Once they had calmed Giorgos down enough that he no longer wanted to throw me out on the spot, he agreed that I deserved a second chance. And I must say, I did brilliantly — meaning that the second time round I managed not to spit the stuff out, but — and this is where it gets exciting — to swallow it. Amazing, right?

A few years have passed since then, and I have to admit that there are retsinas I enjoy drinking — very cold, admittedly, but still.