Piccolo Primo Primitivo

Twenty-two years ago, in Vienna, I picked up a copy of Charles Baudelaire’s On Wine and Hashish at Shakespeare & Company. I remember reading it shortly afterwards in the gardens of Schönbrunn. If asked about its contents today, I am afraid I do not remember much beyond the blurb: “Wine elevates the will; hashish annihilates it”.

After finishing my second pedagogical portfolio assessment of the summer, I fell asleep on the couch earlier today, something that has only happened a handful of times in recorded history. Waking up, I felt almost as though I were jet-lagged but, eventually, managed to get my act together and head out for a five-kilometre run along the sea.

Returning home, I found a small can of Piccolo Primo Primitivo from Puglia (made from the same grape that is known as Zinfandel in California). Best served at 16–18 degrees, it reminded me that I really need to locate my copy of Roger Scruton's I Drink Therefore I Am. Yet, with every sip, geographical boundaries seemed to blur and, far from being territorial in the way that Scruton suggests, wine more often appears to transcend place and time, transporting me across continents and decades.