"Why do we drink alcohol?" the question phrased by one of the teacher's today during another classroom debate.
(This time the subject being the change of age legality in drinking alcohol in Spain, where a relatively young 18 is the law and the punishment is a soft slap by the police. For them, 21 lingered like a joke, one almost impossible to believe.)
To this question, I already knew my answer before he finished. But wine, not the general category of alcohol, had my attention.
As if a wannabe Sommelier, wine is the heart of my evening endeavors, the social ones and sometimes unsocial, alike. To toast my voyage to Spain, my friends back home celebrated with a night of the elixir I like so much. And with good reason too, Spain is chock full of it. Not alike Chile, with valleys filled with grapes almost the 2672 miles up and down its coast (not counting the driest desert and the high Patagonian mountains, of course), but the bodegas and bars in Spain seem to cherish it with even greater spirit.
To name a fine wine here is to name a fine region, La Rioja being queen, a valley sandwiched equally between the Atlantic and Madrid. To the south, the drier region of Andalucia (my region) gives birth to the lesser known, but much sweeter (literally so) Vino Dulce. A wine not named after its region and not so different from a Port, a sweet, dessert-like wine made famous by Porto, Portugal, which in Spain, is not too far off.
The adjustment of orientation was nothing like my mind to Spanish (slow, sometimes painful and certainly ego-depleting), but a journey, nonetheless.
I've learned, Tempranillo is another price tag for cheap, for it's Spanish word is beautiful, but its translation in wine words means young, or fresh from the earth. Sloppy English filling a label, "Produce of Spain", means another ranking: drinkable (not great) for the cheap. And the worst coming from a carton, El Gran Duque. Equally fitting in English, if the name described the taste, a one shiny Euro experiment.
But why do I drink wine? To be cool? The idea expressed by the wave of the class. If only, but the red hue that coats my teeth and completes its war path with lingering evidence on my lips (each time!) hints otherwise.
No, I enjoy wine for its taste, at times (Gran Duque certainly excluded), the relaxing effect that finally settles over me, for the atmosphere it gives a room and the people within it. Wine is wonderful, simply stated.
And for the health benefits, of course, too.
(A postscript: as the title probably hints, sangria is a fable of the past, mainly. It can certainly still be found, but its ubiquitous nature so closely associated with Spain is far from true. If you want a little mix with your wine, you're more likely to sound natural asking for a little cola or limon, Kalimotxo and Tinto de Verano, respectively.)
(This time the subject being the change of age legality in drinking alcohol in Spain, where a relatively young 18 is the law and the punishment is a soft slap by the police. For them, 21 lingered like a joke, one almost impossible to believe.)
To this question, I already knew my answer before he finished. But wine, not the general category of alcohol, had my attention.
As if a wannabe Sommelier, wine is the heart of my evening endeavors, the social ones and sometimes unsocial, alike. To toast my voyage to Spain, my friends back home celebrated with a night of the elixir I like so much. And with good reason too, Spain is chock full of it. Not alike Chile, with valleys filled with grapes almost the 2672 miles up and down its coast (not counting the driest desert and the high Patagonian mountains, of course), but the bodegas and bars in Spain seem to cherish it with even greater spirit.
To name a fine wine here is to name a fine region, La Rioja being queen, a valley sandwiched equally between the Atlantic and Madrid. To the south, the drier region of Andalucia (my region) gives birth to the lesser known, but much sweeter (literally so) Vino Dulce. A wine not named after its region and not so different from a Port, a sweet, dessert-like wine made famous by Porto, Portugal, which in Spain, is not too far off.
The adjustment of orientation was nothing like my mind to Spanish (slow, sometimes painful and certainly ego-depleting), but a journey, nonetheless.
I've learned, Tempranillo is another price tag for cheap, for it's Spanish word is beautiful, but its translation in wine words means young, or fresh from the earth. Sloppy English filling a label, "Produce of Spain", means another ranking: drinkable (not great) for the cheap. And the worst coming from a carton, El Gran Duque. Equally fitting in English, if the name described the taste, a one shiny Euro experiment.
But why do I drink wine? To be cool? The idea expressed by the wave of the class. If only, but the red hue that coats my teeth and completes its war path with lingering evidence on my lips (each time!) hints otherwise.
No, I enjoy wine for its taste, at times (Gran Duque certainly excluded), the relaxing effect that finally settles over me, for the atmosphere it gives a room and the people within it. Wine is wonderful, simply stated.
And for the health benefits, of course, too.
(A postscript: as the title probably hints, sangria is a fable of the past, mainly. It can certainly still be found, but its ubiquitous nature so closely associated with Spain is far from true. If you want a little mix with your wine, you're more likely to sound natural asking for a little cola or limon, Kalimotxo and Tinto de Verano, respectively.)
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