I considered switching over to Substack. They have better analytics and push from the platform, versus the necessary pull from the legacy platform, Blogspot, which even its owners AI representative (i.e. Gemini) claim has become a digital ghost town. Maybe so. Or perhaps it's like a vintage sports car that just needs to be cared for. While it doesn't have the bells and whistles of the newer models, it still can get up and go and eventually get you somewhere. That's where we've been going for the last twenty years on the wine trail in Italy.

2025 was a year of reckoning and remembrance. I wrote on average, a post a week?each one a conversation I needed to have, either with myself or with you. Looking back, they organized themselves into five distinct streams, which I am re-sharing with you below.

This almost year-end piece organizes some of my more notable posts from 2025 into five thematic streams. It's a way to see the full range of what I tackled this year.

I'll be back next week on the official day, the 20th anniversary date, with some thoughts and reflections and possible directions (maybe even some predictions) I plan on taking in 2026. In the meantime, enjoy the encore presentation, and Merry Christmas, y'all.

The Personal Trail: Wine, Life, and Looking

Some essays weren't about wine at all, except that everything's about wine when you've spent forty years in it.

"What Photography Taught Me About Wine Appreciation" (September 7, 2025)
Photography informed my wine journey from the start. Wynn Bullock taught me to be "always looking, with or without a camera"?a philosophy that shaped how I approach both crafts.

"Trebbiano and Chicken - A simple meal which might just save the world" (August 24, 2025)
The world burns, and I went to the kitchen. Sometimes the most radical act is making something simple and good.

"The Stages of a (Wine's) Life" (August 3, 2025)
I sat in my wine closet with the ancients?25% of my collection is 25 years or older. They had things to tell me about aging, about time, about what lasts.

"Love - Wine Appreciation's Secret Sauce" (August 17, 2025)
The wine-writing class kept harping about the sky falling. Meanwhile, actual people in actual shops were still buying wine, still falling in love with it. Turns out that matters more than all the bloviating.

"In Service of Italian Wine" (July 6, 2025)
Forty years in the trade. I survived. Not everyone did. Here's how I dodged those bullets.

"Midnight in the Cellar: Wine, Sleep, and the Slow Burn" (November 9, 2025)
Bucita, 1977. The scent of fermentation woke me at midnight. Sometimes memory works like that?reaching through decades, pulling you back to the cellar.

"The Most Important Meal of the Day" (November 16, 2025)
Marion Nestle doesn't believe in breakfast. My grandfather's Sunday barbecues under the grape arbor?those weren't marketed. They just mattered.

"Well, shut my mouth!" (August 10, 2025)
Lately when I'm out in the world, I keep getting this sense I had as a youngster: stop talking and let the adults talk.

The Industry Reckoning: Calling Out the Bullshit

Some conversations needed to happen out loud, in public, with receipts.

"The Economics of Bullshit: Wine's Junket Folly" (October 26, 2025)
Scroll Instagram?sun-drenched vineyard photos, perfectly plated lunches, #blessed #sponsored (maybe). But here's the unspoken contract: you don't bite the hand that flies you first class.

"Devotion, Direction and Dissent ? The Divergent Mantra of Contemporary Italian Winemakers" (August 31, 2025)
Change in Italian winemaking happens incrementally. But make no mistake?the revolution continues. Why would anyone think it would stop here?

"Has Wine Lost Its Moorings? A Response to Eric Asimov" (October 22, 2025)
Eric laid out prescriptions for an ailing industry. But reading through it, one question kept nagging: Has wine lost its cultural moorings?

"The Great Inversion: How Italian Wine's Future Moved South" (November 2, 2025)
Nobody's saying it out loud: northern Italy is dying faster than the south. For the first time in modern wine history, the center of gravity is shifting.

"Haven't we been here before? A signpost on the wine trail in Italy" (July 27, 2025)
Twenty years of writing. Looking back at the subject matter, I can't help wondering if I've reached the bottom of the barrel. The jury's still out.

"Problem: Wine in Crisis? Remedy: Move forward, like an arrow. Fearlessly." (July 13, 2025)
I've been working on a project in an Italian wine shop. I have good news: people are still buying wine, still discovering, still caring.

"Ten Years After: What I Got Right (and Wrong) About Italian Wine in America" (October 12, 2025)
A decade ago I threw some educated guesses into the wind. Looking back is easier than looking forward, but at least now I have data.

"How Much Do Wine Expert Ratings Matter?" (June 8, 2025)
Making shelf talkers for my local shop, I discovered the relative influence of wine writers has shifted. There are more voices than ever, so the field has been diluted.

"Wine on lists starting @ $100, concert seats @ $1,000, cars that run $100,000, watches for $250,000 ? Excuse me, what planet am I on?" (June 22, 2025)
We all live in a yellow submarine now. Inside the bubble, not all is rosy.

"That ain't Italy, folks ? Tourism in the 21st Century" (June 29, 2025)
A country turns into a cruise ship. The billionaire's Venetian wedding galvanized this concept into a gigantic, sparkling mess.

The Practical Guides: Still Teaching After All These Years

Some posts just needed to explain things clearly, without the noise.

"Your Essential Guide to Italy's DOC and DOCG Wines - 2025 Version" (October 15, 2025)
You're standing in front of a wine list. Barbaresco, Barolo, Brunello?all those B's swimming together. Someone asks what the difference is between DOC and DOCG. Here's the answer.

"What Makes Someone an Italian Wine Expert? (And Why It Doesn't Matter)" (December 14, 2025)
I helped a woman in my Italian market find wine. Walking away, I thought: "She doesn't know she just got advice from someone who spent forty years working with Italian wine." What a ridiculous thing to think.

"Don't Age Wine Longer than 10 Years!" (June 1, 2025)
A longtime colleague launched into a prolonged jeremiad about aging wine. I recorded it (with permission). The jury's still out.

"Prophecy and Perspective on the Blackland Prairie" (October 19, 2025)
Ten years ago I wrote about 5 Italian wine regions to watch. The buffalos are coming back. The crystal ball sits on my desk, a little cloudier, a little wiser.

"Whispers from the Forgotten Frontiers of Italian Wine" (September 21, 2025)
Beneath the surface lies a shadowed realm?wines yet unborn, waiting in the dark. Nowhere is this more evident than in Etna, where thousands of ancient indigenous vines lie dormant.

The Satire & Invention: When You Have to Laugh

Sometimes the only response to absurdity is more absurdity?but deadpan.

"Persona Non Grata" (November 12, 2025)
Retrieved from my spam file ?
[The confidential memo that arrived after I became persona non grata in the wine PR world]

"Spas, Tours, Golden Hour Too - We'll Be Blessed If You Come" (November 18, 2025)
Apparently word hasn't gotten around yet. This arrived in my inbox today.
[Another press junket invitation, lampooned]

"A Hundred Years Wrapped in Etna's Fiery Embrace" (October 5, 2025)
I enlisted my clandestine consigliere, ???fonso?an arcane ignis fatuus who whispers tweaks. We traced the 2022 Terre Nere Prephylloxera over a hundred imagined years, guided by Empedocles.

"Is Your Favorite Italian Wine 'Coded?'" (May 18, 2025)
It got me wondering if Italian wine is coded in these days of disruption. Almost anything can be, especially when one trawls the eddies of social media.

"The Bullshit-ification of the Italian Wine and Food Experience in America" (February 23, 2025)
Sometimes you just have to call it what it is.

Italy Beyond the Glass: Travel Philosophy & Cultural Critique

Wine is a way into Italy. But Italy is so much more.

"Kicking the Bucket List Habit ~ Five Ways to Surrender to Italy" (November 30, 2025)
I keep seeing these bucket lists. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose. But that's not the Italy that's stayed with me for fifty-some years. Italy reveals itself differently?not when you grasp at it, but when you open your hands.

"Go to Rome, go to Florence, go to Venice, but please don't go here!" (September 14, 2025)
People go to Rome, to Florence, to Venice. But Liguria? Why in Heaven's name would anyone go there? Liguria is one of Italy's best kept secrets.

"The Ugly American Has Come Home" (December 7, 2025)
When I first went to Italy in 1971, I got my introduction to the ugly American. Now the ugly American has come home to roost. There's no escaping their thunderous ubiety.

"Examining Cultural Appropriation in Italian-Inspired Cuisine: A Closer Look" (September 28, 2025)
A local chef opened an Italian-styled restaurant. One dish: Prosciutto e Melone made with Texas cantaloupe, culatello, candied hazelnuts, figs, and basil. The chef noted ironically, "We have a lot more of what people consider traditional Italian," but couldn't skip chicken parmesan.

"Like Nothing Ever Before" (July 20, 2025)
How often have you opened a bottle of wine and thought you'd never tasted anything like it in your lifetime? After thousands of wines a year, when does that special bottle percolate to the top?

The Gift of Memory

Looking back at these posts, I realize they centered around paying attention to wine, to Italy, to the industry, to the absurdity, to what lasts and what doesn't.

Twenty years is a long time to maintain the discourse. But maybe that's the point?it's not about having something new to say every week. It's about showing up, looking closely, and trusting that if you pay attention long enough, the things worth saying will find you. More on this next week.

I was in my local Italian market last week, picking up olive oil and pasta. A woman nearby stood staring at the wine section, Brunellos lined up like soldiers. She looked lost. I asked if she needed help. She did?looking for something specific. I found it for her, pointed out a couple alternatives, and moved on.

Walking away, a thought flickered through my mind: "I bet she doesn't know she just got advice from someone who spent forty years working with Italian wine." I laughed at myself and kept walking toward the eggs. What a ridiculous thing to think.

But it raises a question I've been chewing on for years: what actually makes someone an Italian wine expert?

Here's the uncomfortable truth: knowing the pH levels of Barbera or memorizing every sub-zone in Piedmont doesn't mean you understand what makes Barbera speak to people's souls. I remember walking into my first Vinitaly in 1984. I arrived imagining (in my wildest dreams!) that I might be one of those experts on Italian wine. Within an hour, I realized I was nowhere close. The room was full of people who had spent lifetimes learning, tasting, living this stuff. They knew the difference between Lampia and Michet (biotypes of Nebbiolo, btw) the way a musician knows scales.

Because here's what I've learned after four decades: real expertise isn't about knowing every DOCG or being able to recite vintage charts. It's about understanding why a simple Langhe Nebbiolo from an unknown producer can move you more than a 100-point Barolo that everyone's chasing.

Don't get me wrong?knowledge matters. You should know how to pronounce the names. You should understand where wines come from, why a Tuscan wine is different than one from Piedmont. But that's just the foundation. The real stuff?the stuff that actually matters when you're opening a bottle with friends or choosing something for dinner?that comes from somewhere else.

It comes from balance. From perspective. From understanding Italian wine within a larger global context, not just in its own bubble. It comes from staying curious instead of claiming mastery. Because once you think you're an expert at anything, there's always someone or something new to knock you down a peg or two.

It was liberating. I could walk into a wine shop and not automatically catalog everything I saw. I could order something at a restaurant without mentally rating it or comparing it to every other version I'd tasted. I could just drink the damn wine.

"Open the bottle. Drink the wine. Cut the crap." I find myself saying this more and more. Yeah, I said it again.

Here's what I want regular wine drinkers to know: don't be intimidated by people who call themselves experts. Trust your own palate. Trust your own experience. If you like a wine, you like it. If you don't, you don't. No certificate or credential changes that.

The best Italian wine knowledge doesn't come from courses or competitions. It comes from curiosity. From trying new things. From asking questions. From paying attention to what you're drinking and why you like it.

I know plenty of dead Italian wine experts who would rather be here, alive, drinking the most pedestrian bottle of Chianti than have their expertise memorialized in some dusty credential. "Give me life," they whisper.

So give yourself permission to just be an enthusiast. That's where the real joy lives anyway.

 

A few years later I took a train from Mexicali to Mexico City - three days, stopping at every stop. More ugly Americans, unconscious and insensitive to the culture hosting them. Downright rude, and when drunk, dangerous. 

Over decades and many trips to Italy, France, Greece, Spain, and Portugal, I witnessed too many times the embarrassing and unconscionable behaviors - the attitudes, the mores, of American tourists. Fortunately, I blended in and took a side view to their ignorant ways.

But now, the Ugly American has come home to roost. There's no escaping their thunderous ubiety in the United States, no security in the homeland from the hordes of somnambulists roaming the countryside and city with their oversized vehicles and their propensity to disregard the law. Just try going through a green light without checking if stragglers are racing through the red. It happens all the time. Turns out the ugly American scaled perfectly - from loud tourist to national ethos.

What does that have to do with the wine trail in Italy?

This year started with fire. The town where I was born, the last home I lived in in California - leveled. And now as the year ends, what a year it has been, living under disruptive and chaotic leadership that seems designed to keep us perpetually off-balance, perpetually at each other's throats.

As I rapidly approach twenty years of writing on this blog - two decades on the wine trail trying to make sense of what wine means beyond the bottle - I keep coming back to the same question: what is wine for? Not the commercial product, not the points and ratings, but the thing itself. The ritual, the slowing down. Wine as civilizing agent - not because it makes anyone drunk, but because it requires patience. You don't gulp good wine. You don't shout over it. It demands you pay attention, that you acknowledge you're part of something larger than yourself.

Italy taught me this. In the countryside, in the cellars, at tables where strangers become friends over a bottle, wine creates a space where civility isn't just possible - it's inevitable. You can't rush a winemaker. You can't bully terroir. The vine doesn't care about your politics or your schedule. It does what it does, and you either learn patience or you learn nothing.

And now wine itself is under attack from neo-prohibitionists who see it as nothing more than alcohol, a public health menace to be warned against, restricted, taxed into oblivion. They miss entirely what wine has been for millennia - a civilizing force, a bearer of culture, a reason to gather and remember we're human beings, not just consumers or demographics or rival tribes.

When I'm in Italy now, I see something we've lost. Not some idealized past - Italy has its own problems, its own divisions. But there's still a shared understanding that meals matter, that gathering matters, that taking time with a bottle of wine isn't indulgence, it's civilization. It's the opposite of what I see at home - the inability to slow down enough to see the other person across the table.

Maybe wine can't save us. Maybe nothing can. But after forty years of watching how wine brings people together in Italy - not just Italians, but everyone who shows up willing to learn, to listen, to slow down - I'm not ready to give up on the idea that the rituals we've abandoned might show us a way back.

Wine won't fix the polarization. It won't make people civil who've decided incivility is a virtue. But for those still looking for a roadmap back, still believing that how we treat each other matters, the wine trail offers something: proof that patience still works, that attention still matters, that sitting down together with something worth savoring can still create the space where we remember how to be human with each other.

It's not much. But it's something. And right now, I'll take it.

Nothing wrong with any of that, I suppose. But that's not the Italy that's stayed with me for fifty-some years. The Italy that changed me wasn't the one I planned. It was the one I stumbled into when I got lost, when I let go, when I trusted a stranger's gesture instead of a guidebook.

Italy reveals itself differently. Not when you grasp at it, but when you open your hands.

Are you ready for Italy? Or are you only ready for the Italy you've already decided on?

So here are five experiences for your surrender list. Understand this: these aren't things to collect. They're ways to fail by tourist standards?and succeed by Italy's.

1. WANDERING: Surrender Your Need for Destination

Get deliberately lost in a southern hill town. Inland Calabria. Inner Sicily. The hinterlands of Basilicata. Places where tourists don't go because there's "nothing to see."

Turn off your GPS. Don't make a restaurant reservation. Walk.

Follow the smell of wild herbs floating down from the hills. Trust a sound, a stranger's direction, the way light falls on a particular alley. The confusion is the experience, the lostness is the point.

You won't find this at the Spanish Steps. You have to go where the road ends and trust that something will lead you somewhere worth being. 

2. DISCOVERING: Surrender Your Fear of Missing Out

Find your morning coffee bar in Venice or Rome. Not the best one. Not the one with reviews. YOUR bar. Go back every morning until the barista knows your order.

Step 100 meters away from San Marco and you'll find the quiet, almost deserted village that makes Venice bearable. The locals tolerate tourists in their typical Venetian manner?which is to say, they live here, we don't. We will leave, they will stay. It will always be their Venice, not ours. As it should be.

I learned this returning to Italy in 2023 after a four-year absence. I found a quirky little wine bar near my hotel, Ozio, specializing in natural wine. I sipped a Sicilian white?Catarratto-Zibibbo, a skin-contact orange?instead of the ubiquitous Spritz. Simple, dry, legitimate?everything the Spritz isn't.

Walk down the road, take a right, then a left. Find something no one knows about except the locals. You won't starve. And you might run into something better than all those pages of recommendations. Use your gut, listen to your heart.

The real Italy exists behind the heavily touristed fa?ade. But you have to be willing to miss the "must-see" to find it. 

3. PILGRIMAGING: Surrender Your Hunger for Spectacle

Choose Ercolano over Pompeii. An Umbrian hermitage over Assisi's basilica. A Renaissance-era olive orchard on a Calabrian escarpment where a Scandinavian importer once asked to be left alone for hours, just to sit among trees that have never seen Florence or Venice or the Vatican.

I lived in a trailer outside Assisi in 1977 for three weeks, five dollars a day. A short walk led to what was once a stall where they cooked food?local, healthy, humble. No crowds, no queues, just the simple Italian table. Until the New York Times "discovered" it decades later.

Sacred geography reveals itself in solitude, not in lines. You won't get the photo (or the "selfie") everyone else has. You might not even understand what you experienced until years later. But that's pilgrimage?walking toward something you can't quite name, letting it change you without fanfare.

St. Peter's used to be a place where you could park your car, have a picnic lunch on the steps, take your time. Now it's all restricting and queuing up. "Move on, hurry up, no pictures, people are waiting."

Go where the waiting isn't necessary. Go where silence still exists. Walk up the hill to Parioli and find a Rome for Romans and other wanderers. 

4. WORKING: Surrender Your Role as Consumer

Get your hands dirty. Harvest olives. Pick grapes. Help prep a village sagra. Work a fishing boat for a morning.

I arrived in a hilltop town called Bucita in Calabria in 1977, following the smell of wild herbs and figs baked in their leaves floating down from the hills. A storm threatened. The family needed hands in the fields for harvest. Like goats we swarmed the vineyards, competing with the bees for the nectar. The elements dominated everything?sun, rain, lightning, thunder?earth, alive and moving.

Years later, I spent days picking olives in Tuscany?900 pounds over several days, thinking about Italian work songs, dodging wasps. Tedious, physical, real.

Or maybe you end up sitting in someone's home at night, drinking their wine. Below you in the basement, thousands of crushed grapes fermenting. Above, a bare bulb lighting the room. The elders talking into the early hours of the morning. That's where I learned wine?not in books or at fancy tastings, but in rooms like that, with people who made it.

You understand terroir through your body, not your palate. You earn your place at the table differently when you've worked for it. Your muscles ache. Your hands smell like earth or oil or fish. And the meal that follows tastes like nothing you've ever paid for. 

5. FOOD AND WINE: Surrender Your Expectations

Find a no-menu trattoria. Or better yet, end up at someone's table where you eat what you're given.

I had one of these experiences in the hilltop town of Cir? in Calabria. L'Aquila d'oro?four tables for maybe eighteen people, a "truck stop" most would drive right by. The wife cooks. The husband and son serve. What followed was three hours, eighteen courses of throw-away food becoming revelation.

Baby goat intestines on oregano branches. Fava bean skins?tough, stringy things normally discarded for the prize inside. Ricotta that was milk in the creature yesterday morning. Not Saveur-magazine perfect. Not pretty. But memorable in ways no Michelin meal has ever been.

"This is the poorest of cuisines," my friend Paolo reminded me. "Made from things nobody in the city hungers for. Wild onions, herbs, parts of animals that get discarded, skins of plants no one would think were edible."

Throw away food. Or throw it down food, which is what we did.

If I served this meal to some friends back home, they might ask, "When are we going to start getting the Italian food?" But others would get it. They would understand they were in the kitchen of a woman from Calabria, tasting something out of this world that comforts and nourishes and is so delicious.

The same goes for wine. Skip the trophy bottles. Order the vino della casa. That house wine in many Italian trattorie is better than most wines you can buy in American supermarkets. Simple, fresh, for the moment. Go straight for it. You'll seldom be disappointed. 

Before You Go

These experiences share one requirement: you have to be ready to fail by bucket-list standards.

You might not get the photo. The directions you followed might lead nowhere.The winemaker might be out in the fields. You might sit on that bench for an hour and feel like you wasted time.

But if you're ready for Italy?truly ready?that won't matter.

Italy isn't a checklist. It's not a conquest. It's a country made up of people with feelings and emotions, with a culture that doesn't perform for tourists. Step off the trail everyone else is on.

Get lost. Sit still. Work. Eat what appears. Trust the locals over the algorithm.

Let Italy be Italy. And let it change you in ways you didn't plan.

Going to Italy?that's a good fortune most people never have. Don't waste it on checklists. This is one of the most intimate, beautiful places humans have created. Slow down enough, and it will let you in. That gift is worth more than any bucket list could promise. 

 Other reading: Italy is ready for you - Are you ready for Italy?

From the "Oops!... they did it again" dept. 

 Click images to enlarge  

Family outing Old California circa early 1930's - Nonna bottom right

Marion Nestle doesn't believe in breakfast. At 89, this nutrition expert who's spent decades exposing the food industry says most of the research claiming breakfast is the most important meal was sponsored by cereal companies. Kellogg's and General Mills needed to move boxes. They manufactured urgency. We bought it.

But nobody marketed the meals that actually mattered. My grandfather's brick bar-be-cue in old California. Every Sunday under the grape arbor. Probably the first place wine touched my lips. Those traditions?gathering, sharing a meal, an anonymous bottle or two of wine?they're gone now.

Family dinner al fresco - Palermo circa mid 1950's

We have better everything now. Custom grills, exotic charcoal, grass-fed steaks, wines we can trace to specific hillsides. But something essential slipped away in all this improvement.

I walked into a new restaurant recently. Noise hit first?music, then voices bouncing off hard surfaces designed for Instagram. By evening they'd dimmed the lights and cranked the volume higher. Maybe I'm just over it. But I watched people half-shouting across small tables, trying to connect.

So people stay home. Not from antisocial impulse, but because they need to hear each other again. To see a face when it tells a story. To not be constantly barraged by questions ("How is everything tasting?").

At home you pour what makes sense. Wine's just there, part of it. It's there while you're talking about the world or work or nothing much. You taste it because you're paying attention?wine rewards that. You can't taste it properly while distracted, while your phone lights up with the next crisis.

With meals at home one can breathe with the wine. Conversation happens without someone constantly interrupting you. No one's eyeing your table, trying to upsell you every five minutes.

There was nothing like our Mamma's cooking

Eat food, not too much, mostly plants. Pollan's mantra, Nestle's practice. Simple. Real. Not ultra-processed. Not manufactured. Not at 85dB. With music you can hear, maybe even enjoy, rather than some that seek to help the establishment turn the tables quickly.

In Italy, lunch is still an important meal. Businesses close. People sit. Wine flows, moderately. Then back to work. My grandfather's Sunday gatherings had that same understanding. Different place, different wine, same knowledge: an ordinary day can be made to matter. Why can't Tuesday have that attention?

We're in upheaval?political, social, economic. Wine consumption trending down. But maybe wine isn't the problem. Maybe we forgot how to weave it into the fabric of a meal instead of making it the excuse for one.

Holidays approach with their promise of important meals. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's. But what if we didn't wait? What if Thursday lunch mattered? What if we stopped relegating lunch to desk salads grabbed standing up?

The most important meal isn't breakfast or dinner or Thanksgiving at two. It's whichever one you show up for. The one you make matter through presence.

Southern California - Nonno's bar-be-cue circa 1950's

My grandfather's backyard. That arbor. Those Sundays. The wine wasn't great, compared to the stuff we pour down our gullets today. But the moments were. Not because everything was perfect?people showed up. They sat. They stayed. They made memories we inherited.

We cannot go back to that California. It fell off the map some time ago, vanished into whatever country the past becomes. But the practice hasn't. Setting a table. Paying attention to what you're eating, who you're with, what's in the glass. Not for Instagram. Not to escape. Just presence.

Food, perhaps wine, certainly time, gratitude not as sentiment but as the act of noticing what stands before you, and in uncertain times not because it repairs the outer chaos but because it reminds us we are still here, still human, still capable of that most ancient and essential act of sitting down and being in each other's presence.  

Old California circa 1930's- our dad on the right

Retrieved from my spam file ?*

 

The scent woke me. Not an alarm, not a voice - just that yeasty, intoxicating pull of fermentation working in the dark. It reached through the window, through my first sleep, drew me from bed the way the aroma of those ripe figs had drawn me when we first arrived in Bucita that September of 1977. Siren calls, both of them. Irresistible.

I made my way to the cellar. Cool stone underfoot, a single light carving shadows from the darkness. My cousins were already there, not doing much of anything. Just present. Just attending. We didn't talk much. Didn't need to. The wine was holding court - that gentle gurgle and hiss of wild yeast doing ancient work in wicker-wrapped demijohns that might have held our great-grandparents' wine.

Outside, the stream. Wind whistling through the clay tiles. A light breeze carrying the scent of September hills. Outside, a waft of bergamot. Inside, just the slow burn of transformation.

This was the wakeful hour between sleeps - that pause where nothing productive happens but everything important does. We weren't checking temperatures or consulting charts. We were simply there, breathing the same air as the working wine, letting time notice itself.

Years later, I would learn that humans used to sleep this way: two sleeps with a conscious interval between. That our bodies still want to wake at 3am not because something's wrong, but because something's deeply right - something's remembering. In that Bucita cellar, I was living in that remembered rhythm without knowing its name.

Our ancestors slept in shifts. First sleep, then a wakeful hour or two around midnight, then second sleep until dawn. Historical records from Europe, Africa, Asia describe this pattern as unremarkably as we might describe breakfast. People woke around midnight, tended fires, prayed, made love, visited neighbors, contemplated their dreams. Then returned to sleep.

It wasn't insomnia. It was the rhythm.

The interval between sleeps had a quality. Not dead time but noticed time - the kind of attention that shapes how we experience duration. Without artificial light, those midnight hours felt different. Slower, richer, more permeable. Time you could actually feel passing through you rather than rushing past you.

We lost this rhythm through the steady creep of efficiency. First oil lamps, then gas lighting, then electricity turning night into usable waking time. Factory schedules demanding continuous blocks of rest to maximize continuous blocks of labor. By the early 20th century, eight uninterrupted hours had become the ideal, and anyone who woke in between was failing at sleep.

But the body remembers. That 3am waking isn't malfunction - it's your biology looking for the pause that used to be there.

 

Same problem. Same loss. 

What survives isn't the efficient wines. It's the ones that held their time.

When researchers remove artificial light and clocks from people's lives - put them in conditions like our ancestors knew - they naturally return to the old rhythm. Two sleeps. The wakeful interval between. The body remembers what the culture has forgotten.

I think about that Bucita cellar often now. How the smell called me. How we just stood there, cousins in the half-dark, breathing with the working wine. How time felt - not fast or slow but present.

The slow burn isn't a technique. It's a relationship with time itself - the kind our ancestors knew in their bones, in their two sleeps and wakeful intervals, in their patient attendance to things that cannot be rushed.

We're not behind the times when we wake at 3am or make wine the long way or wait for figs to ripen in their own season.

We're remembering what time is for.

 

 

? written and photographed (In Calabria) by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

wine blog +  Italian wine blog + Italy W

But here's what you won't see: the unspoken contract. The implicit understanding that this week in Chianti, these meals, this business-class ticket, comes with an expectation. Not a requirement, mind you. Just an... understanding. You don't bite the hand that flies you first class and puts you up in a restored monastery. That would be ungrateful.

Is this journalism? Marketing? Or something murkier that we've all agreed not to examine too closely?

The Quid Pro Quo No One Mentions

Let's be honest about what's happening here. When a winery or consortium spends thousands of euros bringing writers to their region, they're not funding some noble pursuit of truth. They expect return on investment. And the writers? They know it. They're not stupid?just conveniently flexible about what "editorial independence" means.

The selection process itself tells you everything. You don't get invited back if you wrote that the wines were overpriced or the hospitality was lacking. The system self-selects for the pliable, the positive, the ones who'll post pretty pictures and talk about "hidden gems" and "undiscovered terroirs." It's Darwinian, really. Survival of the most compliant.

Compare this to traditional journalism. The New York Times forbids staff and freelancers from accepting comped travel?a strict ethical policy against even the smallest hint of undue influence. The practical reality, as one editor explained, is that newspapers live in glass houses: you can't run expos?s on lobbyist junkets while your wine writer sips Barolo on someone else's dime. Ethics and optics are intertwined when credibility is your currency.

This is access journalism?when reporters become so dependent on their sources that they lose the ability to be critical. Ask the wrong question at a White House press conference and watch your credentials disappear. Wine writers face the same trap. When your livelihood depends on maintaining relationships with the very people you're covering, objectivity isn't just compromised. It's impossible. But hey, the Brunello is fantastic.

The Professional Junket Circuit: Serial Abusers of the System

But the real problem isn't the occasional press trip. It's the professional hangers-on?the serial junket-takers who've built entire careers on free travel. They're living the dream, funded by someone else's marketing budget.

You know them when you see them. Check their Instagram: Tuscany today, Pened?s tomorrow, Bordeaux next week, Napa by month's end. They're not wine writers who travel; they're travelers who occasionally mention wine between selfies. The telltale signs are everywhere: more photos of themselves than the wines, captions that could apply to any winery anywhere ("What a magical day!"), and a concerning ratio of exclamation points to actual information.

Here's the math that should alarm every winery owner: If someone is doing twelve or more press trips a year, when exactly are they writing? When are they developing the deep knowledge that makes coverage valuable? The answer: they're not. They're spreading shallow coverage thin, posting a TikTok video (one of 34 million posted daily!) that fades in twenty-four hours, maybe a blog post if you're lucky. But don't worry?they'll definitely tag you.

Yet wineries keep inviting them. Why? Because PR firms need to "fill seats." Because follower counts create an illusion of influence. Because nobody wants to admit they can't measure the return on investment. So let's just keep doing it and hope the algorithm rewards us.

That money could have hired a sales rep for a month. Could have upgraded the tasting room. Could have paid for a presence at a major trade show where actual buyers congregate. Instead, it funded someone's personal brand. And their next passport renewal.

And that's the perpetual motion machine at work. Each trip makes these "influencers" look more influential, which gets them invited on the next trip, which makes them look even more influential. They're building their brand on your dime. Rinse, repeat, provide minimal value. It's the circle of life, Tuscan villa edition.

The FTC Disclosure Theater

The Federal Trade Commission requires disclosure of "material connections"?which includes free trips. Influencers must use clear language like "#ad" or "#sponsored." Must place it prominently. Must make it "hard to miss."

In practice? You get "#ad" buried seventeen hashtags deep. Or "Thanks to XYZ Winery for hosting!" without clarifying that "hosting" meant five thousand dollars in expenses. Very transparent. Very ethical.

But here's the thing: even perfect disclosure doesn't solve the ethical problem. It just makes it legal. You can disclose a conflict of interest without eliminating it. Readers don't need labeled bias?they need unbiased information. There's a difference. Though apparently not one the FTC cares much about.

When the Influencer Becomes the Brand

We've reached a strange inflection point where people make their living as "wine content creators." Their full-time job is posting about wine. Which raises an uncomfortable question: when wine coverage is your livelihood, who's really the client? The readers, or the wineries paying for your lifestyle?

Trick question. It's neither. It's the algorithm.

The metrics game compounds the problem. Analysis shows more than sixty percent of influencers admit to buying followers, likes, or comments. Fake accounts number in the millions. Yet wineries make decisions based on these numbers, unable to verify what's real and what's manufactured. It's the economics of bullshit?spending real money on fake influence, measuring success in meaningless impressions while actual sales remain a mystery. But the engagement rate looks great in the PowerPoint.

And some of these folks have developed quite the sense of entitlement. I've heard stories?the blogger who demanded a business-class ticket before ever visiting a region, the influencer who refused to post without additional "compensation" beyond the free trip. When did we start treating wine producers like ATMs? Oh right?when someone figured out they'd actually pay.

The Uncomfortable Truth

Here's the question nobody wants to answer: Can you accept a five-thousand-dollar trip and still be objective?

Maybe the answer is simpler than we've been admitting. Maybe you can't. Maybe we need to stop pretending there's some magical ethical framework that makes it okay. Either commit to independence?pay your own way, accept the limitations?or admit you're doing PR and market yourself accordingly. Just don't call it journalism while you're working on your tan in someone else's vineyard.

But don't insult us by calling it journalism while posting from a Tuscan villa someone else paid for.

Wine lovers trying to navigate this increasingly murky information landscape deserve to know what's genuine. Which recommendations come from expertise and which from expedience? The trust that took decades to build in wine media is eroding, replaced by cynicism. Wine deserves better than song-and-dance men and Instagram hangers-on. The hardworking farmers and winemakers pouring their lives into bottles deserve advocates who can't be bought. And consumers deserve to know whether they're reading a review or an advertisement.

As they say in carpentry: measure twice, cut once. It's time the wine world cut the bullshit.