Last night the Piazza Santo Spirito and the Piazza Pitti were filled with little white tents and in each little white tent stood two or several Italian men or women with cork screw in hand. This was the Florence Wine Festival, a showcase for the best wine in the Tuscan region and an occasion in which I had the good fortune to participate. For 10 Euros I was given a wine glass and a card that entitled me to twelve tastes of wine. With each visit to a little white tent my glass was filled about a sixth of the way and my card received a hole-punch. As my card approached 12 holes I have to say the wine started tasting more or less the same.
From the Cantina di Montalcino vineyard I tried a nice, “vino rosso” made with sangiovese grapes. Cantina da Vinci offered a, “Chianti Da Vinci Riserva” that if I can remember through the wine induced fog that is my recollection of that evening was very nice. I sipped more Chianti’s, from more vineyards, than any uncultured oaf like myself has any right to. As the night progressed I found myself wishing my palate was more refined so that I could rightly taste the difference from one good Chianti to the next. I found a table in the Piazza Santo Spirito next to the fountain and listened to middle aged Italian men seated in a makeshift band stand play music and argue in Italian while smoking cigarettes in between sets. Several young Italian guys about my age sat on the steps under the fountain around a man about twenty years their senior who was calmly and effortlessly—surrounded by people—gutting a cigarette and mixing it with hash to prepare a joint… no one said a word or even seemed to notice. Everyone was too intoxicated by the wine, the music, the company of friends, to take much notice of anything.
At about nine in the evening I left with still two drinks left on my card. The nights in Florence have been crisp as of late, bordering on chilly and I had gone unprepared. As I was leaving I saw on the ground, unnoticed by the crowd of American girls clustered near it, another drink card with only two holes punched out of it. Ten drinks to go! But alas, I was cold and knew that that drink card could wait for the next day—today. The Florence Wine Festival is a weekend long event from Friday night to Sunday night. Perhaps I’ll go before dinner to take an, “aperitivo” before cooking a nice steak in a quarter stick of butter.
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1 comment:
damn, I'm jealous, sounds like you're having a good time.
I almost bought the chianti you were talking about, it was well rated by some magazine. I didn't buy it because it was called da vinci, I thought that was hella corny.
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