I was out of town for the weekend when I received the heartbreaking news. My friend and colleague, Sarah, had been involuntarily relieved of her beloved bicycle. It was a true rarity; a beautiful purple Nishiki, probably 40-years-old but seemingly ageless. Little by little, Sarah customized it to her own specifications, in the process managing to improve a bicycle that was immaculate from the outset… And then somebody stole it.
Summer sleep is a rare phenomenon. And even when its reticence abates, its utility is questionable. How unfairly weighted the seasons are when the same one offers us the most tantalizing mornings, the most sublime evenings, the sultriest afternoons and the most gravid nights. The audacity of the cliché, I'll sleep when I'm dead, could be agreeably rationalized by the proposal, I'll sleep in the winter, one taking full advantage of summer’s potential in the meantime.
Impeded from enjoying an evening outdoors by merciless June rain, my wife and I found ourselves halfway down the Youtube rabbit hole. We were taking turns selecting video clips, mostly obnoxious punk rock footage, and somehow or other, I Hate You by the Monks popped up. Decent enough song (Big Lebowski fans will recognize it), but I was ecstatic to be reminded of the brilliant title. “Wow... I Hate You,” I said, “that's obviously the best song name of all time!”
The rocky heights of the village of Saint-Jean de Minervois in France’s Languedoc indeed regularly produces grapes each year, subject to the universal vagaries of Mother Nature. In St. J de M, the celebrity grape (historically) here is the Muscat Blanc à Petits Grains, or just Muscat for short. Gorgeous, floral, exotically-scented sweet wines are synonymous with the village, but in this remote hamlet, more strange and wonderful things are to be found.
I begin writing this just before 5 a.m. It's a beautiful time of day when the few humans stirring might be particularly dedicated partiers, inordinately early risers, or just nocturnal. Excepting those whose vocations summon them involuntarily from their cozy beds, these hours are for the curious and the pensive. The world breathes differently in the early morning, sharing tranquil secrets with those who wish to discover them.
These days, we often experience a sense of the loss of time. This bouleversement of points of reference and daily markers can be unusual, if not somewhat unsettling. It seems that story time (which is almost always) is getting a refresh. Fiction or documentary, fairytale or hard-core journalism. Story upon story. Here’s one I’d like to share. It’s one that can perhaps give you an insider’s knowledge of the workings of a small, independent wine shop called Metrovino, and our place in the big wide world.
“The greatest pleasures of traveling are finding a sage hidden behind weeds or treasures hidden in trash, gold among discarded pottery. Whenever I encountered someone of genius, I wrote about it in order to tell my friends.”
- Matsuo Bashō
It was 8:00 a.m. and I was out in the sun raking the dead grass out of my lawn. Wearing a T-shirt with an image of Baudelaire and the slogan "Get Drunk” emblazoned upon it, and applying myself to the lifelong pursuit of comprehensive ear damage by blasting nauseatingly catchy '60s girl-group pop through my headphones, I dragged my green bin around the yard collecting the little piles of debris. I was even relatively well-rested and amidst this exceptionally domestic and mundane activity, I almost forgot how weird life has become.
I must confess that I have long enjoyed the odd and often insalubrious appeal of the back alleys of cities. Vancouver, Paris, Madrid, Genoa and Calgary. Yes, Calgary. Nearly 25 years ago, we opened Metrovino in a location described forebodingly and dismissively as “a back alley”. Predictions of our commercial fate were not universally positive…
