Rain, rain, nothing but rain. Mist in the morning, rows of vines draped in velvet fogs, you dress and drive and have no idea the land you traverse. No matter. The content of the people, welcoming you to their homes, their vines, their wines, is substance enough. You return home replenished.
A dear friend sends a question, and suddenly an interview lies potentially waiting in the wings for your return. Another friend leaves bowls, and forks, and a couch, and hopes your home will not echo too loudly upon your return. There is a life waiting on the other side of that ocean. You do not choose to claim it, but you do not leave it, either.
Our host speaks of his children, raised here, born there, how they keep a house, how they wait to figure out what direction to lean, what topography will be home in the future. You will not know, we say. Life does not reveal itself so easily. The wine speaks volumes. That is fine.
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