The Appointment I Didn’t Have
I no longer remember who told me. Perhaps it was the host of a tavern in Spoleto, or maybe a farmer I met by chance along a dirt road. Or perhaps I read it on a faded wall, among the folds of a signpost almost erased by the sun.
“If you want to understand Umbria, don’t go to Perugia on a Saturday night. Go to Montefalco on a September morning, when the fog hasn’t lifted yet, and wait.”
So I did. No reservation, no itinerary, without my usual tour guide backpack. Just me, a rental car too small for the Umbrian roads, and the long shadow of the dawn preceding me along the SS3 highway.
The Fog
You arrive in Montefalco from the south, after a climb that seems never-ending. The curves tighten, the cypresses grow thicker, and then — all of a sudden — the world disappears.
It is not fog like the one in London or Milan. It is a golden fog, steeped in the scent of must, wet earth, and something I cannot name but that my nose recognizes as home. Even though I have never been here before.
I park in a small piazza where there is no one. The shutters are still closed, cats roam freely among the cars, an old rusty Vespa sleeps under a porch. No bar is open. There are no tourists. There is no Wi-Fi.
Here it is, I think. This is why I came.
The Wine That Waits
I walk aimlessly. The streets of Montefalco are made of stone, worn by centuries of steps, carts, and processions. Every now and then a window opens above my head, someone hangs out white sheets that smell of Marseille soap, a voice calls out a name I don’t understand.
I reach the top of the village, where the church of San Francesco looks out over the valley. And there, leaning against a low wall, is a man with a glass in his hand.
I wasn’t expecting anyone. He seems not to expect me. Yet, when our eyes meet, he nods as if we have known each other forever.
“Sagrantino?” he asks. It is not a question. It is an offer.
The glass he hands me is dusty, the wine inside so dark it seems to absorb the light. I drink. The flavor is of wild blackberry, tobacco, and that red earth I saw along the road. It is not a polite wine. It is a wine that takes you by the lapels and forces you to stop.
“It’s 2015,” he says. “The year of the hail. Few bottles. But the ones we have are real.”