Life Tastes like Wine...

An entry for the DaVinci Storyteller Competition...

I had walked for hours, sweat and dust caking into areas that I had never really given thought to before; my eyebrows, my salty upper lip, behind my ears and knees. I had passed row after endless row of celery green grapevines and I had begun to obsessively plan my first swallow of evening wine. As my mind fixated on thoughts of full strong flavors and the resulting warmth of dazed limbs, my body reveled in the dry heat of the Rioja sun.  After nearly a week of walking the pilgrimage across northern Spain to Santiago (Saint James) I was moments away from reaching the fabled wine fountain at the Bodegas Irache. I stumbled up the last remaining steps, already tasting the heady wine, and I gleefully turned the lever, my hand posed to catch the precious drops. And…? 

Nothing!!
"Son of a B%@$#!!!!"  

I had been thwarted by the many pilgrims faster than I, who were at that moment carrying camelbacks full of wine. (as a side note, rubber flavored warm wine drank from a camelback is truly foul.) 

While I suspect that I would have difficulty discerning a $15 bottle of wine from a $100 bottle of wine, I have come to the conclusion that the world occasionally stops to collectively take a sip and who am I to refuse?!  Wine has marked so many moments; a smooth glass of red with an old man in Genova, an exploding bottle of cheap Cava among laughing friends in front of Saint James,  A bottle of Lambrusco shared with a sunset viewed from the top of a mountain, a plastic cup toast of expensive Prosecco in Saint Peter's Square, a sacred taste of holy communion, a crisp white wine while staring into the eyes of a new lover... Occasionally, life tastes like wine.  

I have a good life. I live in a beautiful city and teach music to a bunch of overly precocious kids in Chicago's north shore. (I will not admit to the amount of times that I have been coerced into playing "Let it Go" from Frozen.) On the weekends, I tutor English as a second language, cantor for masses and play gigs. But sometimes, the cold of the Chicago winter seeps below my skin, permeating through my bones. In these moments, there is nothing for me to do but to pack my bag, grab my ukulele and my passport and head off in search of a new adventure. 

When there are moments in which practicalities prevent me from escaping Chicago's hectic cold, I must simply stop to take stock of the memories I have made and the stories I have brought home to share with my students, family and friends. These moments are jumbled together into one solid blanket of warmth…Buying pounds of chocolate and overindulging with giggling orphans and nuns in Peru, petting a sheep at 2 am one rainy night in Ireland, Sharing crackers with a donkey in Liguria, watching socks dry next to the sea in France, incurring the wrath of an Italian mother in Rome, blowing raspberries with a family in Riomaggiore...  

I have hugged haystacks, sang Edelweiss with german nuns, peed in fields, won an ugly ceramic chicken while playing Tombola, experienced delicious street food in Thailand (and the unfortunate intestinal response..) I have counted stars, fallen in and out of love, chased saints, hugged gods, slept with bedbugs, stolen fruit, and sang Puccini while crossing the River Arno. I have built and breathed dreams . Oh yes, I have lived. And at the end of each day, I have raised a glass, or a bottle, or a box, or a plastic cup (or a camelback) and I have toasted to the warmth of this beautiful world.

"So Jen, what will your next adventure be?"

"Well…hmm…"