|
Tour Du
Monde, Update from Scott:
University Planet Earth
Date: November 29, 2003
The wet upfront as opposed to the arid outback has been a shock to my system.
Matt and I are bicycling down a mushy gravel trail through turbulent winds and
frigid pelting rain. On either side, rows of grape vines scroll past; in the distance,
paddocks on the rolling hills are an unearthly purple, not a speck of green, from
a a flower called Patterson's curse. Beneath our wheels, a billion legs of a million
millipedes crackle and snap. We are in the Clare Valley, a world-famous wine region,
so read the tourist phamplets but Australian wine has never been a topic of conversation
anywhere I've ever been and I've consumed my share of wine (I get about 20 KM
to the liter).
We arrive at the cellar door of the Sevenhills Winery; we are riding from vineyard
to vineyard to coax ourselves along. We enter a dark, musty and sour-smelling
warehouse filled with 500-gallon barrels of fermenting wine that appear as if
they came with the first boat of prisoners. We pass through a sliding door into
the museum and wine tasting room. It is a small, polished-wood room with a log
fire in the corner, a fat, surly cat curled on a bench, rows of wine bottles along
the back wall, and I'm shocked by the most beautiful and charming Australian women
so far, not that I have seen many women of any sort wandering around the outback;
one hundred meters off the Stuart Highway, I'd be dead for months or years before
anyone would find me. This winery was begun by some Jesuits, their motto: if God
didn't want us to drink wine He wouldn't have invented it, which, I think, applies
to everything. Nonetheless, as the sign reads, it is a bit of heaven on earth.
After a few tastes of wine, working our way down the list, form simple
to complex flavors, from tipsy to knock-you-off-your-bicycle, we reach
the fortified wines, formerly known as port wines and sometimes called
tawny or desert wines. The wine business is doubly confusing. Due to a
World Trade Agreement wines are being relabeled. For instance, a wine
can't be called a Champagne unless it comes from Champagne, France,
otherwise it is called a sparkling wine. However, I think the real
confusion comes from highfalutin wine afficianados that like to insist
that wine drinking isn't just a matter of taste.
"What do you think of the tawny?" She asks.
"It tastes like raisins."
"All the Americans say that."
I am still haunted by the perception of America as the Goliath, and it
is human nature to throw stones at giants. I try to salvage my
country's pride with a humorous twist on the obvious question, "Is this
wine vitamin fortified?"
She laughs politely. "No, it is fortified with extra spirits."
"What kind of spirits?"
"Ethanol, distilled from byproducts, like grape skins, and then added
back into the wine as a preservative. Sailiors discovered that it
stopped the fermentation process by killing the yeast and that
fortified wine tasted better after long trips. And, being a
Catholic-owned winery, we fortify it with a few other spirits, too."
We all chuckle politely and I ask, "Where do you get the spirits?"
"We buy them."
"Isn't that just like the Catholics." I guffaw. "You buy spirits."
The
curves in her face straighten and I feel like an idiot. "Like
confessional.... Forgiveness of sins.... Mumble, mumble...." I avert my
eyes from her unforgiving stare and cast about the room. "Nice cat."
We buy a bottle of tawny to alleviate our guilt and venture into the
blustery weather to Stephen John's winery where Stephen John himself
serves us. I'm confused with all the new naming conventions and
information spinning around in my head: to cork or not to cork? This is
one of the consequences of getting old, one must relearn the same
subject per se the whims of science and fashion. Currently, wines can
be named after the region the grapes are grown, the chateau that
produced the wine, the barrel the wine came out of, even, the tax and
duty numbers. I ask a basic question to get my bearings, "What kind of
grape is the merlot made from?"
"The merlot," his accent, a silly mixture of English posh and
Australian drawl, makes it difficult for me to determine his
inflection.
"Right, the merlot wine. What kind of grape is that?"
"The merlot?!"
A bit frustrated I backtrack to familiar ground, "The pinot noir wine
is made from the pinot noir grape, correct?" He nods. "The shiraz wine
is made from the shiraz grape." He nods again. I've sunk myself and
know what is about to happen, "And, the merlot wine is made out of --"
"--the merlot grape."
I feel about as tall as kangeroo poo. I've just contributed to the
Stupid American Myth. People love to tell me stories about the stupid
Americans they've met, "So this American says: What happens if the
windmills use all the wind? Where does Australia get its koala bears?
Is Australia [not 'Austria'] part of the European Union? Where is
Australia's North Pole?"
Life is full of lessons, and, he who makes most mistakes learns most. I
often think of my trip as my master's degree in life. I have been
learning a lot in Australia, like horse racing. I bet two to win and
two to place on the favorite of the Melbourne Cup. My horse held the
lead for most of the race. I thought, "This is so easy. Why doesn't
everyone do this? C'mon on Frightening. C'mon." Then a couple hundred
meters from the finish Frightening choked and millions of dollars
changed hands. I've also had a two hour lesson on the didgeridoo from
Herman the German, some coaching on the rules of rugby, and I met one
man walking through the forest who showed me many different kinds of
flowers. He was a wise man and said, "Some lessons you learn in an
instant; some lessons take a lifetime. Some lessons you only learn
while traveling; and some lessons you only learn when you go home."
Yes, I am thinking of going home soon. Like Dennis, I feel have reached
the point of diminishing returns. I dream of silly things I never
imagined before, like: growing a tomatoe and herb garden, knowing
everyone's name in my town.
* * *
Meanwhile, Stephen John's is probably saying, "So, this American walks
into a winery and says--"
Click here to read more about Scott and Dennis' Tour du Monde.
|
