Language and Wine – Book Teaser

But he goes on. Does he really believe that I’m following along, or simply enjoy the sound of his own voice? It is beautiful after all, rhythmically flowing along at that southern pace, each word closing itself up with a gentle lift like the crest of the faintest little wave. Shaking myself dry of my imagination, I realize he’s offering me another glass of crémant. I probably shouldn’t, but I accept it. I don’t want to seem rude on only the first day. I catch a few words, here and there: those that haven’t undergone such colloquial metamorphosis, altered beyond recognition.

 We are on our lunch break, from my first official day of “work”, a title that has turned out to be a gross overstatement. I have come to harvest grapes, but when the morning coffee led leisurely out to the vines where we were each given a tripod camping stool to perch on as we cut bunches of Merlot, one by one, dropping each one tenderly into bright yellow plastic bins, it dawned on me that this could not possibly be an accurate reflection of typical labor practices in a country that manages to pump out a respectable GDP. I know the French savor their vacation time, but this had to be atypical. Indeed, harvest “à la Parisienne” turned out to be a primarily social occasion, an annual pretense to reunite an old clan of rugby-mates while kicking off the harvest season with a wine consumption that at least equals, if not surpasses, the day’s production.

But see, I don’t know that yet. My lack of comprehension has become a sort of training device in Buddhist philosophy: I can’t understand, or ask, what’s coming so I have no choice but to live in the moment. To be present. And for now, that means accepting another pour, and staring blankly at the lips moving all around me, trying to piece together some meaning from the patchwork of syllables that I can make out. But as I’m sitting firmly in the present moment, enjoying a not so well deserved break from a morning of not so intense seated harvesting, I am oblivious to the fact that this is only the beginning. I have not yet been indoctrinated into the culture of the French apéritif, and thus the idea that an entire meal, paired with wines from across the range: whites, reds and rosés, awaits me. And then suddenly, as if warned by an invisible call – pheromones, perhaps – everyone, spread throughout the garden relaxing in the early autumn sunlight, becomes alert, like the wave of attention as it passes through a coterie of nervous prairie dogs abruptly alerted to a nearby danger. We begin to file into the garage, emptied of its heavy vineyard machinery for this special occasion…

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A little work…

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…and lots of play

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