Some things exist in this world that can actually unite us, and one of those is wine.
When traveling for pleasure, I am generally skeptical of tourist excursions - double-decker bus tours, guided walking tours, a horse-drawn carriage ride with a driver sporting a fake cockney accent, that sort of thing. Who knows whether what one is hearing is factual or simply the overflow of a demented imagination? “You are now standing on the very spot, ladies and gentlemen, where Sir Walter Raleigh invented abstract art by splattering the feces of captured Spanish sailors across his freshly washed linens…”
I would have hastened to add winery tours to this list of things to avoid while traveling, until I took one in Portugal’s Douro Valley. Perhaps it was the place itself that made the difference. That is old, true wine country: small, mountainside villages swaddled by acre upon acre of green vineyards, all neatly gridded and fastidiously tended by hands that have always known what to do. The grapes are the heart of those places and the vines the bloodstream, and the livelihoods of all those who live there depend upon them.
Our journey into this land of fables and antique labels began in Porto, a city which is lovely in the sunlight, but like most cities, gritty and gray in a chilly rain such as we had that morning. As our small bus pulled itself into the hills, great drafts of heavy mist engulfed us; soon, though, patches of sun and blue sky began to blink past us, as though the mountains themselves were just awakening. Rita, our tour guide, was a short, fiery woman - the sort of person the old folks used to call a ‘live wire’ - and she began to move about the bus in order to speak face-to-face with everyone on board, peppering us with questions about ourselves.
My wife and I were seated in the front row, and I had already noticed that the beefy fellow across the aisle from us had paid no heed to Rita’s admonitions that we must not eat or drink anything on the bus, lest we be put out by the side of the road. Immediately after her introductions (in English, Spanish, and Portuguese), he had ripped open a giant bag of Lays and begun chomping down chip after chip. Now, as I eavesdropped on Rita’s conversation with him, I realized that he was Croatian and knew only a few words of English and, apparently, no Spanish or Portuguese at all. I scolded myself for having rushed to judgment.
Soon we stopped for breakfast and bathrooms in a small town called Amarante. When all twenty or so of us had huddled around her on the sidewalk, Rita presented another side of herself with a salacious tale about a 13th-century Benedictine monk called Goncalo, who was beatified by Pope Pius IV in the 1500s. Somehow he gained a reputation as a matchmaker even though he was a hermit, but nevertheless a church was named in his honor and a statue of him was installed there. “The legend goes,” she said, “that if any unmarried, virginal woman - which is to say, one who does not know what it is like to have a man - approaches the statue, pulls on the rope around the saint’s waist and then lifts the cloth skirt and observes an erect penis, then that means she will find a husband very soon.” I remarked to myself that this must be a miracle in indeed, since most statues were made of stone, terra cotta, or plaster in those days.
Now, I have done a bit of research on Sao Goncalo since our tour and have found that there are various accounts of his special talents, but I’ve not come across anything quite as sordidly detailed as Rita’s offering. Still, in my view, she wins points for style and entertainment value. She was also absolutely correct when she added that bakers in Amarante still honor the saint daily by making pastries “in a certain shape. And ladies,” she added wickedly, “you must eat these pastries very slowly in order to enjoy them properly.” In fact, my wife and I found the statue and the pastries, but discretion prevents me from revealing which of the females in our group I observed testing the authenticity of Rita’s remarks.
Well, back on the bus, it was hard to imagine what might come next. I focused on listening in to our guide’s ongoing conversations with the other passengers and learned that some of us were from Scotland, some from India, from Germany, Estonia, Mexico, Texas, and of course, Croatia. None of us seemed to know very much about wine, but we were all eager to learn. Soon our bus burst out above the clouds and we were suddenly in a world of light, and the Douro River, the River of Gold, spread its treasure across the green valley. It was January, and the air was chilly, but it was impossible not to be warmed by the rich, bright colors that had emerged all around us.
I made the error of looking out the bus window and downward. The road was so narrow that it was not even visible from my vantage point, but a sheer drop of about 500 feet down the mountain was all too clear. It reminded me of those video reels you see on Facebook and Instagram of daredevil mountain bikers in the Andes or the Himalayas, flying wildly around curves so minuscule it seems death is the only possible outcome. However, the icy nerve and skill or our driver, Hamash, were up to the task, and somehow we made it to the first winery.
As I shuffled off the bus, I shook the driver’s hand. “How did you do it?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders and answered, “E meu trabalho. It’s my job.”
It was a welcome respite to walk out into the cool, bright air to stand on a path among the rows of vines (all quite dormant at that time of year, but lovely nonetheless) and listen to someone talk about wines. And this was not simply the server at your favorite restaurant or even the maitre d’ explaining the wine list to you. No, this was a man with the love of wine in his voice and eyes, telling us about grapes and about the lavender and olive trees planted near the grapes because they helped the soil to retain moisture. He told us about how the growers had to cautiously predict the volume of their wine production from year to year because drought was a certainty every two years. This was a large winery, he noted, and they put up gigantic oak barrels of millions of gallons of white, ruby, and tawny port every season. Eventually the empty barrels would be sold to Scottish whiskey distilleries, where their interiors would be charred and used for aging Scotch.
He then informed us that “all Portuguese wines in the Douro have American roots, quite literally. The roots of American grapevines are combined with our own.”
Well, I thought, there’s at least one contribution we’ve made to world culture. Could it redeem us for the McDonalds and Burger King joints I’d seen in Spain and in Porto, or for the Jonas Brothers? Probably not, but at least it might be a start. And then the wine expert continued:
“You see, this is because in the 1800s, an invasive American insect called a phylloxera killed all of our vines and many more across Europe. They enjoyed biting the roots and sucking them dry. So many magnificent wineries were lost, and so many jobs for the people. Finally, the Americans began sending their roots, which are resistant to the disease, to be grafted with our own. Fortunately, the wine industry here was ultimately restored.”
Oh. Hmm. Damn. The balloon of American pride I had experienced for a moment was now burst. As we made our way indoors to try some wine, a sense of guilt crept over me: should I apologize on behalf of my country for nearly destroying Portugal’s economy? Start speaking with a British accent so as to throw off suspicion? Ask if there were any chores I could do around the place to show my contrition? I decided it was best simply to remain mum and try not to attract attention to myself.
As I’ve made clear, I am by no means a sommelier, but I believe I can at least taste the difference between a bad wine and a decent one and between a good one and an excellent one. The three we had at Quinta do Roeda were very good, to my palate. If you’ve ever had port wine, you know that they tend to be on the sweeter side (and it’s the grapes that are sweet - no sugar is added), but the ones we tried struck just the right balance, especially the white and ruby. And our hosts poured generously into good-sized glasses - not the little sippy cups you might be served on some tours.
Port also has a higher alcohol content than most wines, typically around 20 percent, because brandy is added during fermentation. The prevailing belief is that originally this helped to preserve the wine and stop its degradation as it traveled on ships to more distant lands. It seems many people very much liked the sweeter taste and the added punch. I only raise these facts - which I gleaned on our tour, of course - because it might help to explain some of the things that happened on the next part of our journey.
To be frank, Most of us were slightly drunk (some more so than others), and the morale had risen considerably. The barriers between nations had dissolved, a sense of good will prevailed, and everyone chattered and chirped happily on the bus as Rita cranked up the classic-rock party music. I was glad to observe that Hamash was still very much in charge of the situation behind the wheel, having not partaken in the sampling, obviously. That was our job. This worked out very well, for if there were ever an urgent need for a designated driver, it was just at that moment. My confidence in him was brimming, and I did not even bother looking downward from my window as the bus climbed ever higher. In fact, all of our crew seemed to have forgotten any and all worries and were singing and laughing - except for our Croatian, who had immediately fallen fast asleep and now began to snore sonorously.
The next (and last) winery was even more magical than the first, though it was much smaller, producing only a few thousand bottles per year. It is delicious wine, though, and again we downed three glasses apiece as we gathered in the barrel room and listened as a very nice, very patient young man named Nicholau informed us about this wonderful elixir. We hung on his every word as though he were Winston Churchill delivering a wartime address, and in turn, whenever any in our coterie asked even a less-than-intelligent question (“Why don’t they have the ladies stomping on the grapes anymore?” or “Whose job is it to fill up all these bottles?”), Nicholau would reward the curious one by topping off his or her glass. Needless to say, most of us had questions. The Croatian man’s was the best:
“Do you drink this…” he struggled for the words in English…”every day in life?”
“Of course,” Nichoau said, refilling our companion’s glass. “I’m Portuguese.”
Finally, by the sheer grace of God (or maybe of Bacchus), someone came and led our troop of strolling drinkers to a large patio, and we were fed a very timely lunch. I have to admit that I don’t remember much about the pork I ate, but it was delicious.
After that, it was time for us to return to Porto. Hamash was again vigilant and alert in the driver’s seat, and he somehow made negotiating those treacherous, winding roads look like a walk in a vineyard. The mood on the bus grew contemplative now, then drowsy, and even the lively Rita settled down in her seat and tuned the cable radio dial to mellow jazz.
Soon, aside from the soft throb of the bus’s engine, the only sound was the Croatian’s heavy, rhythmic snoring.
Hamash turned for just a moment, winked at me, and put his finger to his lips. “Shh,” he said. “The baby is asleep.”