The express purpose of this blog post is to stress out my parents.
At 8:45 Saturday, I and fifty other American college students loaded up on a bus and drove an hour out to wine country. It was too early by far for many of us, and the ride there was quiet. We passed acres of olive groves and grape vineyards. Here and there on the ridges of mountains were ruins of Roman palisades or medieval chateaus. We rode alongside some horseback riders for a moment.
We arrived in a town about the size of a postage stamp and walked thirty feet to a store built into a cave. We split in half: twenty five would go sample olive oil, and twenty five would have a professional French wine tasting, and then switch. My group started with wine tasting.
I was eighteen when I first tried alcohol. I was on Capri in Italy on a school trip, and both of my parents gave me their reluctant blessing before watching me down a tiny shot of limoncello. I choked and spit some of it out, and couldn’t get the taste of it out of my mouth. It was horrible. I’d never even really smelled alcohol before; we’ve never had it in our house, or out at dinner, or even at my sister’s wedding. Both my parents and the teacher chaperone laughed at me as I coughed it up.
So naturally I was excited to taste it again, this time with the added novelty of doing it in a cave in France.
The man in charge of our session was a professional winemaker who took over the business from his father and grandfather. He told us all this stuff about how our senses are our own and that our experiences with the wine will all be different, and to not worry about having the right experience, but only about having a personal experience.
We had four half-cups in total, two white and two red. Honestly, they all tasted really different. The first white was really dry and granny smith apple-y, and the second was like honey and clover. The first red was like cranberries and mint, and the second was thick pomegranates.
I would have liked to appreciate all this more deeply at the time, but unfortunately by the third cup my entire face was numb and my upper arms were made out of silly string. Maybe it’s my BMI, maybe it’s my lack of experience, but one thing is for sure: I am a lightweight.
When we stood up to walk outside to the olive press, a wave of dizziness punched me in the face and stomach and I had to wrap both of my hands tightly in the coat belt of my friend Sam, who guided me like a blind man. Another friend named Sam held up me by the elbow and occasionally whispered to me to open my eyes or lift my head. They are not lightweights.
Despite our efforts, it became clear to the people around us that I was drunk. Everyone was a student in our program except for the master olive oil maker and the guide, so my upkeep became a community effort for a moment. I don’t remember why, but it seemed important that the adults did not find out that I couldn’t stand on my own. Someone pilfered a bag of bread pieces (for the olive oil tasting) and force-fed them to me. I think someone else had me drink the straight olive oil (bad idea). My head was passed around to different peoples’ shoulders.
I was sober by the time we got back on the bus, about three hours later. Others were not. You see, after the wine and oil tastings, we were treated to unlimited wine and finger snacks. I decided that I was done for today or perhaps the rest of my life and stuck to the sausage bites. A couple other students had I think a bottle each.
But whatever, you know? Live your life. I just felt bad for them because we didn’t go straight home. We went to a 16th century village known for it’s three church spires and total lack of human activity, and while me and the Sams and a few others went all in around one of those spires (stuff can be so old!), the inebriated students either stumbled through the small side streets or sat outside the cafe holding their heads and nursing lattes.
No judgement. That was me only hours ago. And besides, even I could tell that the wine was good. I even bought a bottle of the olive oil.
Here is the part that will give both or either of my parents a heart attack: later that evening, at dinner, we realized that we did not try rosé at the wine tasting. So I ordered a glass. We split it between four people and did not get tipsy, and it was pretty good. So, I have officially purchased alcohol and consumed it without adult supervision. I am sure that this is the first step to total alcoholism and from here on in my life is a downward spiral. Pray for me, because the Europeans have me in their grape-stained clutches.
Cordialement,
Allison
P.S.: The school cafeteria sells bottles of wine by the cash register, next to the gum and napkins.
Flan in France 