Beringer, Sterling, Mondavi. Three historic wineries. Big, bold, beautiful. Cab is king! Napa Valley, my first wine trip, and I stomped right in like a grape treader to a juicy basket. Fortified with my research and detailed planning skills, I had a sensual sensory experience organized from LA to Napa and back. As I would learn, early December is a good time to visit because most people don’t take a vacation then, cooler temperatures discourage tourism, and it’s after the harvest, when the wineries and their workers are chillin’ like their vines.

We did the food and wine pairing class at Beringer. We rode the gondola at Sterling. There wasn’t a soul visiting Mondavi, so the cave tour became private, and I didn’t object when the host poured the premium reserve tasting of a wine as soft, smooth, and sexy as making love on velvet. That reminds me of the wine host at Fleury vineyards, Vinny, that I visited on my second trip to Napa 16 years later, when he said their top bottle was like, “Sex on the beach.” I wouldn’t describe it like that because it didn’t taste like sex on the beach and because that’s the name of such a basic cocktail that I learned about it in college. Sex on the beach is messy, uneven, and coarse; the color, aroma, and tannins of good wine is not. Vinny was like having the comedic mob boss pour use guys wine, “I’m just here doin’ a favor fora friend, Mr. Fleury.”

            Wine regions, like Napa Valley, have a variety of terroirs or a sense of space, soil, and sun— valley floors, rolling hills, mountains; volcanic, marine bedrock, alluvial; cool mornings, hot days, fog rolling in and burning off. Cane-pruned horizontal trellises—the ones you see lining the roads, farms, or slopes—symmetry to structure. Plush green canopies provide shelter and sites for sun to spark photosynthesis. Sunrises crack above the east facing hills casting golden highlights across the tops of rows upon rows of tendrils and canes. Quails chirp to start the day, while the occasional pickup truck or tractor hums in the distance. Doing Napa as my first wine trip was a very American thing to do.

             Since then—Margaret River Australia, Willamette Valley Oregon, Woodinville Washington, Burgundy and Alsace France, Baden Germany. It’s like the 1962 song written by the Australian country singer Geoff Mack, made popular by singers of many countries.  

I’ve wined everywhere, man.

Of wine travel I’ve had my share, man.

In the wine region of Baden, I stayed near Lake Constance, known there as Bodensee, which also borders Austria and Switzerland. If I was looking for the Napa Valley of wine in Germany, then I should’ve gone to Rheingau or Mosel. I was already in Innsbruck Austria for work and didn’t have time for extended travel, and my German turned English colleague, Dirk, my other German turned English colleague, Mia, and my Canadian colleague with German roots, Clara, all said Bondensee was the go-to nearby place for holiday. On the train I went.

            I will walk around a city or country by myself, a privilege, I’m aware. I set off about 9am to find what Google told me was a nearby tasting. It was a house. Next to the house wasn’t a warehouse or a garage or another house. I can’t imagine it was designed to be a wine tasting room with some storage in the back. Maybe it was a converted garage. Behind the clear glass door, no lights were on, though it was supposedly open. After I mustered up the courage to knock, a German woman came up to answer as if I were lost, or had lost my mind.

“Ja?”, I think she said.

“Good morning. You do wine tasting. Do you do wine tasting?”

Her English was bad, but existent, not like my nein German.

            “What you want?”

            “I’ll try anything you pour me.”

            She pours.

            I smile and thank her.

            “What you want?”

            I point to the name on the list.

She pours.

            I smile and thank her.

            “What you want?”

This went on for over an hour.

Her husband came up and contributed to the choppy conversation. A few other proper German tasters walked in and that’s when I really heard “Genau, genau.” I took it to mean like “Yeah, yeah” in the US or “claro” in Spanish. From there on out, I recognized Germans used this phrase often.

I didn’t think I could manage my walking wine tour toting around bottles, so I didn’t buy any. I felt bad. They didn’t charge me anything. Not very American of them, which I appreciated. I left 20 Euros, a very American thing, I knew. Later, I would surprise Chris, Lea, and Bettina correctly dropping “genau” in conversation.
            I’ve not done vineyard or winery tours in Spain or Portugal, but I’ve tasted. That reminds me of the tasting that Ismael facilitated when I went to Madrid for work. I must tell you, as I told Ismael and I tell everyone, I like wine…because it leads to more wine! As it turned out, one of Ismael’s colleague’s girlfriend’s is a wine connoisseur. Our night started out with the five of us doing a sherry tasting, my first ever, and that’s when I really learned about yeasty or bready aromas in wine. I stuck my big nose in the sherry flute and like Narnia’s closet, I transported to a bakery. They ordered some small nibbles, including dried tuna, which was a magical pairing, one of many in the world of wine. Yes, blue cheese and port work together too. We had to leave promptly to get to the wine pairing dinner that had six tapas paired with an equally delicious white or red wine. One of the dishes looked like a miniature volcano made of fresh chopped tomatoes with an egg yolk as the inside crater. Never have I or would I have imagined. Such is the case with wine, food, people, and places.